Derrick. Must. Die.

August, 1993

The small town of Tweedsmuir, Ontario, was known for precisely two things: nothing of note and nothing of value. It was exactly this lack of importance that made its residents a cheerful, enthusiastic bunch. Every day was as exciting and eventful as they made it, each person responsible for their own entertainment and personal progress.

14 years and 10 months ago, the class of 1978 had their quiet little high school graduation. That part isn’t interesting at all—it was your regular graduation with people drinking too much and lying to each other’s faces about how they will always stay in touch and how meaningful everything was. Nope, not special. Our story goes back way further than that, to something that actually means something: the legend of Derrick Pensworth.

Lifelong best friends Adam Bodanski and Tony Puccetti were regular boys, same as any other. They goofed around on the playground, set off firecrackers and ran like hell when they hit a perfect pitch right through someone’s window. Like the town of Tweedsmuir, they were also unremarkable. Everything was… until they met new classmate Derrick Pensworth.

Derrick Pensworth looked like a skeleton wearing a Halloween costume of a human. A really cheap, poorly-constructed one. Barely looked convincing even to those who knew better. On top of his laughable frame lay a sheet of skin, something ancient civilizations would call flawless alabaster. Nope, he was just pale as shit. The only colors on his face were blotches of dried dirt and the blue veins underneath his paper-thin skin, veins that covered his bony skull like a road atlas. His dirty, curly hair looked something like barbershop sweepings held on by school glue, further tussled by curious raccoons. Even Vidal Sassoon wouldn’t attempt to fix it, so they could make an amazing after picture to sell their latest and greatest.

Needless to say, Derrick was about as strong and healthy as he looked. It’s not that he was poor or starving or anything. There was food around. His parents had jobs. His siblings looked like real people, even, leaving him an outlier in the Pensworth lineage. Derrick was so weak and frail that he wasn’t even picked on by bullies—hurting him was just too simple. A simple punch to the gut meant chancing hitting his twig-like spinal cord. Tripping him would result in him gliding back down to the ground like a leaf, some said. For all the wrong reasons, Derrick was untouchable.

His sullied reputation was further compounded when he started smoking cigarettes heavily, supposedly at age 8. Doing so made him look even healthier than ever, adding another aura of hopeless je-ne-sais-qoi to his ghoulish appearance, as well as another identifiable smell. While the rest of the kids his age smelled like a mix of chocolate and dirt, he swapped out chocolate for cigarettes, throwing in a pinch of musty basement carpet for good measure.

So that’s Derrick, at least from a physical standpoint. While not bullied to his face, surely the other children made fun of him, mostly behind his frail back. None more so than Adam and Tony, who made a point of constantly pointing out his shortcomings and ailments. It was a daily game to one-up each other in how they made fun of Derrick’s hair. Or clothes. Or anything.

By the time they were all 10 years old, Adam and Tony decided that pathetic, weak Derrick Pensworth wasn’t going to live long.

“He won’t even make it past high school,” Tony joked.

“He will,” Adam responded. “But not much more than that. I know smoking’s bad but not that bad. We all got grandfathers that smoke just fine.”

This conversation went on and on until one day, a hard number was set.

“He’ll die when he’s 33,” Adam said. “I don’t know what it is about that number but I’m telling you… 33. Thirty-three.”

Tony wasn’t convinced at all. However, he couldn’t pinpoint a number as specific to retort. After weeks of joking around, he finalized his response: “He’ll definitely die well before 33. I’ll bet you any money. I guarantee it. He’s a skeleton, doesn’t eat and smokes all day. He’s not gonna last long. It’s impossible.”

“I don’t give a care,” Adam scoffed. “It’s 33. That’s when he dies. Not even after 33, but exactly 33. That’s a whole year to die. Could easily die at 33. I bet he will.”

And so, as their childhoods went on, the joke and friendly bet remained. One day, at Tony’s treehouse, things got a little more formal. After hours of chatting, it was time to bring out the big guns.

