Denton Little’s Deathdate by Lance Rubin

Author:Lance Rubin [Rubin, Lance]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Books for Young Readers
Published: 2015-04-14T00:00:00+00:00

The beeping is steady, reliable, almost comforting.

There is a machine next to my bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The room is all white.

On the wall, there’s a drawing of a cartoon bird.

I peer down at my arm, expecting to see an IV, some sort of hookup to the beeping machine. There is nothing.

“Hello?” I say.

Someone clears his throat from the corner of the room.

Mick, my death counselor, has, I guess, been sitting in a chair the whole time. As always, he’s wearing a polka-dot tie.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

He blinks and gives me a half smile.

I am uncomfortable.

I push off the covers and walk out into the hallway. It is strangely deserted. Fog the frog—Millie’s and my old friend—hops by. I turn a corner and find myself in a pizzeria.

“Get a room, you two,” Paolo says from behind me. I spin around. He’s sitting in a booth with Veronica, Taryn, and Phil. There’s one damp slice of pizza in the center of the table.

Phil has an arm around Taryn, his face nuzzling her neck. She’s laughing.

“V, you don’t do this, do you?” Paolo asks.

“What,” Veronica says, “get all PDA with my hot college boyfriend from college? Sometimes. We do it everywhere.”

“I’m right here,” I say to them.

They all turn their heads and stare blankly.

“Who are you?” Paolo says.

“HEY!” a thick woman behind the counter shouts. “YOU.” She points at me.

“Yeah?”

“Phone call.” She holds out the receiver. I walk across the tiled floor to get it. “Hello?” I say.

“You wasted it.” It’s a low voice I don’t recognize.

“Excuse me?”

“You wasted your life.” Then a dial tone.

“What was that about?” Veronica says, appearing at my shoulder, her face close to mine.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Phil says, appearing at my other shoulder.

“I’m not dead now?” I ask.

“Nah.”

“You know what you need?” Veronica says, starting to crack up. “A haircut.” She pulls out shiny silver scissors.

“Yeah!” Phil shouts. “Haircut! Haircut!” All the customers start chanting along with him. “Haircut! Haircut!” I do not want a haircut.

Veronica runs one hand through my hair, her fingers lightly grazing my scalp.

“This is how we cut the hair,” she sings as she starts snipping, her body close to mine.

“That actually feels good,” I say.

I smile at Veronica.

She smiles back.

“Not for long,” she says.

She grabs a handful of my hair and pulls.

I scream.

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