The Deathday Letter

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shane and I fill our plates with more food than we can possibly eat and join Nana.

  Nana’s pretty old, but I’ve never seen her look old. Right now, though, she looks like she’s got one foot in the grave.

  “You look like crap, Nana.”

  “You have a way with words, kid.” Nana takes a bite of her pie. “Let’s talk.”

  “Is this how I die? Are you gonna talk me to death?”

  Nana laughs. “You are a smartass.”

  “I’ll say,” says Shane.

  “I’m sorry I’m not going to get to see you grow up, Oliver.”

  “It’s okay, Nana.” Here it comes. Cue the violins.

  “It’s not okay.” Nana tries to smile, maybe to reassure me or something, but it’s a pathetic excuse for a smile. “I’m petrified of dying, and I’ve done a lot of living. You shouldn’t have to go through this.” Nana squeezes my hand. Her skin is like the skin of an apple that’s sat on the bottom of the fruit bowl too long. Kind of dry, kind of mushy.

  “Nana?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think dying’s gonna be like?”

  “I don’t know, kid. No one does. People who die don’t come back.”

  “Except zombies,” says Shane, and then looks surprised, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. I know how he feels.

  “Shane Grimsley, can you be serious for one second?” Nana’s voice is serious but her face is laughing.

  Shane shakes off his expression like it’s an Etch-A-Sketch. “How’s this?”

  “Better,” says Nana, rolling her eyes so wildly they go almost all white. Yuck.

  “Do you think I’ll do all right at it?”

  “Dying?” asks Nana. I nod my head. “You’re a great kid. The best. And whatever dying is like, I know that you’ll do it with honor and dignity, the way you do everything else.”

  “Except getting tattooed.”

  I punch Shane in the shoulder and he yelps. “I’m not the one who cried.”

  “I did not cry.”

  “Boys,” says Nana.

  Shane and I both glare at each other. When Nana looks away, I mouth, Did so, but she catches me and corners me with her tired eyes. She has the same eyes as I do, so in a way, it’s kind of like seeing what my eyes would have looked like if I hadn’t gotten my letter today.

  “Not that I don’t enjoy Shane Grimsley’s company, but shouldn’t someone else be here?”

  The chicken skin on my plate is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean, young man.”

  Oh shit. “Young man” is even worse than Oliver Aaron Travers. I’m pretty sure she’s one step away from sticking little pieces of bamboo under my fingernails. Besides, she already knows. It’s like she’s got ESP: elderly sensory perception.

  “Nana, it’s nothing.”

  “Don’t ‘nothing’ me.”

  “Ronnie was with us and she and Ollie almost kissed because she’s still got feelings for him and she feels guilty that he’s going to die but then she caught him mostly naked with another girl and he tried to apologize but it wasn’t a real apology because it didn’t really mean anything and Ollie doesn’t get that but he really screwed things up. Sorry, Ollie.” The whole thing gushes out of Shane like verbal diarrhea.

  I’m flabbergasted. I’d intentionally skipped over that part during the sharing portion of dinner because I didn’t want my family to know what a total douche I am. Plus, I don’t need my parents or my grandmother thinking about me horizontal. But now Shane’s spilled it all out. My secrets are like marbles on the floor and I can’t get from one side of the room to the other without tripping over them. So I do the only thing I can think of.

  “Yeah, well Shane’s gay.”

  Oops.

  The three of us sit around the table staring at one another. I’m pissed at Shane for dumping out my secret and he’s not sure what to do now that I’ve kicked him out of the closet. I’m not even sure what Nana’s thinking.

  Until she says, “That might have been a shock a few years ago, but we’ve all known for a while.” She pats Shane’s hand and smiles.

  “You knew?”

  “Yes, sweetheart. Even the twins know.”

  “The twins?”

  “I’m afraid so, but we can talk about this later. Right now, we need to talk about how stupid my grandson is.” Nana turns the full power of the Deathstare on me. “Tell me everything.”

  So I do. Leaving no details out. When I finally finish she says, “Oliver, I wish I had more time to teach you about girls, but we’ll just have to work with what we have.”

