Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  “Come on, man,” Paolo says. “Get in ready position!”

  We also came up with a dance that goes with the song. (I know.) It was mainly a jokey dance, but then one night that year, when I slept over his house, we got really serious about making the dance good because we thought that would make it even funnier. We worked on it till three in the morning. (Get over it.) Occasionally throughout high school, Paolo would randomly start playing “Tha Crossroads” off his phone, and wherever we were—supermarket, comic book store, car—we would break into the dance. I never intended to perform it for our entire grade at the prom, though. Nor did I intend for it to be the Grand Finale of my life.

  “When judgment comes for you, ’cause it’s gonna come for you,” Bone Thugs-n-Harmony sings as the piano bass line climbs one note at a time.

  “It’s gonna come for you, man,” Paolo says. “Ready?”

  I sigh and get into position, both arms straight down at my sides. I try not to worry that my legs are barely working.

  Much to my dismay, everyone on the dance floor is still focused on us. Time to go down in a blaze of glory.

  We begin.

  At first, people just stare, shocked, delighted, confused as to whether or not they should be into it or making fun of it. The dance is a series of synchronized jumps, pop locks, robot moves, and other jaunty arm maneuvers, and, in spite of my stiff, sore legs, I’m able to keep up pretty well. The dance is so deeply imprinted in my brain, I could probably do it in my sleep.

  It should be humiliating, but it’s not. It’s calming.

  Krayzie Bone sings the words we pray about ten times, and I notice that some of the more religious kids in our class, like Christian Fellowship Club president Paul Baylor, take in this lyric and nod their heads, at first in recognition, then along with the beat of the music. Then somebody shouts, “Oooohh yeah!” and in an instant, everybody on the dance floor is into it, cheering, moving along with the music, yelling our names.

  Paolo looks at me as we do a spin around each other. “Yeah, bro, told ya! Our whole lives have been leading up to this!”

  That can’t be true.

  It’s taking more effort to dance, as I’ve used up almost all of my energy reserves. Hopefully I can make it through this song, and then we can get back home, where I can literally rest in peace.

  “Now we gotta get everybody involved!” Paolo says.

  “Why?” I say, out of breath and barely able to get the word out.

  “Because it’s the prom, man! That’s what happens!” Paolo takes a simple sequence of moves from the beginning of our dance—arm slices, a spin, and air pats—and goes through them emphatically, then repeats it. “Do this with me!” I do. “Everybody!” Paolo shouts.

  “Everybody join in!” the DJ says into the microphone.

  “We don’t need your help, man,” Paolo says. “This is gonna be spontaneous!”

  “You think what I do is easy?” the DJ says, off the mic.

  Funnily enough, several people have joined in, and like a rapidly spreading disease, soon most of the dance floor is engaged in this stupid dance we made up in eighth grade.

  “It’s happening,” Paolo says. “It’s happening.”

  “YES,” I say.

  It’s glorious.

  But then my eyes land on the entrance, where, just as Phil promised, Officer Corrigan is sauntering in, a serious, determined look on his face. He scans the room left to right.

  A terrible feeling floods all the parts of my body that I can still feel.

  It’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to a Spidey sense.

  And it’s tingling like crazy.

  “Hey, man, hug me later,” Paolo says, shrugging my arm off. “People are really doing it!”

  It’s true: our classmates are executing our dance with a verve and precision I never could have predicted.

  But I wasn’t trying to hug Paolo. My legs have just given out, and he’s my only hope of staying upright.

  “No…I can’t really stand on my own anymore.”

  “Oh man,” Paolo says, steadying my back.

  “On it,” Millie says, swooping under my left arm and hoisting it over her shoulder.

  Their heroics happen to coincide with the return of the song lyrics about praying, and people mistakenly get the idea that we’re doing some sort of arms-and-shoulders prayer circle thing. Within ten seconds, everyone is swaying back and forth to the chorus.

  “Whoa, sweet,” Paolo says.

  “I think Officer Corrigan from this morning is looking for me,” I say.

