Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  “It’s, uh, actually what I was wearing when I married your mother,” my dad said.

  “Oh wow. Wait, Mom or Cheryl?”

  “Cheryl. Last time I wore it was a long time ago.”

  “That’s crazy. You sure I can wear it tonight? I mean, if you’d rather—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Sure.” I started to leave the room when he stopped me. “And, Denton…”

  “Yeah?”

  My dad just stood there, staring at me.

  “You okay?”

  He cleared his throat. “Before your mother left us, she, uh, gave me a, uh, letter, which was written for you, that she—”

  “What?”

  “She’d written you a letter.”

  “I heard what you said. You’re saying my biological mother, who I’ve spent my whole life, not to mention the past twenty-four hours, wanting to know more about, wrote me a letter and you never told me?”

  “I know, I know, I realized I should give it to you, that you might need it.”

  “Need it?”

  “Well. Want to see it. So, lemme just…” He reached up to the top of his closet, shifted some things around, and pulled down a shoe box, which he began rummaging through. “I think I know where it is.”

  I wanted to be angry at my dad, but he’s a tough guy to stay mad at. He always seems like he’s barely keeping up. “Is this whole box filled with letters from Cheryl?”

  “This? No, these are old pay stubs. I can probably get rid of them now. Need a shredder. Ah, here it is.” He was holding an old envelope, staring at it. It looked like tears were forming behind his glasses, but I couldn’t tell for sure. He passed the letter to me. My name was scrawled on the envelope in my mother’s happy, ladylike hand. “She wrote that to you at the beginning of her Sitting, the same day you were born.”

  “You already knew my name?”

  “We did. But if you had been a girl, you would have been Dentona.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Not really.” My dad smiled. “We knew you’d be a boy.”

  “Oh. Dentona. That’s funny, Dad.”

  “I’m sorry I never gave you that letter. It was shitty of me.” Let the record show that was the first time I had ever heard my dad curse. It was pretty cool.

  “We’re leaving in five!” my stepmom shouted from downstairs.

  “Woo!” Paolo shouted from another part of the house.

  “I guess I should go get ready,” I said to my dad, the unopened letter still in my hand.

  “Dent,” my dad said, massaging the knuckles of one hand with the other. “You’ve made me so proud.”

  It was like pushing a button that instantly made my eyes tear up.

  “I can’t imagine my life without you,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I choked out. It was almost strange how much his words meant to me, like not realizing how thirsty you are until you’ve had a sip of water. “I…” Opening your heart is harder in person than it is online, so this was a good warm-up for the prom. “I can’t imagine having a better father. Really. I love you.”

  My dad looked down, then away, then back to me. “I love you, too, Denton.” I gave him a hug. It felt like a goodbye.

  The letter’s in my pocket now, still unread. My hand is resting on the rumpled paper of the envelope, which is oddly comforting. I should have read it when I was alone, but it seemed too important to rush through. I barely had time to change and say bye to Grandpa Sid (“You did good, Denton. Now pass me the clicker”) and the house (“Goodbye, house. I’ve loved living in you”) before my stepmom was rushing all of us into the minivan.

  “Lyle, red light, red light, slow down!” my stepmom says, referring to the traffic light at least a hundred yards away from us.

  “Yup, I see it,” my dad says. “Don’t worry, Raquel, you can relax.”

  “I really can’t,” my stepmom says.

  “Driving too slowly is also a hazard, you know,” Felix calls out from the way back. “We don’t want someone rear-ending us.”

  “That’s what she said,” Paolo says.

  “Fine,” my stepmom says, leaning around her seat and looking back to Felix. “Lyle, maybe you should at least drive the speed limit.” The car speeds up to a blistering twenty-five miles per hour.

  Millie’s in the bucket seat next to me, wearing her yellow-and-purple-striped dress. It’s got a big purple bow on the front of it. She’s also wearing a bracelet of purple and yellow beads, and she’s got her ponytail up in this bun thing. She looks surprisingly attractive.

