Denton Little's Deathdate (22 page)

“All right, evvvverybody,” a voice says through the sound system. I glance over at the DJ stand, and, sure enough, it's the same chubby DJ who did my funeral yesterday. Big week for this guy. “We're gonna slow things down a bit now, so, everybody, find your prom date and hold 'em close. I wanna see all you couples on the dance floor.”

In some alternate reality, I'd be interlacing my fingers with Taryn's and leading the way to the center of the room. We'd stare into each other's eyes, our bodies close, feeling the beautiful void of our entire lives ahead of us.

“Pow, Millie, let's go,” I say. I limp forward on my bad leg, looking down to make sure I tread carefully.

“What the—” Paolo says.

I look up.

Veronica.

She's walking toward us in the same jeans and black hoodie she was wearing earlier. Decidedly un-prom-like.

“Hey,” she says. She's drunk.

“You okay?” I say. “What are you…How did you get in here without a ticket?”

She flops one arm in the direction of the back of the room. “I banged on that door. Then someone opened it.”

“You are wastereeno, sis,” Paolo says, awe and confusion in his voice. I don't know if he's ever seen Veronica like this. I certainly haven't.

“You don't know me!” Veronica says, slightly swaying back and forth. “Denton…” She leans in close, and our lips are almost touching. The alcohol smell is pretty potent. “I came here because of you.”

I might love this girl. I kiss her.

“Whoa!” she says, jerking her head back. “I mean…That's not what I meant.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Harsh,” Paolo says.

“Dent.” Veronica puts a hand on my shoulder and looks around. “You can't be here. You have to leave here.”

“What? Why?”

She exerts what seems like considerable effort to steady her gaze onto mine.

“My mom.”

Liza Rondinaro and Scott Landman slow-dance next to us. He whispers something into her ear and she laughs.

“Uh, what does that mean?”

“She's a liar.”

“All right, easy there, V,” Paolo says.

“She's been lying to me!” Veronica shouts. “And she's been lying to you,” she says to Paolo. “And especially to you,” she says to me.

“How about to me?” Millie asks.

“You think this is funny?” Veronica asks, turning sharply toward Millie, stone-faced. “This isn't funny.”

“All right, it's okay, no one thinks it's funny,” I say, getting an arm between her and Millie. “What do you mean, lying?”

And then the pieces click together.

I had it all wrong.

Paolo's mom never could have been my mom. But maybe her crush on my dad meant something else. What if she's been lying to Paolo and Veronica their whole lives about the identity of the biological father who abandoned them so long ago? What if their father is actually someone they've known for years…?

“Ohmigod,” I say. “It's my dad, right?”

“What?” Veronica says.

“She told you that my dad is your actual father. I can't believe this. Is that right?”

Veronica and Paolo look at me like I just confessed to seventeen murders.

“What the hell is this guy talking about?” Veronica says. “Our dad is our dad. Why would your dad be our dad?”

“We've talked with our dad on the phone,” Paolo says. “His voice sounds nothing like your dad's.”

“Oh,” I say.

“And there's, like, videos of him holding V when she was a baby. He's totally Hispanic. With a mustache.”

Eh, it was worth a shot. I'm oh for two.

“Still,” I say, “isn't it possible that my dad—”

“Just shut up,” Veronica says, a rarely heard layer of emotion creeping into her voice. “I heard her, okay? At your house, I heard my mom on the phone, and she…she actually works for some secret government thing.”

Come again?

“Dent,” Veronica says. “She's been, like, watching you. Your whole life.”

“You on mushrooms or something, babe?” Paolo says.

“This is serious shit, Pow!” Veronica says. “Stop with the jokes and listen to me, okay?”

“I'm all ears,” Paolo says. “It just sounds insane. And you're blasted.”

“Okay, okay.” Veronica moves her head back and forth as if to establish credibility. “I know I'm in poor form right now. I got freaked out, and I started throwing back liquids in an attempt to self-soothe. But you have to believe me, okay?”

The slow song ends, and the dance floor bounces back to life with a pop song about the club being ours tonight.

“Dent,” Veronica says, putting her hands on my face. “You cannot stay here.” What she's just told us is so crazy that I know it's probably true. I don't know what to do with the information, though. “You cannot…Oh…” Veronica moves her hands to my shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“You all right?” I say.

She vomits onto the dance floor. And onto my shoes.

“Wow,” I say.

“Sorry,” Veronica says. She looks up at me. “Now we're even.”

I slide my feet back. “Fair enough.” I put her arm over my shoulder. “We gotta get you off the dance floor.”

“Maybe,” Veronica says, barely audible.

“I'll come with you,” Millie says. “I'll take her to the ladies' room.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yeah, way to step up, babe,” Paolo says.

Everyone dancing around us has taken notice of Veronica's spew and moved slightly away from where we're standing, inadvertently giving us our own private circle.

“Wait, dude, what about Phil?” Paolo says. “Want me to talk to him?”

“Screw it,” I say.

“Cool. In the meantime, sweet dance circle going on over here,” Paolo says, doing some sort of frenetic hip-hop jig.

“Dude,” I say, “watch out for the—”

Paolo slips on Veronica's vomit and lands on his back.

“Holy crap!” I shout as everyone around simultaneously gasps.

“I'm okay,” he says. “However, I am lying in my sister's puke. Help V to the powder room, bro,” Paolo grunts, waving me off. “I'll be fine.”