  HorribleCop approaches Mr. Canzola, the Italian teacher, and asks him something. I’m not close enough to hear exactly what he’s saying, but I swear his mouth forms my name.

  “Whoa,” Paolo says. “He looks intense, like he’s looking for someone.”

  “Yeah! Me!”

  “Oh. Then you may wanna lose the crown, bro,” Paolo says. “Draws attention.”

  I slide off the prom king crown and roll it away. You can’t take it with you, right?

  “Can somebody, anybody tell me why we die, we die?” Bone Thugs-n-Harmony asks. “I don’t wanna die.”

  Me neither, Bone.

  “I think we need to do something, Paolo,” Millie says, her body wavering under my left arm. “I’m superstrong but maybe not strong enough to keep holding Dent like this.”

  “I got this,” he says. As the chorus of the song starts to fade out, Paolo flails his limbs around and gives a hard shove to his side of the circle, causing ten or so people to cascade into each other.

  “Hey!”

  “What the hell, dude?”

  “Ow, watch out!”

  “Sorry!” Paolo says.

  Lucky for us, three of those cascading people are Mike Tarrance, Danny Delfino, and Andy Stetler. You know the kind of guys who will take any opportunity that comes their way as an excuse to homoerotically wrestle? Mike, Danny, and Andy are them. Paolo’s shove instantly sends them into wrestling go-mode, their tuxes guaranteeing it’s the classiest fight they’ve ever had. Mike laughs hysterically as he holds Danny’s arms up behind his head while Andy repeatedly jabs him in the stomach.

  “Get off, dicks!” Danny shouts, contorting his body wildly and kicking his legs, flinging the three of them into another pack of dudes, who happily get into it. Soon there’s at least fifteen guys in tuxes pushing, shoving, headlocking, and hurling each other across the room. Everyone else has moved to the perimeter of the dance floor, trying to avoid getting inadvertently smacked. Suffice it to say, I’m no longer concerned I’ll be the sole focus of attention.

  “Well played,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Paolo says. “I was just trying to pretend that I was having a seizure so we could create a diversion, but this is way better.”

  HorribleCop is right near the melee, not really focused on it, still searching the room. What does he want from me? Still hung up on the deathdate statute thing? Taking precautions because of my splotch virus? Or just a douche with a badge, getting revenge for his grandson? I can tell he doesn’t want to be involved in stopping the fight, but it would be weird for him not to. His eyes skirt over Paolo, Millie, and me, but I gently pull us down to the ground. Finally, I can rest my legs.

  “I think those guys are all in love with each other,” Millie says, gazing at the scuffle as she crouches down with us. “Like, actually in love.”

  “All right, evvvverybody,” the DJ says. “Uh, you might want to break up the fighting because it’s time for the last song! That’s right, prom is coming to a close, so I wanna see everybody out here Livin’ It Up! Right?”

  A predictably sappy last song starts, but the fighting doesn’t let up. Danny Delfino gets pushed directly into Brittany Bottinini at the edge of the dance floor, and they both fall to the ground. Danny is wearing my prom king crown.

  “This is an insult to our collective intelligence,” Shu-wen Tsao says, to no one in particular.

  The dance floor is
a bed of chaos. With a frustrated grunt, HorribleCop at last steps into the fray and does his best to separate all the roughhousers. “Quit it!” he shouts. Mr. Canzola and Coach Mueller join him in the thick of the anarchy, which rapidly simmers down. We don’t have much time.

  “Let’s go,” I say, amping myself up to stand again.

  “Yep-a-doo,” Paolo says.

  “Should I get your parents?” Millie asks.

  “We’re here,” my stepmom says from behind me, where she stands with Paolo’s mom, my dad, and Felix. “We wanted to make sure you weren’t going to get trampled by those boys. Why are you sitting on the ground? What’s wrong? Were you trampled?”

  “No, uh, my legs are a little messed up. Unrelated to the fighting.”

  My stepmom gasps. “I knew we shouldn’t have come here, I knew it.”