  “You can touch my bow if you want,” Millie says to me.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I say, realizing I was staring at her. I find some lint to brush off my pant leg.

  I’m starting to have second thoughts about tonight. I’ve more or less signed up for being forever known as “the purple kid who died at prom.” I guess there are worse ways to be remembered.

  I peer outside the window and realize we are pulling into the parking lot of Haventown Gardens.

  “Okay, nobody take your seat belts off until the car has come to a complete stop, please,” my stepmom says.

  We slowly crawl into a parking spot. We come to a complete stop. We take off our seat belts. We get out of the car. We walk toward the entrance. As we get closer, we hear the faint sound of music coming from the building, the thumping bass line of some wonderfully crappy pop song.

  And then I know.

  I can feel it: this is my destiny.

  The decor in the lobby of Haventown Gardens is what I would classify as trying to be fancy but only barely succeeding. The carpet features pictures of flowers in ornate vases, and the walls have oddly shaped mirrors in random spots.

  Two girls, who I quickly identify as Rhonda Davis and Jackie Krieger, talk in hushed tones right inside the front entrance. Jackie’s fired up about something—I think that her prom date is missing.

  “He asked me to come to this thing!” Jackie says, her eyes wide. “I didn’t even wanna say yes, but I felt bad!”

  “I know, it’s not right,” Rhonda says.

  This is as good a place to start as any.

  “I agree,” I say.

  Jackie and Rhonda both jump a little, startled.

  “What? Who’re you?” Jackie says. Her blue dress crinkles as she takes a step away from me.

  “I’m Denton Little. We go to school together.”

  “Oh yeah. I didn’t recognize you. Wasn’t that your funeral yesterday?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That why your skin’s all messed up?” Rhonda asks.

  “Yep. Most likely.”

  “That sucks,” Jackie says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “That your family?”

  “Yeah.” Everyone nods a hello to Rhonda and Jackie.

  “Cool that you brought them to prom,” Rhonda says.

  “Yeah. Look, Jackie, I don’t even know who your prom date is, but you shouldn’t worry about it, you know? Who cares?”

  “What?”

  “You’re such a funny, self-possessed person, you probably don’t need a guy at this thing to have fun.”

  Jackie gives me the stink eye. “How d’you know how I am?”

  “Oh, ’cause we were on the same volleyball team in our freshman-year tournament. Remember that?”

  A smile slowly creeps over her face. “Aw, man, you’re that goofy white dude, I remember you! You said some funny shit.”

  “Wow, thanks. Well, I should get going, but really, enjoy tonight, you guys. Life is short.”

  “Yeah,” Rhonda says, either touched or confused.

  We walk down a long hallway that appears to lead to the main party room. I feel great. My ankle isn’t hurting anymore, so I’ve stopped limping.

  “That was so sweet,” my stepmom says. “What you said to those girls.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  “Yeah, ma
n, you weren’t kidding about this spreading-the-love thing,” Paolo says. “That was borderline insane, and I loved it.”

  We reach the end of the hallway, where a long table is set up in front of two closed doors, behind which lies the prom. Loud music is barely muffled by the doors, one of which opens as a crying girl in a pink dress exits the party and shuffles quickly by us. Before the door closes behind her, we get a glimpse of a dark room with flashes of neon.

  With the distracting peek into the party room, I only belatedly take note of the two teachers manning the ticket table: Mrs. Lucevich, the tiny art teacher, and…Oh no.

  It’s Mrs. Donovan, the AP calculus teacher who I publicly insulted during my eulogy. I never thought in a million years I would have to come face to face with these people again. This presents something of a challenge.

  “Well, hello there, Denton,” Mrs. Lucevich says, sounding pleased and slightly taken aback.

  “Hi, Mrs. Lucevich. Um, hi, Mrs. Donovan.”

  “Hello,” Mrs. Donovan says, not raising her scary skeleton face up from the exams in front of her.

  “Denton,” Mrs. Lucevich says, her voice a little quavery, “how are you doing? What a nice surprise to see you here.” I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully, skirting any question of Why are you purple? or Why are you not dead yet? “And is this your family?”

