Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  “Oh,” Paolo says. “You kidding? If I’d never met you, my life would have sucked.”

  I need to look away, and Paolo does, too. If I don’t steer us back to familiar ground, this vulnerable moment may wreck me. “My life would have been fine if I’d never met you, but I still think you’re an okay person.”

  “Thanks very much,” Paolo says. “What’s one level below ‘okay person’? A ‘sort of okay’ person? Yeah, that’s what you are. I hope I’ve been a helpful role model as you strive to get beyond ‘sort of’ status.”

  “Oh no, you’ve been terrible. Hanging out with you, I think I actually slid from ‘sort of okay’ to ‘sort of not okay.’ ”

  Paolo laughs. “Okay.” There’s still some sadness in his voice.

  “Okay.” I can’t decide if it’s comforting or awful when I think that Paolo will be going through all this in one month. Without me there to comfort him. I imagine what it would be like for me now if Paolo would be living until his eighties. Maybe I’d be happy knowing there would be someone around in sixty years who could tell people what my stupid jokes were like, what kind of a friend I was, what a nerd I was about smoking pot. Or maybe I’d just be insanely jealous.

  “So, dude,” Paolo says. “You freakin’ left the house?” There’s awe in his voice.

  “I did,” I say.

  “That is so baller.”

  “Thanks, man.” I tell him about my time with Brian Blum.

  “Wow, he sounds like such a gentleman.”

  “I guess,” I say. Classic Paolo, saying something that falls just a hair short of making any sense.

  “Hey,” Paolo says, “not to make you wanna kill yourself again, but what happened with Taryn out there anyway?”

  I sigh. “Not good.”

  “She found out about you and me maybe having sex, huh?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, exactly. Actually, could you hand me my laptop? It’s on the desk.”

  “I thought you were done being online.”

  “Yeah, but screw that. I’m gonna die. I just wanna check Facebook real quick.”

  Paolo grabs my laptop and gives it to me. “Okaaaaay, but in my experience, Facebook is a surefire way to become more depressed.”

  As I bring Paolo up to speed on what actually happened with Taryn, I turn on my computer and go to her Facebook page. It’s stupid, but I can’t resist.

  She hasn’t updated her status since I saw her, but at the top of her Timeline, there’s a post from Phil from this afternoon: no text, just an image of a little bear with sad eyes, holding a heart that says SORRY on it. So much for Phil being in jail. Unless you can Facebook from there. You get one phone call and ten minutes on the social network of your choice.

  I hope he put a bear on my page, too, seeing as I’m the one he tried to murder. I scroll down Taryn’s page and see a photo of jelly beans that I posted a few months ago. Taryn loves jelly beans.

  I notice my in-box icon shows one new message, so I click on it.

  Its subject line is for denton—this is actually IMPORTANT, and it’s from Happy Dinosaur, a name that feels familiar, but I’m not sure why. I open the message and immediately feel like an idiot. It’s another Viagra-type sales pitch. Damn you, Happy Dinosaur! Are you seriously following me from email to Facebook?

  “What?” Paolo says.

  “Aw, nothing. I just thought I had an important message, but it was another ad for boner pills.”

  “Oh, I love those! Read it out loud.” Paolo closes his eyes, like I’m about to take him through a guided meditation.

  “Really? Okay…‘Happy Dinosaur says—’ ”

  “Ooh, Happy Dinosaur, very cool name, that’s important.”

  “Yeah. ‘Happy Dinosaur says: Come to Bloom!!!’ ”

  “Whoa, nice imagery there, like your penis is a flower….”

  “ ‘4 huge erections you can buy 120 pills for only $129.95!! !!’ ”

  “That’s a pretty decent price, actually.”

  “And then it’s followed by a link to some website and a phone number. It says, ‘Click/call to find the address.’ What the hell does that mean?”

  “Probably just a bad translation into English. That’s why I love these ads so much. Is that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah, nice. That was a good one.” Paolo paces around the room, looking at my posters and my bookshelves, like he’s done a million times before.

  Since I’m already online, I decide to give my page a quick look. Even though dying while in the midst of checking one’s own Facebook page is arguably worse than dying while checking email.