  “Raquel, it’s okay,” my dad says. “Denton, can you stand?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Take my hands,” my dad says. I do. “On the count of three, we stand. One—two—three!” My dad gives a big pull, but I can’t get my footing at all. I’m deadweight.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t.” He gently puts me back down on the ground.

  “Are you paralyzed?” Paolo asks.

  “I’m not paralyzed,” I say. “I just can’t, like, move my legs.”

  “That’s what paralyzed is.”

  Ohmigod, I’m paralyzed. “Fine, whatever, can somebody get me a wheelchair or something?”

  My stepmom looks devastated by this potential paralysis, but she pulls it together and springs into action. “Okay, we’re leaving this place. Who wants to go get Denton a wheelchair?”

  “Do they even have wheelchairs here?” Paolo asks.

  “I don’t know! Go!” my stepmom shouts. He runs off, pulling Millie along with him. “Sweetie, it’s gonna be okay. We’re right here with you; that’s the most important thing.”

  My stepmom’s behavior has subtly shifted into full-on emergency mode. She’s acting, probably correctly, as if this is the beginning of the end. “Lyle and Felix, go get the car and pull up to the front.”

  “Yup,” my dad says, already in motion.

  “I should stay here with Dent,” Felix says.

  “We’re fine, your father needs help. Go with him.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” my stepmom shouts. He does.

  “Raquel,” Paolo’s mom says, “if you want to go get the car with Lyle, I can stay here with Denton until Paolo brings the wheelchair.”

  “No, Mom,” I say, avoiding eye contact with Paolo’s mom. I don’t want her anywhere near me.

  “You think I’m going to leave my son right now?” my stepmom snaps. She crouches down and puts her arm around my shoulders.

  “No, no,” Paolo’s mom says. “Of course not, Raquel. Of course not.”

  I look over to where Horrible Cop was, but he’s gone. The ruckus has dissipated, and the dance floor is filled with kids enjoying the last dance of prom. I lift my shirt and see that, in confirmation of my worst fears, the red has spread farther up my body, all the way to my lower belly.

  Gradual red paralysis. And it’s not just my legs I can’t feel.

  I can’t feel my junk.

  “How we folks doing over here tonight?” HorribleCop says, from behind me.

  No.

  “We’re fine,” my stepmom says without looking at him. I think she would literally fight this cop before she’d let him take me anywhere. For the first time all night, I’m glad my parents came with me to prom.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. And you’re still alive,” he says to me, making a big show of looking at his watch. “Just about eleven and still tickin’. Not bad.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “I’d rather go at the very end of my deathdate than the very beginning,” HorribleCop says, stroking his chin like an asshole would. “That’s what I always say.”

  I don’t care how I die at this point, as long as it doesn’t, in any way, shape, or form, involve this horrible human.

  “Not sure if you noticed,” my stepmom says, “but this isn’t the best time to chat.”

  “I actually came over to see if you folks needed any help. What with this young man sitting in the middle of the dance floor, I thought maybe you’d need a ride to the hospital.”

  People have started staring at us, talking amongst themselves.

  “No. We’re fine; we’ll be taking Denton to our home.”

  “I have no argument with that. I believe I was there this morning.” HorribleCop laughs, as if he’s chuckling about a funny thing that happened at a party we all attended.

  “Yes,” my stepmom says, looking at him for the first time. “I believe you were.”

  “Well. You folks have a good night. Good knowing you, Dinton.”

  The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine.

  We watch him stroll out the door of the dance hall, grabbing at the walkie-talkie on his belt as he leaves.

  “I can’t believe they let him be a policeman,” my stepmom says.

  “Yeah,” Paolo’s mom says. “Shameful. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’m just gonna run to the women’s room before we leave.”

  “Make sure you don’t bump into Officer Senile in the lobby,” my stepmom says. “They should take dinosaurs like that off the job as soon as they hit fifty. Keep ’em in the office.”