  “Nana?”

  “Do you know why the pudding didn’t work?” I shake my head. “Because it wasn’t special. If you’d remembered it and thought about it and felt bad about stealing her pudding cups for all these years, then it would have meant something. But you didn’t even remember it until today, and only because she told you.”

  The food in front of me makes me nauseated. “So what do I do?”

  “You have to figure that out for yourself.”

  “It’s too late.”

  Nana smacks me upside the head. “It’s not too late until you’re dead. You still have a few hours left. Think, Oliver. Don’t leave this Ronnie situation unfinished.”

  “Shane?”

  Shane still looks a little peeved that I outed him to Nana, and a little shocked that she and the twins already knew. “I’m with Nana on this one.”

  “Think, Oliver. Think. You care about Ronnie. What does she want more than anything? What can you do that would say to her that you know her better than anyone else in the entire world? What can you do that would show her how you really feel about her? And think quickly.”

  It’s all down to this, isn’t it? I spent most of the day with the girl and I haven’t got a clue how to tell her how sorry I am. Not that I almost did another girl, but that I’m dying and leaving her behind. That’s what I’m really sorry for, isn’t it? If I had the day to do over, I wouldn’t not try to get with Hurricane, I wouldn’t not dump pudding cups all over her front lawn, I wouldn’t not almost kiss her in front of the lighthouse. No, I’m sorry because they’re the last moments I spent on this earth with her. I’m sorry because, in spite of how much it hurt her, she tried to help me leave this world a rock star. She tried to help me show the world who OAT really is. And I’m sorry I won’t get to do the same for her.

  Except maybe I can.

  “Get Mom and Dad. We’ve got some work to do.”

  Nana smiles and claps her hands. Mom and Dad practically jump off the couch.

  “What’ve you got?” asks Shane.

  I run into the kitchen and grab a pen and piece of paper. “Dad,” I call. He looks disoriented so I say, “Nana, can you put on some coffee? We’ve got some planning to do and I need everyone at their best.”

  Armed with cups of coffee, we gather around the kitchen table like we’re planning a war. Everyone’s going over the list of stuff I need. I’m not sure how this is all gonna work, but I feel good about it. Like God’s up there going, “Sorry I have to kill you, but we can still be friends, right?”

  “I don’t think this will be impossible, Oliver, but are you sure?”

  “Yeah, Dad. You’ve got to make sure that no matter what, nothing ever happens to it.”

  “For so long as I live,” promises Dad. You know how sometimes people say things like that but they don’t really mean them? Like they say to call them anytime but they don’t really mean anytime, ’cause no one wants a call at three in the morning when they’re dreaming about naked chicks and guns. Dad means it though. Really means it. I can hear it in his voice. There isn’t anything on heaven or earth that he won’t do for me.

  “Dude, nothing’s open this late,” says Shane, and turns to my parents. “Did you know I’m gay?”

  Mom nods. “Yo
ur mom and I talked about it—”

  “MY MOM KNOWS?” Shane looks like he might puke. “That explains why she keeps trying to take me to see Rent.”

  “Shane!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “You’ll be gay forever, I’ll be dead tomorrow, can we focus on what’s important?”

  Shane nods. “Sorry. It’s just . . . my mom . . . Who else knows? The little old man who always checks us out at the grocery store?”

  “Yeah, probably,” I say. “Back to me.”

  Once Shane’s done having his meltdown, I turn everyone’s attention back to the list. “I know it might be tough to get some of this stuff but I absolutely have to have it. It’s life-or-death stuff here. Borrow it, steal it, break into the stores if necessary. Then I need you all to set everything up. I know it’s a lot to do and you probably won’t have much time, but I’ve got to make things up to Ronnie or die trying.”

  Mom looks like she’s gonna cry and Dad coughs.

  “Okay, wrong word. I doubt apologizing to Ronnie gets me killed.”

  “Unless you do it with pudding again,” says Shane. Nana slaps his arm and he cries out. “Damn, Nana.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” says Mom. She’s practically mainlining coffee and I can hear the jitter in her voice. “I’ve already called Mrs. Gorey to come over and watch the girls.”