  “Sorry about my mom, bee-tee-dubs,” Paolo says. “Real letdown about the drawer, right? Just Cynthia crushing on your dad. Kinda weird. It’d be cool if they got together, though. We’d be brothers!”

  My Timeline is jam-packed with posts. The first one I see says, I will miss you, Denton Little! It’s from Gina Yarrow, this girl I had a crush on in fourth grade. Man, how come I never told her how I felt?

  I comment: Gina! Thanks! I had a huge crush on you in 4th grade. I used to write about you in my journal all the time.

  It feels good to write that.

  Rick Jackson, this beloved dude from the football team, wrote: You’re the funniest guy I know. Much respect. That’s really nice. I don’t think I’ve talked to Rick more than ten times, and we’ve been going to school together since first grade. I’m just that funny.

  I comment: Much respect to you too, Rick. You’re crazy good at football. You bring a genuine grace to the game.

  A lot of messages just say I’ll miss ya! or Luv ya or You’re the best! but I’m still moved that all these people have written to me.

  “What’re you looking at now?” Paolo says.

  “My page,” I say. “I’m feeling really inspired.”

  A new comment pops up from Gina: OMG I had a huge crush on you too!!! Aw man we should have hooked up hahaha. I won’t forget you, Denton!

  “Oh man,” I say, sparks in my veins.

  “What?”

  “This is amazing,” I say. “Do you remember Gina Ya—”

  A new comment pops up from Rick: Thanks dude. That actually means a lot.

  “Gina who? Yarrow?” Paolo asks.

  “Rick Jackson was just moved by something I wrote.”

  “Football Rick Jackson?” Paolo says. “What are you talking about?”

  “This is it, Paolo. This is what I have to do before I die.”

  I see a post from Melissa Schoenberg: The world is going to be way worse off without you. Much love.

  I comment: Our Houdini project for Mrs. Blatt’s English class is still one of my favorite school experiences ever. You’re great, Melissa. Thank you.

  “What is what you have to do before you die?” Paolo asks.

  “Be open with people. Do what my dad never did for me. Tell them something honest about themselves that will make them feel good. And help them understand themselves better.”

  Ashley Gupta from summer camp wrote: I’m so sad.

  I comment: Don’t be sad, Ashley. I’m so happy for my life, and I’m incredibly happy that you were my first kiss. Awkward as it may have been.

  There is something magical happening, and I know, for the first time all day, that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  “So…,” Paolo says. “You’re gonna stay on Facebook for the rest of your life, just, like, commenting?”

  “Pretty much,” I say.

  I comment: Your blue eyes are incredible, I’ve always thought that.

  I comment: You’re a natural leader, and that’s gonna take you far.

  I comment: Being around you always made me feel more comfortable, I don’t even know why. You have something special.

  A new comment comes up from Melissa Schoenberg: Wow, I tota—

  Paolo slams shut my laptop.

  “Nope,” he says.

  “What the hell, dude?” I say. “This is why I’m here!�
�� I try to open my laptop back up, but he won’t let me.

  “I will NOT let my best friend die on Facebook. That’s almost worse than helping you end your life.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I do, actually. And I have a better idea.”

  “You have a better idea for conveying love and honesty to all these people at once?”

  “What’s wrong with you? Yes, I have a better idea. But here’s the thing: it involves leaving the house.”

  “My stepmom made it quite clear that there will be no more of that.”

  “Hey, what happened to the baller dude from this afternoon? Look, death is happening one way or the other. This house isn’t some kind of death-proof sanctuary.”

  “Well, where would we be going?” I figure he’ll tell me, I’ll shoot it down, and then I can get back to business.

  “Where would we be going? Oh, I’ll tell you where we’d be going. You want to make people feel good about themselves, right? Connect with people?” Paolo looks so proud of what he’s about to say.

  “I told you, Pow, I don’t wanna go to a strip club.”

  “Man, give me a little credit here!”

  “Okay.”

  “Now you ruined the moment by assuming I’m a sleaze who only wants to go to the strip club.”