  “Yes, hi there,” my stepmom says. “I’m Raquel Little, Denton’s mom. And this is my husband, Lyle.”

  “Hi,” my dad says, shaking Mrs. Lucevich’s hand.

  “I taught Denton art a few years back.” Her eyes are glassy as she looks at me. “He’s a wonderful artist.” That’s a stretch. “So, I’ll just need tickets, and you folks can head on in.”

  “Even from the parents?” my stepmom says.

  “Well, I suppose we could make an exception for you four adults,” Mrs. Lucevich says, winking at my stepmom. “Just tickets from the three kids, then.” I give Paolo a Told ya so look.

  “Yeah, about that,” I say, laying it on as thick as I can. “We sorta thought, you know, that I would be, you know…by now. So none of us bought tickets. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh right, of course, I completely understand,” Mrs. Lucevich says, absentmindedly twiddling her fingers on the table. “Well. I think we should be able to—”

  “No,” Mrs. Donovan says, still not looking up from grading papers. “We can’t let anyone in who doesn’t have a prepurchased ticket.” She points to a placard next to her, which reads: NO STUDENT WILL BE ADMITTED WITHOUT A PREPURCHASED TICKET.

  “Well, surely you can make an exception in such an extreme situation,” my stepmom says.

  Mrs. Donovan looks up at last and locks her eyes on me. My insides crunch, like a Jetsons car contracting into a suitcase. “No, I don’t think we can.” She returns to her papers.

  “Are you kidding me?” my stepmom says. “Please don’t look away. Maybe you don’t entirely understand what our situation is.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Mrs. Donovan says, head up once again, giving us all a long look at the dark bags under her eyes. “You think because it’s your son’s deathdate, you should get some sort of special privileges.”

  My stepmom looks stunned, at a loss for words.

  “Much like your son thinks I should consider therapy.” Damn right, lady. “Unfortunately, he didn’t buy a ticket in advance. Not only that, but admitting your son would essentially be an invitation to die on school property. It would be irresponsible of me, considering the liability issues.”

  “Are you insane?” my stepmom asks. “We’re not going to sue the school. We just want our son to be able to enjoy the prom.”

  “And this…” She gestures to my skin. “What if it’s contagious? Have you had a doctor examine it?”

  I actually see the steam shoot out of my stepmom’s ears and nostrils. “Yes. We have, in fact, and he said it’s not contagious,” she lies.

  “Hmm. Well, be that as it may, there’s nothing to be done here. Please step away from the table. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Mrs. Donovan,” I say. “Could you look at me for a second?”

  She does not.

  “Okay,” I continue, “I did say some terrible things, and I’m sorry, but I know you have good qualities, too—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize!” my stepmom says, a woman possessed. “Don’t you dare apologize to this wretch of a person.”

  “Mom, I got this—”

  My stepmom leans in and says, “Mrs. Lucevich, is it? Would you please be able to sell our group some tickets?”

  “No, Candy,” Mrs. Donovan says.

  “Um, well, gosh, I just don’t know if I should,” Mrs. Lucevich says.

  “Okay, then I’d like to see the principal, or whoever is higher up than you two.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” my dad says, stepping out in front of my stepmom. I can’t believe he’s giving up so easily.

  “Dad,” I say, “just let me talk to her—”

  “No,” he says, turning to our little group. “If you guys, uh, wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have a quick word alone with Mrs. Donovan.”

  Well, this is interesting.

  “Lyle?” my stepmom says, confused.

  There’s a look in my dad’s eyes I’ve never seen before.

  “Please, just back it up down the hallway. This won’t take long,” he says, lightly shooing us away.

  “What’s happening?” Millie whispers to me. “Is this something he always does?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Exciting.”

  We all take backward steps down the hallway as my dad says, “Uh, Mrs. Lucevich. Candy. If you wouldn’t mind taking a quick breather as well, I’d appreciate it.”

  “You shouldn’t leave your post,” Mrs. Donovan says, seeming possibly the slightest bit nervous.

