Denton Little's Deathdate (10 page)

“And so it is,” I say. I feel oddly Zen about the whole thing, as if it's always been my destiny to slowly turn purple. Or maybe that's just the pot speaking.

Veronica looks up at me. “What do you think this is? Am I dying, too? And why do you have those red dots when I don't?”

“I really have no idea, but I don't think you're dying. It was the same with Taryn's.”

Once again, the words are out of my mouth before I even realize I've said them.

“Wait, who? Taryn? She has one of these, too? Oh, now this is lame. This is so lame. You passed us this nasty purple thing by having sex with both of us. What the hell?”

“Honestly, wait, no, I don't know if that's actually what's happening.”

“Well, it doesn't take some kind of rocket genius to figure it out!”

“Rocket genius?”

“Hey, deaf people,” Paolo says as he emerges from between two trees. “We have to— Ohmigod. Oh geez!” He turns his head away from the sight of Veronica crouched down at my knees. “What the hell, Dent! Instead of hanging out with me, you're getting a beejer from my sister. Mad props, but also: so uncool!”

Veronica has snapped up out of her crouching position like some kind of attack cobra, the top of her skull whacking into my lower jaw. I bite my tongue, hard. It hurts.

“I was not giving this slut a beejer, okay?” Veronica says, quickly pulling up her jeans. “And next time, maybe you should give some kind of heads-up instead of barging in on us.”

“You can't ‘barge into' a patch of space in a forest, okay? You need a door to ‘barge in.' ”

“Shut up, Paolo.”

“You shut up, V.”

I grab my phone out of my pocket, hoping that we'll still be able to make it to the Sitting in time for me to talk to my dad. Once I click off the notification of nine missed calls, five texts, and four voice mails, however, I realize that we will definitely not be making it to the Sitting early. Or even on time.

I look to Paolo and Veronica, panic in my eyes. They're still midbicker.

“Hey!” I shout, my tongue throbbing. “Wer lay!”

“Huh?” Paolo says.

“Ith twell-oh-two.”

“Oh shoot.”

Paolo and Veronica stare at me as if I'm about to keel over and die any minute.

An owl hoots.

It's officially my deathdate.

“You sure you're good to drive?” Paolo asks.

We're in Danza (that's my car's name), Veronica in the front seat and a visibly antsy Paolo in back, his head popping Whac-a-Mole-style between ours.

“Yeah, no, I mean, I love to drive, and this is kinda my last chance, so yeah. I'm good.”

“Oookay,” Paolo says, “you the boss.”

My driving is admittedly not at its best right now. I keep speeding up because I'm late for my own Sitting, but then I remember that (a) I could get pulled over (which may or may not involve another encounter with HorribleGrandpaCop) or (b) I could get in an accident and die. So then I slow down.

Speed up.

Panic.

Slow down.

Panic.

Repeat.

I lean my head toward Veronica and look into the rearview. “Hey, um, could you guys be keeping an eye out for things that could kill me?”

“Sure,” Veronica says. “There's something on your legs. That might kill you. And then it might kill me.”

“Right, right, again, really sorry. But that's not what I meant. Like, outside stuff. Since I'm officially able to die now.”

“Oh, is it your deathdate or something? Gee, I had no idea.”

“You got it, D,” Paolo says, rotating back and forth from one car window to the other. “No killy stuff as of yet.”

We pass Tensmore Shopping Center, and I see a few kids I know from school loitering in the parking lot near Harold's Bagels. I'm gonna miss those bagels.

“While I have you both here,” Paolo says. “V, Dent has informed me of your intimate time together last night. Very interesting turn of events. When were you planning on bringing me up to speed on this?”

“Ohmigod,” Veronica says, shaking her head. “I guess, P, I was thinking I'd tell you once you sprouted your first pube.”

“Really?” Paolo asks. “Well, joke's on you, because I have tons of pubes!”

“Eugh,” Veronica says, looking out the window in disgust. “Whoa. Cop.”

I glance at the rearview.

A cop is indeed tailing us. Well, at least it's possible that he's tailing us. It's also possible the cop just happens to be driving behind us. In my ten months of licensed driving, this paradox has consistently caused me to lose my shit.
More than once, I've turned into a random driveway just so a cop car could pass me.