  “I’m sorry, but in the past you have often wanted to go to a strip club. Please continue.”

  Paolo cracks his neck. “Wait, gotta reboot. Get back in the zone.” He jumps up and down in place. “Okay. Where would we be going? I’ll tell you.” He flips his collar up. “P to the Rom, dude.”

  I stare at Paolo.

  “Prom! We should go to prom!”

  Prom. Of course. “Together?”

  “No, not together, man. Geez, you sleep together once, this guy wants to go to prom. Think about it. Practically everyone in our grade will be there. You can tell everyone anything you want.”

  “Well…”

  “And, hey, since you and Taryn are on the splits, maybe you can have one more superhot fling before you kick it. What’s more romantic than high school prom?”

  “A lot of things, I think.”

  “Love will be in the air! People are gonna break out into fully choreographed dance numbers without ever having rehearsed! And everybody gets laid afterward!”

  “I don’t think you’re correct about the dance numbers. And also, I don’t have a ticket.”

  Paolo crouches down and puts his hands on my shoulders. “I want to slap you right now. But I won’t, because I’m scared I’d accidentally kill you. You’re not gonna have a life in a few hours! And you’re thinking of not going to your own prom because you didn’t buy a ticket? Come on, D, let’s go down in a blaze of glory, man! Thelma and Louise–style! Freeze-frame car in the sky!”

  “I only kinda get your reference. I’ve never seen Thelma and Louise.”

  Paolo’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You’ve never seen it? Why not? ’Cause you think it’s a chick flick?”

  “No, I don’t know. I just never got around to watching an old movie about crazy ladies.”

  “It’s so much more than that, dude.”

  “But, okay, assuming I’m on board for this blaze-of-glory, going-to-prom-ticketless idea, you think my stepmom would ever, in a gajillion years, let me go?”

  Paolo puts his hand on his chin and does some intense contemplating. “I can be very persuasive,” he says.

  “Absolutely not,” my stepmom says.

  “Okay, gotcha,” Paolo says. “No prob, Raquel.”

  I look to Paolo: That’s you being very persuasive? He shrugs.

  We’re downstairs in the family room, a motley crew of Sitting survivors spread out across the couch, the recliner, and the floor: me, Paolo, my stepmom, my dad, Paolo’s mom, Felix, Millie, and Grandpa Sid. It’s 7:48 p.m. Prom started at seven.

  “Um, Mom?” I say.

  “Dent, darling, I very much understand what Paolo and now you are trying to say, but, sweetie, how can we possibly let you go to prom? You go three feet outside the front door, and you’re almost killed. And you want to drive fifteen minutes to the prom, where you’ll stay for three hours, during which time any number of awful things could happen to you?”

  “If I could just jump in here for a second,” Felix says.

  “Felix,” my stepmom says. “Not now.”

  “But—”

  “I said, NOT NOW!” my stepmom shrieks, standing up from the couch. I’ve heard her yell many times, but never anything like this warped banshee cry.

  “Sorry,” she says, taking in our shocked expressions. “Hey, how about I run out and get us some champagne and we can have our own prom here? I know I wouldn’t let you have champagne last night, Denton, but I think everyone here would agree you’ve earned it.”

  My heart breaks for my stepmom.

  “Mom, that is so sweet,” I say, “but…I really don’t want champagne. I want to go to my actual prom. I have something important to do there.”

  I watch my stepmom’s features crumple into the human equivalent of a sad-face emoticon. The room is silent.

  “Let the kid go to his dance!” Grandpa Sid shouts from the reclining chair, startling everyone. “I don’t see what the big kerfuffle is.”

  “Well, Sid,” my stepmom says, collecting herself, “the big kerfuffle is that today is Denton’s last day, so if he goes to the dance, he may very well die there.”

  “Don’t condescend to me, Raquel. I’m old, not a moron. I know it’s his goddamn deathdate. You’ve all certainly made a big enough deal of it. I think the whole state knows.” Grandpa Sid adjusts his body in the chair, grimacing. “Denton’s a good kid, always does everything you’ve asked of him, always has a good attitude. I don’t see why you can’t let him have his dying wish, to go to this promenade.”