  “What are you going to do, Oliver?” asks Dad.

  “I’ve got the hardest job of all. I’ve got to figure out what to wear and then convince Ronnie to come with me.”

  “Do you think it will work?” asks Nana.

  I shrug. “I hope so, ’cause kidnapping her is out of the question. That girl’s stronger than she looks.”

  Silence descends. We all know what we have to do and we all know that if my plan succeeds, I may never see any of them again.

  Mom, Dad, and Nana all hug me, and then even Shane gets in on the giant, awkward, painful hug in the middle of my dining room. No one says anything ’cause there’s not really anything else to say except, “Hey, guys? Try not to get arrested. Again.”

  4:59

  I don’t usually worry about what to wear. I’m just not that kind of guy. But just about every single piece of clothing I own is on my bed, and I’m dancing around my room trying to find something to wear and not step on any glass.

  Clothes just aren’t my thing. I’m the guy who wears socks with sandals. And plaid shorts with a striped shirt. Or brown shoes with a black belt. Why? Because I’d rather be comfortable than stylish.

  I could wake up the twins and get them to help me. They have more fashion sense in their ponytails than I have in my whole body. Of course, they’d probably sabotage me. Or I could call Mom. I can just take pictures of what I’m thinking about wearing and she can tell me if I’m color-blind.

  But is that how I wanna go out? In an outfit my mom picked for me? I’m fifteen and about to die. I should be able to put together an outfit that says to Ronnie, “Sorry for kickin’ the bucket, wanna make out?”

  No. That’s not what this is about. Sure, I wanna make out with Ronnie. I wanna do a lot more than make out with Ronnie, but right now it’s not about making out, it’s about making up. About showing her that I’m sorry I’m not gonna be around, that I’m more than just a boy with an eight-cylinder sex drive and hormones that can go from zero to randy in 5.6 seconds.

  It’s about Ronnie. It’s not about me anymore.

  Shit. It’s been almost an hour. Unless my parents got arrested, they should be setting everything up now. I gotta move.

  Jeans. White T. It’s the best I’m gonna do. A quick hair check alerts me to the fact that my head looks like an atomic mushroom cloud. It takes me another fifteen minutes to fix it but it’s like taming a lion. You can do it, but eventually it’s gonna break free and eat your face.

  When I’m finally sure that I’m ready, I race out the back door without saying good-bye to the sitter. I feel fired up and just a little scared. But there’s hope in the air.

  It’s only once I’m outside that I realize I haven’t got a car. Or any way to get Ronnie. I just assumed I’d have a car. Shane’s right—I really am stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t think about how I was gonna get Ronnie. I seriously doubt she’s gonna want to ride on the handlebars of one of my sisters’ pink princess bikes.

  Shane’s house is on the way to Ronnie’s and all I can do is pray that he decided not to take his car. Of course, that means waking up his parents to get the spare set of keys, but it’s better than spending half the night walking.

  As I walk to Shane’s house the jitters are eating me alive. No, jitters aren’t some strange, tropical bug found in Florida. Those are palmetto bugs. You know. Roaches. That fly.

  These jitters are all the doubts grinding around in my belly like broken glass, making me want to hurl. Though I could stand to go the rest of my life without ever puking again. It’s just that, what if this doesn’t work? What if I show up at Ronnie’s house (if I ever get there) and she doesn’t want to see me? What if she won’t even come to the door? What if I have to explain the whole gory day to her father? Not that

  Mr. Dittrich is a scary man. I mean, as far as fathers go, Mr. Dittrich is pretty cool.

  But she is his daughter. And that’s what makes me nervous.

  After Ronnie broke up with me, I showed up at her house one night. I’d spent the entire day trying to call her but she refused to answer her phone and I just wanted to talk. After I spent about five minutes yelling up at her window while Shane hid in the bushes, Mr. Dittrich came out and said to me, “I like you, Oliver. You’re a nice boy. But if you don’t leave Veronica alone, this is going to end badly for you.”

