Denton Little's Deathdate (14 page)

“Phil,” my stepmom says from the front porch.

“I said for no one to come out!”

“I've called the police, and they'll be here any minute,” she continues, her voice trembling.

I'm looking into Phil's eyes, and I think he's crying. It's hard to tell; they may just be bloodshot.

“I can't believe she had sex with you. I was with her for three years before we had sex. And with you guys it's, like, six months and then good to go.”

“To be fair, we were working to a pretty strict deadline. So to speak.”

Phil grunts. “Whatever.”

“Please don't hurt him, Phil.” Taryn has stepped outside now, with my stepmom lingering in the doorway behind her.

Phil springs back into shooting form. “Why shouldn't I? I can't believe you did it with him!”

“We broke up! I can do whatever I want. Look, Denton will be dead soon anyway. What's the point of you going to jail for it?”

Her phrasing almost makes it seem like she's on his side, but maybe that's the point. As Phil takes in what she says, a couple of things happen at once:

I see a cop car driving up the block behind Phil, out of his line of vision.

Paolo appears, also behind Phil, creeping out from the side of the house with a frying pan in his hand.

Both things are potentially good, but it's a delicate crucible of a situation, which could implode if handled poorly, the scene in the movie where just as the bad situation is defused, some idiot who isn't paying attention tries to help and inadvertently makes everything terrible again.

Not that Paolo's an idiot per se, but seeing him holding a frying pan flashes me back to our brief stint freshman year as a doubles pair on the tennis team. It ended tragically during a match against Haventown South when Paolo lost his grip on his racket, sending it soaring over the net into the forehead of one of our opponents (seventeen stitches).

Paolo, getting closer, makes a slow swinging motion with the frying pan and shrugs at me:
Should I hit him with this?

I slightly raise my hand:
Not yet
.

The cop car's siren isn't on, but you can hear the sound of an automobile moving toward us. Phil is amply distracted by his conversation with Taryn and doesn't seem to notice.

“We have something special!” he says. “That's the point.”

The cop car pulls up to the curb.

“I know, Phil, we did. But we're not together anymore.”

Phil turns his head slightly toward Taryn, away from me, for the first time. Paolo is five or six steps away. I prepare to signal him or to charge at Phil myself.

“I know,” Phil says, “but— What the hell happened to your chest?”

“What?” Taryn says, voice rising.

I wasn't expecting that, and I can't help turning to look at Taryn, illuminated by a beam of sunlight as she stares down at the uncovered patch of skin around her collarbone. Which is purple.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod,” Taryn says, rushing back into the house.

Rising to a challenge during a crisis was never her strong suit.

“What the hell was that?” Phil says, laughing a little as he turns his head back to me, slackening his hold on the big rifle. I laugh a little, too. I might survive this yet.

But then Phil does a quick double take, as if he's caught a foreign body in his peripheral vision. Suddenly he's back in shooting form, his rifle sights set on Paolo.

“Whoa, whoa!” Phil shouts. “What the hell are you doing?”

Paolo stands still, a few feet from me and Phil, frying pan by his side. “I…thought maybe…I'd cook myself an omelet.”

“Like hell you were. What the hell, man? Go stand over there by your gay lover.” He gestures with his gun, violently and cinematically, to the spot where he wants Paolo to stand. “Go!”

I look to the police car, thinking that any second a cop will be emerging to save the day. Not sure what's taking so long.

Paolo shuffles over next to me, and now we are a pathetic twosome. With a gun trained on us. Though I do feel better with him here.

“So this one over here thinks he can sex up my girlfriend 'cause he's dying. And his little butt boy over here thinks he can hit me with a pan. I should shoot you both.”

“Yeah, we know, you've made that very clear,” I say. “And I got your death threat letter yesterday, so thanks for that, too.”

“What death threat letter?” Phil says.

“Oh. Shoot, no, dude,” Paolo says quietly. “I sent that to you.”

“You?” I say. “What? Why?”

“I thought it would be obvious it was a joke! I put it in the dumbest font!”

“No, it completely freaked my shit out! Your deathdate is a very vulnerable time, you'll see.”

“Aw, man, I was wondering why you hadn't mentioned it yet. I thought ‘Watch ott' made it very clea—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Phil shouts.

We do.

“Sorry,” I say, still feeling bold. “It's just, there are better ways I could be spending my last hours than standing here. Really.”

“Easy there, D,” Paolo says. “It's not all of our last hours.”

And then I realize that, with Paolo dying in a month, both of us side by side on the execution line isn't so confidence-inducing after all. We are screwed. I will die instantly, while Paolo sticks it out through his injuries for a month before biting it.

What is that cop waiting for?

“Oh, better things you could be doing? Like my girlfriend? You're right, time's up.” Phil cocks the gun and adjusts one last time, aiming squarely at me. “Denton Little, you're dead.”

He fires.

All that stuff they say about your whole life flashing before your eyes in your final moments is such a cliché that I almost don't even want to go there.

But my life did flash. In the second between realizing that Phil was indeed going to pull the trigger and the actual pulling, stuff was flashing all over the place. Not events, just quick, vague snapshots.

FLASH: My stepmom in the kitchen.