  Mrs. Lucevich is confused. Even from our vantage point thirty or so feet away, I can see the turmoil inside her brain. “Um. I…Well…I suppose I could use a quick bathroom break.” She stands up, looks quickly to Mrs. Donovan, then down the hall to us, and walks through the doors behind her. Mrs. Donovan has gone back to her paper grading.

  My dad looks up to the ceiling and takes a deep, calming breath. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the table. I am mesmerized.

  “Please put that aside for a second,” my dad says to Mrs. Donovan. She continues grading. My dad slowly leans down to the table and places his hands on either side of Mrs. Donovan. “Put it away,” he says, in a voice I’ve never heard before.

  Mrs. Donovan looks up. My dad is angled in such a way that we can’t see his face, but we can see Mrs. Donovan’s, and she looks terrified. He continues speaking, now very close to her ear, in strong, hushed tones. We can’t make out what he’s saying, but it seems intense. Mrs. Donovan subtly nods throughout.

  “Holy shit,” Paolo says. “I think your dad is pulling a Teen Wolf on Mrs. Donovan.”

  “I was thinking the same thing!”

  My dad says a few more things, then looks to Mrs. Donovan, who gives one final nod. He slowly rises from the table, popping his glasses back on his face. I’m not sure what just happened or what my dad said to Mrs. Donovan, but it seems like it might have been something along the lines of I’ll kill your entire family. She is trying to hold her head high, but her expression reeks of defeat. I almost feel bad for her.

  My dad turns back to us. “Well, we can go in now.”

  I want my dad to explain where that badassery came from, but it seems awkward to talk about it in front of Mrs. Donovan.

  My stepmom reaches into her purse. “Should we pay for the—”

  “Nope, nope,” my dad says. “We can just go in.”

  My stepmom is shocked but impressed. “Well, okay, then.”

  We slowly walk past the table as Mrs. Lucevich reemerges from behind the prom doors. “Ah, you figured something out, then. So glad to see that!” She holds the door for us as we walk
through, Paolo and Millie leading the way, followed by Paolo’s mom, then me and Felix, then my parents. Before I walk into the landscape of neon and darkness, I turn to Mrs. Donovan. “Thanks,” I say.

  She doesn’t respond.

  At first, I’m overwhelmed by the music, the people, the bouncing lights. But just as suddenly, the feeling melts away, replaced by a powerful sense of purpose.

  Of course I was supposed to come here.

  “I love you, Dent, but I do not want to be here right now,” Felix says, staring at the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor.

  “You can leave if you want,” I say, feeling the beats thump around me, inside me.

  “No, I really can’t,” Felix says.

  “This is fun,” Paolo’s mom says, doing tiny, controlled salsa moves.

  “Please don’t dance like that, babe,” Paolo says. He looks to me and Millie and gestures to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

  “Absolutely. Wait,” I say, turning to my father. “Dad.” Pink and green spots reflect off his glasses. “Thanks for what you did out there. That was really amazing.”

  “Oh,” my dad says, looking down. “That was…It was nothing.”

  “I agree, it was amazing,” my stepmom says, giving my dad a kiss. “We’ll be over here on the side.” She adjusts the belt on her long green dress. “Be careful, please.”

  “We will,” I say, walking away. I turn back once more. They look to me expectantly. “You guys are incredible parents.” I turn away before I can see them react.

  Paolo leads us toward the crowd. “This room is amazing!” I shout over the music. The theme of this year’s prom is Livin’ It Up! The irony is not lost on me, but they’ve done a beautiful job. Streamers in bright, rich colors, magnificent palm trees, luscious bunches of bananas, and—on the wall behind us—a big, sparkling papier-mâché mermaid.

  “Dude,” Paolo says, “I mean this in the best way, but are you on drugs?”

  “If friendship is a drug, then yes!” I pull Paolo and Millie in for a hug. They laugh. “Okay,” I say, looking them both in the eyes. “I’m gonna go connect with some people now.”

  “Do your thing, bro,” Paolo says. “Give us a holler if you’re getting your ass kicked.”