“Be careful,” I say.

“I'll try to get a spontaneous, unrehearsed dance
number going,” Paolo shouts from the floor as Millie and I limp away with Veronica.

“Just let her take me,” Veronica mumbles. “You gots to go, Dent.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I tell her.

“I'm not flowing fanywhere,” she says.

Millie takes careful and deliberate steps, trying to give Veronica the smoothest journey possible. In the past day, I've remembered why she and I used to be so close when we were little. She's strange, but sometimes she's awesome. And for some reason, she's chosen to see my life out to its very end.

“Hey, Millie,” I say. “Thanks.”

She looks over Veronica's head at me. “You don't have to thank me.”

“Okay, but I appreciate this.”

“Today's the first deathdate I've experienced. I'm glad it was yours.”

I'm reminded again of Millie's undated status. “Does it make you wish you knew yours?” I ask.

She thinks for a moment as we approach the bathrooms.

“Nah,” she says. “Days are more fun when any one could be the day you die.”

As I wonder if that could possibly be true, the slight distraction gives my stiffer-by-the-minute legs the opportunity to get tangled. I almost fall to the ground, taking Veronica and Millie with me, but I catch myself.

“Whoa,” Veronica says.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

The men's room and ladies' room are next to each other. Millie takes Veronica in one, and I detour toward
the other, more relieved to take a breather from the prom than I realized.

I limp in, and it's empty except for Mark Hofner, from my cross-country team, checking himself out at the sinks. He notices me in the mirror and turns around.

“Denton! Hey, man!”

“Hey, Mark, good to see you, dude.”

“You, too, man. Love that suit.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot.”

“Is your skin, like…okay?”

“I don't really think so, no.”

“Oh geez. Also your shoes have some…”

“Yeah, little mishap.”

“It happens. Aw, so sorry about your death. I'll miss you, man.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

“Fantastic that you made it to prom, though!”

“Yeah, absolutely.” I start to limp past him.

“So what else is going on?” Mark asks.

Holy crap, I'm going to die having an inane conversation with Mark Hofner. “Um. You know, not much else. The dying thing is pretty much consuming all my mental energy right now. I'm just gonna take a pee.”

“Yeah, cool. What do you think about the vibe out there? It's more fun than I thought it would be.”

“Sorry, I really gotta pee pretty bad, so I guess I'll just…” I awkwardly step around Mark to get to one of the stalls.

“Your legs okay, dude?” Mark asks.

“Yeah, they're fine, just a little stiff.”

“Could be a buildup of lactic acid.”

“Maybe,” I say as I walk into the stall. Coach Mueller was always talking about lactic acid during our cross-country season.

I don't really have to pee that bad. I give it my best shot, which results in this piddling sort of pee stream.

“Are you a shy pee-er?” Mark asks from outside the stall. “I totally am.”

“Yes,” I say.
Leave, doofus!
“I am the shiest pee-er around.”

Mark laughs. “Say no more, amigo. I was just heading out anyway.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Denton?”

Ohmigod, take a hint, Hofner
. “Yeah, Mark?”

“I won't forget you, dude.”

Something about the way he says it causes a lump to form in my throat. I try to say, “Thanks,” but I can't.

Mark lingers outside the stall for about ten seconds, waiting for me to respond. Then I hear the door swing open and shut.

I am alone. I take a deep breath. I clean off my shoes. I stare at the off-white stall door. Someone has left a sticker that reads in angular red letters:
DEATH BRIGADE
.

I cry.

I lean against the stall wall, and I cry. My legs are feeling bad. Numb, stiff, weird. I'd love to sit down, but the toilets in this place—emphasizing the
faux
in
faux-fancy
—don't have lids. I bend over and lift up my blue pant legs to get a better look at what's happening.

My legs are red.

The area on my right leg from ankle to knee is no longer purple. It's the same shade of red as the dots that used to be there. The left leg is also red, but it stops about halfway up my calf.

I look closely. The crimson is very slowly expanding up both legs, like a painstakingly deliberate knitting project. It's so subtle you'd only notice it if you're really looking for it, but the red dots on the purple are interweaving in this complex way, transforming the purple into red.

Red seems bad.

It's making my legs all fucked up, I'm sure of it.

Red = dead.

I'm getting panicky real fast.

Breathe, Denton.

Own this shit.

I look down my shirt and peek at my arms. I'm relieved to see they're still just purple, which has somehow become the new normal.

I hear the dumb DJ making some announcement in the main room, and I wonder what time it is. I take my cell phone out. It's 10:21. The battery icon is red, like my legs, which means there's less than ten percent power left. We'll see who lasts longer.

I am going to die within the next hundred minutes. I don't want to. I want more time to stand in the woods laughing with Paolo. To kiss Veronica, and to know she's kissing me back. To sit in my room doing nothing. To get frustrated with my dad's sweet inability to speak. To feel stifled by my stepmom. To get better closure with Taryn. To figure out how Felix actually feels about me.

Everyone else gets so much time. I don't want to be at prom. I need to find my parents so we can get out of here, and I can have my Red Death in peace.

I put my cell phone into my suit pocket, and my hand brushes against the unread letter from my mom.

I'd completely forgotten about it.

I take it out and hold the envelope in front of me, staring at my name, written in my mom's handwriting.