FLASH: My dad reading in his favorite chair.

FLASH: Taryn holding my arm and laughing.

FLASH: Paolo on his bike.

FLASH: Veronica kneeling below me in the woods.

FLASH: Felix, in football gear, charging out of the house.

Hmm. That final flash seemed out of place. I couldn't think of a single time Felix and I had ever played football together.

Maybe it's because it wasn't a flash.

Felix barreled out of the front door wearing a football helmet, shoulder pads, and one of those fencing bodyguard things, and as I watched him full-on tackle Phil at the precise moment Phil's rifle fired, shoving the gun barrel toward the sky, I realized it wasn't a memory. It was actually happening. Right here and now. Holy shit.

My body tenses. My toes curl.

The bullet's new upward trajectory steers clear of me and Paolo, and the bullet blasts harmlessly into the sky.

I am still alive.

Because of Felix.

SQUAWK!
A screeching noise erupts from the tree behind us.

Guess it wasn't entirely harmless.

The creature-squawk is followed by the sound of a gazillion birds dispersing throughout the sky. Felix has Phil pinned to the grass and is forcing him to hand over the rifle. Taryn and my stepmom and my dad and everyone else in the house are rushing out the front door toward us, shouting my name. I am surprised how happy I am not to be dead. I thought I was ready for it.

“Philip,” an all-too-familiar voice says from my left.

I have a sinking feeling, and sure enough, when I turn to face him, I discover that it's my buddy from last night. Phil's grandfather. Aka HorribleGrandpaCop. Of course. He lumbers out of his police car toward us, finally deeming the moment appropriate to intervene.

“I was hoping you weren't gonna fire that gun off, son.” He's holding his sunglasses, polishing them with part of his blue police shirt. “I was giving you the benefits of the doubt, 'cause you're my own flesh and blood, but—”

Phil, pinned below Felix, begins to bawl. “Oh no, don't tell Dad, Grandpa, please,” he says, mush-mouthed and teary-eyed.

“That'll be Officer Corrigan, Phil-Phil. I'm on duty.”

I'll stick with HorribleGrandpaCop, thank you very much. Maybe just HorribleCop for short.

“I didn't think it was loaded, I swear!” Phil bawls. “I just wanted to scare him! I just wanted to scare him….”

“Well, that's all well and nice, but it was loaded, son, and I don't think your daddy's gonna like knowing you took his gun out the house to scare people with.”

“I know, I know, I'm sorry, please, don't take me to jail.”

“Absolutely take him to jail, Officer!” my stepmom shouts from her spot on the lawn, not too far from where we're standing.

“All right, all right, I have this handled, ma'am. No need for the peanut gallery to intervene.”

“I think there is a need, Officer, seeing as I called you almost a half hour ago and you proceeded to sit in the car as my son and his friend were held at gunpoint by your
grandson
. Are you insane? We could have you fired for negligence!”

“I had it under control, ma'am.”

“Did you? Seemed like the only thing under your control was your nepotism. If my older son hadn't gone out there to save him, my younger son would be dead! Is that what you wanted?”

“With all due respect, ma'am, isn't it this young man's deathdate today anyway?”

My stepmom is temporarily rendered speechless. I'm surprised, too. Was Phil's grandpa really going to let me die like that?

“Well…What?” my stepmom stammers. “How do you know that?”

HorribleCop looks like he's been caught off guard for a second. Then he regains his composure. “Oh, 'cause I encountered your son earlier today. Or yesterday, I should say. Isn't that right, Dinton?”

Something's weird about all this.

“It shouldn't matter that it's his deathdate; your job is to
protect
people. Now arrest this young man. I don't care whose grandson he is.”

“Please don't!” Phil wails.

“All right, all right, hold on to your dignity, son.” HorribleCop turns to Felix. “Young man, thanks for helping out here. You can rise up off Philip, if you don't mind.”

Felix awkwardly scrambles up, still bearing the strange load of sports equipment. I can tell that he doesn't trust this man either. I've never loved Felix more.

HorribleCop squats down clumsily and picks up the rifle. “Evidence,” he says, though he hasn't even bothered to put on a glove before grabbing it. “Now you get on up, too, Philip.” Phil does a strange sort of push-up, slips on some morning dew, regains his footing, and rises. “Sorry for any inconvenience this fella has caused you all,” HorribleCop says to the assembled mass of people on the front lawn, putting his arm around Phil as if it's a family picnic, “but you can be assured the issue will be handled.”

“You're referring to attempted murder as an inconvenience?” my stepmom asks.

“Now, ma'am, don't worry. We will not be taking this lightly, and this boy will be taken to jail.”

“Oh no,” Phil says, barely audible through his messy emotions.

HorribleCop squeezes Phil's shoulder, which seems less stern reprimand and more
Play along
. Phil shuts up.

“Philip, why don't you apologize to Dinton?”

Phil looks down for a few seconds and sniffles. “I'm really sorry, dude. I didn't think it was loaded.” He's not making eye contact, but he sounds sincere.

“Thanks,” I say, almost in spite of myself. I wanted to stay silent, like a real badass, but the guy seems so pathetic.