“Stay calm, Dent,” Paolo says, his face near my ear.

“DUDE,” I say. “Could you put your freakin' seat belt on?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, all right,” Paolo says, buckling up.

I try to see if it's HorribleGrandpaCop driving, but right at that moment the cop car switches lanes, passes us, and speeds away.

Phew.

I turn to Veronica, my whole being flooded with relief. “Whew, that got tense. And, of course, cops always spee—”

“D!” Paolo says. “KILLY STUFF! KILLY STUFF!”

Within a single second, my brain spins through a rapid series of thoughts that goes something like,
Why is he shouting nonsense oh maybe he's actually yelling about something in the road shoot I'm not looking at the road look at the road moron oh no this is it this is how I die this is it
, and I do look at the road, but it's too late. Something blurs across my field of vision, and I'm pushing on the brakes, but there's a dull thud as the car comes into contact with the tail end of the blur.

We screech to a halt.

“Holy shit,” Veronica says.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask.

“I don't think it's us you should be worried about,” Paolo answers.

“What was that? Did you guys see what that was? A deer?” I ask.

“I don't think so, dude.”

“Oh man. Okay, okay.”

“You want me to go out and look?” Veronica asks.

“Should we?”

“Nah, maybe the last big event of your life should be a hit-and-run; that's actually pretty fun.”

“Okay, thank you for that, Veronica, I'll go look.”

“I'm coming, too,” says Paolo.

“We're kind of right in the middle of the road, so—”

I am out of the car before I hear the end of Veronica's sentence.

You know that feeling the moment after a glass slips out of your hand, when you're watching it fall, almost in slow motion, as you tell yourself you're an idiot and wait to see if it breaks or not? That is right now, and my eyes peer through the semidarkness to see if I've broken something. Or someone.

The night is warm, but there's a slight chill. Which might just be the chill of death. I wish I was joking. Sterrick Road is mainly residential, lots of trees and houses, and it's a road I know well because we're actually very close to my house. As I start to cross in front of Danza, a burst of air rockets at me from the left.

“DENTON, HEADS UP. MORE KILLY!” Paolo shouts.

I fall over to the right, landing on Danza's hood, as a sporty yellow car speeds by, barely missing me. I lie back and breathe deep.

That was almost it.

If my deathdate is going to be filled with a series of anxiety-provoking car crashes and narrow escapes from death, I may opt to end my life myself.

“HEY, DICKHEAD! THIS IS A THIRTY-FIVE-MILE-PER-HOUR ZONE! Thirty-five!” Paolo yells at the rapidly disappearing yellow car. “Dent, you okay?”

“Yeah, all good,” I say. “Gettin' a little tired of you yelling warnings at me, but all good.”

“I could
not
yell them if you want.”

“You okay?” Veronica has popped open her door and is looking over it at us. “That guy was going crazy fast.”

“All good,” I say.

“Glad somebody is.”

For a second, I'm indignant that Veronica has said this, but then I realize it wasn't her. The quiet female voice has come from the darkness to our right.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello,” the voice answers.

I slide off the hood and move with quick but cautious steps toward the source of these words, Paolo and Veronica backing me up. The first thing I see—in fact, nearly trip over—is a half-mangled purple bike lying on its side in the grass, its rear wheel jutting out unnaturally, its back reflector smashed.

The second thing I see is Millie Pfefferkorn.

She is wearing an American flag bicycle helmet and lying on her back, her arms stretched out way above her head, her legs extending forward in the grass as far as they can.

“I'm stretching,” she says.

“Holy crap, Millie, you're what I hit?”

“I think
I'm
who
you hit
is the more accurate phrasing.”

“Geez, I could have killed you! I'm so sorry.”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Maybe? When's your deathdate?”

“Dunno.”

“Ohmigod, that's right. You're undated.” I feel silly having forgotten this, considering it was such a source of fascination to me when we were growing up. I couldn't believe she didn't know when she'd die. “Man, you gotta pay attention when you're on that thing. What are you doing biking around after midnight on a Thursday night anyway?”