  Dinosaur. Happy dinosaur.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up to my Facebook in-box. As I hold the phone out in front of me, I realize my right arm is getting stiff. Shit. My body is giving up on me. I scroll through my messages and find the one I’m looking for. Happy Dinosaur says: Come to Bloom!!! 4 Huge Erections You Can Buy 120 Pills for Only $129.95!! !! I click on Happy Dinosaur’s name. The profile is almost entirely blank. No photo. Just a name and location: New York City. I click the SEND MESSAGE box. I need to fire this off in case I lose feeling in my arms next.

  Hey, I type into my phone. Who is this? Did y—

  “This should work,” Paolo says as he rushes up to us, out of breath, pushing a dolly with a gold banquet chair on top of it.

  “I’m dubious,” Millie says, appearing next to him.

  “That’s all you could find?” my stepmom asks.

  “I mean, it works,” Paolo says, pushing the dolly forward and then back to demonstrate.

  “Yeah, for boxes, for luggage, not for my son.”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I say. “We can make it work. Lemme just finish writing this….” I go back to typing.

  “Finish writing this?” my stepmom says. “What, are you e-texting with someone? All your friends are here!”

  “It’s important,” I say, typing the last sentence: Did you know my mother?

  I quickly reread what I have and push SEND. The little Internet wheel spins, working hard to get my message to the mysterious Happy Dinosaur.

  “Let’s get you in this chair, D,” Paolo says.

  “Yup, okay, I’m…” I stare at my phone.

  The screen has gone black.

  I push the one non-digital button over and over again. Nothing. The battery’s dead. I have no idea if the message sent.

  “Ready?” Paolo asks, extending his hands for me to grab.

  “I’ll get behind him,” Millie says.

  “Niiice,” Paolo says.

  The last song is over, and all around us, people have begun the migration from the dance floor.

  “Thank you sooooo much, evvvverybody,” the DJ’s voice blares. “I’m DJ Gary P of Phenomenal Entertainment, and I hope you all had a killer time tonight. For everybody going to Project PROM, buses are waiting out front.”

  I grab Paolo’s hands, and he’s able to lift me up onto my feet, then, with Millie’s help, maneuver me backward toward the makeshift wheelchair.

  “Someone needs to hold the dolly,” Paolo says as he and Millie awkwardly try to push me into the chair, causing the
whole contraption to slowly roll away.

  “I’ll get it,” my stepmom says, jumping into position like she’s manning a tank.

  Paolo and Millie work together to try to get me onto the banquet chair, but it is only when Danny Delfino runs up to help that they’re successful. He takes the prom king crown off his head.

  “Here, man, this is yours.”

  It’s a sweet gesture, but the idea of sitting up here on this wheelchair throne with a plastic crown on my head is too pathetic for my dying heart to bear.

  “All you, dude,” I say.

  “Oh. You sure?”

  “So very sure. And, Danny.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re fantastic on the sax. Keep at it.”

  “Oh, cool, man, cool. Thanks.” He walks off, a bounce in his step.

  “That guy was so happy after you said that,” Millie says. “His eyes were, like, twinkling.”

  “I’m just amazed he came over to help,” Paolo says. “Unpresidented behavior.”

  “Ha, unpresidented,” Millie says.

  “We should get this show on the road, kids,” my stepmom says. “Mr. Little is waiting for us. You good up there, Denton?”

  Let’s see: partially paralyzed, going to die any minute, sitting atop a weird, homemade wheelchair. I’m fantastic!

  “Sure.”

  As we roll toward the exit door through the slow-moving masses of my peers, my stepmom pushing the dolly as Paolo clears the way ahead, I hold on to the chair tight. It wobbles back and forth a bit, and my arms feel weak.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” Millie says from beside me, her hand reaching up and touching my knee.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We go over the threshold from the party room to the faux-elegant hallway, and I get jostled a little bit in my chair. I almost fall off, but I’m able to hold on.

  “You need to slow down a little bit, Paolo,” my stepmom says.

  Paolo looks confused, like he’s about to say, “You’re the one pushing the cart, lady!” but Millie gives him a look.

  “Hey!” I hear from way behind us. It’s Phil. “You’re lucky your sugar daddy showed up, Little! Come on back here!”

  There’s not even the sliver of a possibility that I’d be able to fight him right now. I can barely move.