“Don't hate me, Taryn,” Phil says, and I'm surprised to see that she has reappeared on the front porch, now wearing one of my stepmom's fancy silk scarves, presumably to cover her purpleness. Taryn just stares at Phil, a well-calibrated blend of anger, disappointment, and sympathy playing on her face.

“All right, all right, come on now, Philip,” HorribleCop says as he ushers him over to his HorribleCopMobile. “Don't worry, buddy. Grudges don't last forever. She'll come around.”

HorribleCop throws the rifle into the trunk, then opens the front passenger door. He doesn't even have the decency to put my attacker in the backseat. As Phil gets in, he looks back at me, and for a moment I think I see a flash of a cocky
I'm getting away with it
expression in his eyes, but it's quickly replaced by the contrite little boy.

We all remain still as we watch HorribleCop get in the car, turn the key in the ignition, and drive away. He beeps the horn once as he passes. I'm not even kidding.

“Pretty cool dudes,” Paolo says, breaking the silence.

I turn to Felix. He's not a big hugger, but I hug him
nevertheless, crushing all that random sports gear between us. “Thank you.”

“That's why I'm here,” he says into my ear, and, much to my surprise, I can hear that he's crying.

“I'm so glad you were,” I say, astounded that he cares this much.

“I really didn't think he was gonna pull the trigger….”

“Lemme get in on this,” Paolo says, worming his way into our hug.

“I'm sorry I dragged you into that, Pow,” I say. “That was terrible.”

“You kidding? I just crossed four things off my bucket list.”

The rest of the mob pounces, led, of course, by Stepmama Bear, who wraps her arms around me. “My brave, stupid son.”

“I know,” I say into her shoulder.

And then Taryn is hugging me and apologizing on a nonstop loop. “I'm so sorry Dent I ran away and I am the absolute worst I just was so overwhelmed because this was my fault that he was here it was all my fault and I thought he was gonna shoot you but I swear I didn't run in because of the splotch I mean it was partly that but mainly I couldn't watch him shoot you I just couldn't so I ran inside but that was terrible of me and I'm so so sorry….”

“It's okay, Tar. It's okay.”

“I'm not going to school today,” she says. “My parents said it's all right.”

“Oh. Right, yeah.” I forgot that school was a thing that would still be happening for people. “Thanks.”

“Kiss me.”

I don't feel like kissing her. But I do.

I'm relieved to hear a commotion behind me, which
gives me a nice excuse to stop. “Wait, I just wanna see what's happening over there,” I say, and she looks rejected, like she doesn't fully believe that's why I've pulled away.

Over by the tree, a small group is huddled, staring at something and talking in hushed voices. “I think I can heal it. I really do,” Millie is saying as she sits cross-legged on the grass.

“Heal what?” I say.

“Oh,” Millie says, startled by my sudden appearance and seemingly unsure whether or not I should be shielded from this information. “Well…This bird.”

Next to Millie on the ground is a little bleeding bluebird, its dark pebble eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

“Phil,” I say, remembering the loud squawk after he fired his gun. “Aw, man.”

The bluebird's beak is slowly opening and closing, like it's trying to tell us something really important, but no sound comes out. Its whole body quivers.

“Oh, poor birdie,” Taryn says, having sidled up next to me. She's wrapped herself around my arm.

“Does anyone have a pen? Or keys?” Millie asks, looking up at us. “I wanna try to get the bullet out.”

I reach into my pocket for my car keys, only half believing this is a helpful idea.

“Um…I think it's too late,” Taryn says.

The bluebird's wing and beak movements slow to an almost imperceptible level, its life evaporating before our very eyes.

Then they stop altogether.

The bluebird's eyes remain open, and I'm tempted to push down its eyelids to help preserve its bird dignity.

“Poor guy,” Taryn says.

Staring at the dead body of this little creature that was alive mere moments ago is a real trip. World's worst magic trick.

It must be a size thing. I've seen bugs die, and it's never seemed like a big deal. But when it's bird-size or larger, it's freaky.

And people-size? Man, I can't even imagine.

Well.

That's not entirely true.

There is a memory. One my brain and I have worked hard to bury deep down and far away.

But it surfaces. My grandma Mima at her Sitting.

She's on the couch, in mid-conversation. Then, all at once, she's clutching her chest and gasping for air. And her eyes. Vulnerable, pleading, desperate. Trapped.

A chaotic, panicky feeling descends as my brain reminds me in huge, bold, italicized, highlighted letters:

YOU ARE PEOPLE-SIZE. THIS WILL BE YOU. JUST LIKE MIMA
.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Felix says into my ear as I crouch over, hyperventilating. I can be held up at gunpoint for fifteen minutes, no problem, but show me a dead bluebird, and I lose my shit.

“Yeah,” I try to say, but I think it sounds more like a grunt. I don't know if I am okay. I might be very not okay.

“Dent, Dent, look at me,” Felix says. My dad and stepmom are on either side of him, and it feels like everyone else has gathered, too.
Don't wanna miss the good stuff! This could be IT!

“Whoa, what's on his neck?” my stepmom says.

I feel light-headed.

I feel nauseous.

I feel like I'm dying.