  It wasn’t so much what he said or even the sight of

  Mr. Dittrich himself that scared the bejesus out of me. Truth is, Mr. Dittrich is pretty goofy-looking with his handlebar mustache and permed hair. He’d have a hard time being scary with a chainsaw and a bloodstained apron. No, it was his lack of smile, the lack of Mr. Dittrich-ness. He was ÜberFather, protector of daughters, and I was the evil menace Ex-boyfriend, potential stealer of virginity.

  Hopefully I’ll get a little leeway being that I’m freaking dying, but when it comes to daughters, fathers are scarier than the words, “Turn your head and cough.”

  Thinking about Ronnie and my possible death at the hands of her father, I almost walk right by Shane’s house. Miss Piggy is sitting in the driveway right where we left her before we went drinking, and all I can do is mutter, “Thank God,” and pray that Shane left the keys in the car.

  Shane left me more than just the keys. Taped to the steering wheel is a sheet of paper with a stick-shift diagram and a note that reads: Thought you might need this. Try not to wreck it. Best. Friend. Ever. Also a smart-ass.

  The door screeees and a pudding cup falls out. Damn pudding. I grab it and toss it into the backseat. They’re everywhere. The car is a mountain of pudding. What am I supposed to say to a cop if I get pulled over again? I’ll be dead in a few hours and I really wanted some pudding?

  Maybe I should throw it away. I mean, keeping it in the car might remind Ronnie of the shit I said to her or the things she said to me. The stuff about her wishing she hadn’t come along and being glad that she’d never see me again. Yeah, those things.

  There’s no time. Plus, I don’t think throwing away the pudding will change anything. It can’t change the past and it can’t affect the future. It’s just pudding.

  Miss Piggy snorts to life. Okay, she doesn’t really snort, but she sure doesn’t roar either. She’s like this grumbly bear that chuffs along. Or would if I hadn’t just stalled her out trying to reverse out of the driveway.

  Mrs. Grimsley peeks out from behind the curtains. She’s got a face so sweet it’s practically made of cupcakes.

  “Please don’t come out, please don’t come out, please don’t come out,” I say over and over as I put the car back in neutral and try again. I think I’m sunk when Mr. Grimsley’s fa
ce appears beside his wife’s in the window, but they both just wave at me and disappear. As much as I don’t want to deal with them, I know that wave was the last time I’ll see them before I die, and that kind of blows.

  Luck smiles and I manage to get out of the driveway and down the road without stalling. Seriously, I’m a terrible driver. Maybe I would’ve gotten better with practice, but I doubt it.

  I nearly run through a stop sign before realizing my lights aren’t on. But now my windshield wipers are. I wish Shane had left a freaking diagram for this. Oh, God, if a cop sees me now, I’m sure to get arrested.

  Nope, now I’m spraying my windshield.

  There. Got it. Lights on. Wipers off. Windshield clean . . . er.

  I pull up to Ronnie’s house and sit in Miss Piggy. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. The living room lights are on. Ronnie’s lights are on.

  My palms are sweaty, I forgot to put on deodorant, and I’m 100 percent certain that this is going to go very badly. She’s gonna punch out my other eye. I know it.

  I’m not even out of the car before Mr. Dittrich comes out the front door. It’s late but he looks like he’s been waiting for me.

  Mr. Dittrich knocks on the window but I don’t roll it down. He’s waiting and knocking and saying, “Oliver, roll down the window,” but I’m just sitting here, sweating and smelling and praying that the mortician doesn’t have to cover up two black eyes.

  Screeee!

  Mr. Dittrich opens my door and I’m here. I’m now. This is the moment.

  “Sir, I just want to see Ronnie. Please don’t be mad. I know she doesn’t want to see me but I need to see her. There’s something I have to show her and stuff I gotta say and I promise that if I’ve said what I gotta say and she’s still mad, then I’ll bring her back and die without ever bothering her again, which isn’t much of a promise since I’m doomed to die pretty soon but—”

  “Oliver. Veronica wants to see you.”

  That shuts me up.

  “She does?” Mr. Dittrich nods. “And you’re not out here to stall me while we wait for the police to arrive?”