“What are you doing driving around after midnight on your deathdate?” Millie grins, pulls out of the stretch, and sits up on her elbows. “You're late for your Sitting.”

“Yes, thank you, I know. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Hey, Paolo. Hey, Veronica.”

“Uh, hi, Millie.”

“Yeah, hey.”

But Millie isn't entirely fine. There's a gash on her right leg, blood trickling down to her ankle. I guess I should be happy that it's a gash and not a splotch like every other girl around me seems to be developing, but still.

“Millie, you're bleeding.”

“I'm fine.” She stands up, adjusting her denim skirt and yellow T-shirt, which has a huge beagle's head on it. I've always thought Millie is one of those people who try a little too hard to be quirky, but this outfit kinda works. Minus the patriotic helmet, maybe.

“Look, I feel terrible. Come back to my house. My mom will be able to fix you up real good. Okay?”

“But it's your Sitting. And I'm not invited. I'm really fine. I landed in the grass. It's not a big deal.”

“Your leg is kinda narsty, babe,” Paolo says.

“Yes. Agreed. I officially invite you to my Sitting, Millie. Now get in the car. We'll throw your bike in the trunk.”

So she does and we do, and now we are a party of four, driving the final minute or so to my house. By this point, it is 12:33 in the a.m., and we have officially crossed over from Pretty Late to Very Late. I stopped paying attention to the buzzing in my pocket many minutes ago, and I'm not looking forward to the moment we drive up. “I feel it might be awkward with me at your Sitting,” Millie says from the backseat as she stares out her window.

“Seeing as we're gathering together to wait for my death, I think there will be plenty of other awkwardness to distract us. I wouldn't worry about it.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Paolo agrees.

“Okay. Any of you guys want some Gushers?”

We approach my house, me for the last time, and I pull alongside the curb into Danza's classic parking spot. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a cluster of people waiting on the front steps for me, but my anxiety has fired back up, so I don't want to look at them yet.

I shift the car into park.

I turn the key in the ignition.

I breathe deep.

I look to my right, hoping to exchange one last dramatic look with Veronica, maybe one that nonverbally conveys everything that needs to be said. But she is halfway out the door. As is Paolo.

“She already left,” Millie says from the backseat.

I look in the rearview. “Thanks, Millie. Very helpful.”

I stare forward at the cul-de-sac that I know so well.

“You thinking about Fog?”

“No, not really. I'm just taking a moment here.”

“Word.”

Millie doesn't give any sign that she'll be leaving the car anytime soon.

“Your family is outside waiting for you, by the way. On the steps.”

I ignore her.

“Also your girlfriend. What's her name again…Tara?”

Millie grins that grin of hers.

“Yeah. Exactly, Molly.”

It appears Millie isn't budging, so I say a silent goodbye to Danza (
You have been a very awesome car. Thank you for everything, my friend
), open my door, and step outside.

My stepmom nearly tackles me. “Where have you been? Where have you been?” she says, her face buried in my shoulder. “I didn't know where you were, you weren't answering my texts, I thought you were gone, my Denton gone.” She trails off into quiet sobs.

Well, I feel like a dick.

She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders, the usual drill.

“Don't you
ever
do that again.” She is looking at me in a way she never has before, a combination of the strictest look she's ever given me, plus tears, plus so much love. It gets me right in the gut.

“Don't worry. I won't ever have the chance to do that again.”

“Don't be a smart aleck, Denton.” There she is. The mom I know and love. She kisses me on the cheek. “I'm glad you're home now.” She closes Danza's door for me, puts an arm around my shoulder, and is about to walk me
into the house when she stops. “What do you smell like? Look at your eyes. This morning, it's alcohol. Now you were smoking dope?”

“You call it
dope
?”

“Ugh, no wonder you were so late, come on.”

“No, Mom, it has nothing to do with anything that was smoked. I accidentally hit Millie with the car.”

Millie has been hovering just outside the car, five or so feet away from us, seeming unsure of the best place to stand.

“You
what
?”

“It was a total accident.”

“Well, I should hope so! I don't see why you would intentionally hit her with your car. Probably because you were high on dope!”