  I can’t believe Grandpa Sid’s going to bat for me.

  And is that really what prom is short for?

  “Yes, Sid,” my stepmom says. “Of course Denton is a good kid; he’s the greatest kid, which is why we want to be with him when he dies. You can understand that?”

  “Then go with him.”

  My stepmom laughs. “Well, Sid, we can’t just…” She trails off in midsentence, and I realize that she’s actually considering it.

  “No, that’s okay,” I say. “I’d rather not go to prom at all than have to go with my parents.”

  “You know what?” my stepmom says. “Yes, if we come along, I don’t see why Denton shouldn’t be allowed to go to prom.”

  “Yeah, Grandpa Sid!” Paolo hoots.

  “Who?” Grandpa Sid says.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “I don’t even know if parents are allowed in. And you guys don’t have tickets.”

  “Again with the tickets, this guy!” Paolo says, gesturing at me with his thumb like a Marx Brother.

  “Can I come along, too?” Paolo’s mom asks.

  “Hell no, Mom!” Paolo says.

  I silently agree. You know what they say: Never trust a lady who crushes on your dad. No one actually says that. But they probably should.

  “I’m sure we can get you in, too, Cynthia,” my stepmom says. “Wow, now I’m thinking this might be a lot of fun!” Somebody punch me.

  “Mom,” Paolo says, “if you go, people are gonna think I brought my mom to prom.”

  “Sounds to me like good material for one of those funny raps you make up,” Paolo’s mom says. “ ‘I brought my mom to the prom and I think she’s da bomb….’ ” She’s making terrible attempts at rap gestures and cracking herself up, and my stepmom joins in, the two of them giggling together in that annoying way moms do.

  “This isn’t helping your case,” Paolo says.

  “Fine,” Paolo’s mom says. “Then why don’t you take someone else as your date? Since it’s so offensive to bring me.”

  “Did you skip high school or something?” Paolo says. “It’s beyond offensive. It’s the absolute wors
t. And I can’t take someone else. Seeing as prom started almost an hour ago, I think most people probably have dates already.”

  “I don’t,” Millie says from the end of the couch.

  “Oh,” Paolo says. “Well, yeah,” he stammers, suddenly nervous. “Would you want to go to prom with me?”

  “Sure. I brought something to wear just in case.” She takes a yellow-and-purple-striped dress out of her denim purse and places it on her lap.

  “Wow, okay.” Paolo nods repeatedly to no one in particular. “Okay.”

  “I, for one,” says Felix, “am very much not into this idea. Already did the prom thing nine years ago, and it wasn’t even that fun then.”

  “Wait,” I say. “We’re seriously doing this?”

  “Sweetie, it was your idea,” my stepmom says. “If you’d rather we all stay home, that’s fine, too.”

  “No, I mean, I want to go, but without…Like, Dad, this doesn’t sound fun to you, right?”

  My dad squirms and adjusts his glasses. “Whatever your mother thinks is best is what we should do.” Damn you, Dad!

  All eyes in the room are on me. I think about staying at home, clicking around on Facebook, eating chips and salsa with my parents.

  “All right. Let’s go to prom.”

  “Blaze of glory, baby!” Paolo says.

  If you’d told me yesterday that the evening portion of my deathdate would involve me, my parents, and four others driving to prom together in the family minivan, I would have asked you what you were smoking.

  It’s a little humiliating that my stepmom refused to let me drive my own car. Pulling up to the prom in Danza sounds way cooler than arriving in our red minivan, but no one is gonna see us show up anyway, seeing as it’s almost nine and prom started two hours ago.

  “Please slow down, Lyle,” my stepmom says.

  “Okay, sorry about that,” my dad says, understandably a little befuddled, as he hasn’t gone faster than twenty miles an hour the whole ride and every other car is passing us.

  I’m wearing an old, light blue suit of my dad’s. When I realized I had already worn the only nice outfit I own to my funeral, my dad took me to his closet and told me I could wear this. It’s a little big on me but fits way better than I would have expected.