Denton Little's Deathdate Read Free Page B

know I’ll die then?”
    â€œWell, they know when everybody will die, sweets.”
    â€œExcept for the undated people,” my dad said. “Those are the people whose, uh, blood is unreadable by the ATG tests. Just comes up blank. Possibly because of a gene defect.”
    â€œWhat is a jeans defect?”
    â€œOh, that’s…,” my dad said.
    â€œLyle, you’re just confusing him,” my stepmom said. “Look, when you were born, they took some of your blood and a couple of your hairs—”
    â€œEw.”
    â€œAnd then they used those, along with the time and date you were born, and some other things—”
    â€œA genetic map of your DNA,” my dad said, “as well as one of my DNA and of your, uh, well…” (In retrospect, I realize he was starting to refer to my biological mother’sDNA here but then remembered I had NO KNOWLEDGE WHATSOEVER of her existence.) “They have these people who are really good at math and probability, called statisticians, who have this highly advanced thing called a risk assessment model, which, you know, gets thrown into the mix.” My dad rubbed at his right eye under his glasses. “And then they know.”
    â€œWhen will you and Mom die?” I asked. “Before me? Or after?”
    My stepmom looked up toward the ceiling, blinked three times, and took a deep breath. My dad shifted his position on the couch. “After, sweetie,” my stepmom said. “We’ll always be here with you.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said.
    â€œIt is,” my dad said. “And, uh, Dent, now that you know this, we support whatever choices you make, like if you wanna go skydiving, or if you just wanna skip school some days, or…you know…”
    â€œLyle, he has no idea what you’re talking about. Don’t—”
    â€œI don’t wanna skip school,” I said.
    â€œOh. Of course. Sure,” my dad said.
    My stepmom ruffled the hair on the back of my head; my dad looked down at his feet.
    â€œIs now lunch?” I asked.
    We had alphabet chicken nuggets.
    Soon after, I became obsessed with death, with the science of AstroThanatoGenetics, with thinking about how it would happen for me. Yet, at the same time, I never wanted my early death to make me different, to force me tolive some rebellious life I wasn’t actually cut out for. Sure, I could have been riding motorcycles off rooftops while shooting heroin into my veins, but it freaked me out too much. I couldn’t
die
before seventeen, but I could become paralyzed or go into a coma or do permanent damage to my brain. So, nope, reckless wasn’t for me. I just wanted to be normal.
    But now I stare around my room—at the black-and-white squares on my bedspread, the meaningless trophies from elementary school soccer leagues, the crowded shelves of books and movies, the bulletin board photos of me and Paolo, and me and Taryn, and me and my family—and I wonder if I’ve done this perhaps a little too normally. I’m not leaving any legacy to speak of: no novels written or inventions invented. (I have written a couple of dinky songs on my guitar, but I keep forgetting to record them.) I’ll just be another name on the list of unexceptional people who lived and then died in a suburb of New Jersey. I could have done so much more.
    What was the point of normal? Did I think that by blending in with the crowd, maybe Death wouldn’t see me?
    I’m sliding off my socks when my phone buzzes in my pocket: a call, not a text. It’s Taryn.
    â€œHey.”
    â€œOh, hi! I didn’t think you were going to pick up.” Taryn sounds like she’s been crying. “’Cause of the funeral and everything.”
    â€œYeah, I can’t really talk long. What’s up?”
    Taryn is silent.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œHi, yeah, I’m here. You sound a little mean.”
    She’s right,