A note, carefully cut from half a fresh piece of formal stationery, made its first appearance. Carefully handwritten by Tony, using a ruler for general guidance and for creating the blank lines to fill in and sign, looked as important as could be. After showing Adam the letter, Tony produced a spool of yellow thread with a large needle stuck into it, borrowed from his mother’s utility room. The needle had a nefarious purpose: to make things official.

October 10, 1970

I Tony Puccetti bet that Derrick Pensworth will die before the age of 33. If this happens I will get $$$1 million dollars from Adam Bodanski.

I Adam Bodanski bet that Derrick Pensworth will die at the age of 33. If this happens Tony Puccetti will pay me $$$1 million dollars.

Signed

Tony Puccetti Adam Bodanski

Beside each of their names was a red blob – their blood. Over time it had dried to a pale brown, years of bending and folding broke the plasma’s surface, leaving countless, faint lines. This wasn’t a silly childhood bet anymore – it was an oath sealed by blood. Derrick simply had to die before age 33 or exactly at age 33, that’s all there was to it. They didn’t prick themselves in the index fingers with a No. 11 needle for fun.

It was a neat thing to joke about until the summer of 1993—Derrick was 32, soon to turn 33. Tweedsmuir’s lone high school was having their 15-year reunion soon, making anyone still around reminisce about growing up, bringing the bet to the forefront of Adam and Tony’s adult minds. That wasn’t the interesting part, though…

Tony’s dad had recently given him the family masonry business, officially making him a millionaire. All of a sudden, that note with the blood bet was the most valuable piece of paper in the entire city. Whether it was at age 32 or age 33, both Adam and Tony declared the same thing: Derrick must die.

***

Dear Tweedsmuir Public High School Graduate of 1978,

We hope this letter finds you well.

The current staff and administration of this school would like to formally invite you to join us for a fifteen-year reunion of your graduating class on August 27, 1993 with cocktails starting at five o'clock and dinner at six thirty p.m.

Over the past five years, the school you once knew has undergone some considerable renovations thanks to a recent government grant. It is for this reason, we have delayed having any reunions until this year. However, the floors are clean and the expanded gymnasium you once knew is ready to greet you again.

Won't it be exciting to see what everyone has been up to since graduation? Think of the stories you will share and the memories that made your experience as a Tweedsmuir Jaguar so great!

We are trying to reach out to as many graduates as possible for this special event. However, while we have made considerable efforts to find correct mailing addresses, we have been unable to send this invitation to everyone.

Therefore, we have included two RSVP slips with this letter. One for you and one for anybody you might come across in the near future.

We truly hope to see you at this event and would ask that you kindly send back your RSVP by July 9, 1993.

Sincerely,

Mr. O'Donnell

Principal of Tweedsmuir Pubilc High School

P.S. Go Jags!

***

Chapter 1

"Okay, what's the emergency?" Tony asked.

Adam sat there at the table of the coffee shop, staring at two pieces of paper in front of him. His gaze met Tony for a moment, then went back down to the papers without him giving a reply.

"Come on," Tony coaxed. "You called to meet here because of a serious emergency. What is it?"

Tony hadn't seen Adam studying papers that hard since his divorce. Something was wrong with this situation and he sat down across from him to show a level of empathy normally reserved for first-time patients at a psychiatrist. That's when he noticed what those papers were.

In his right hand was the formal letter of invitation to their high school graduation. While they joked with each other about attending just to cause a scene, they never formally settled on whether they would actually go.

In Adam's left hand, however, was a piece of paper he hadn't seen in ages. It still had the crusted blood marks from their childhood and while the writing had faded considerably over the years, there was no doubt Adam had done his best to preserve their childhood bet.

"You've got to be kidding me," Tony said.

Adam finally looked up at him.

"We need to settle this," Adam replied. "This is our childhood and a chance to finally live the dream."

"Live the dream?" Tony rebuked. "What dream? You want to go to our high school reunion to find out if Derrick is still alive? This is stupid."

"Aren't you a millionaire now?" Adam asked.

Tony eyed him with suspicion. He didn't like where this conversation was going and he wanted to end it before it could escalate.

"How many times do we have to go through this? The business is worth quite a bit, but it's not actually money in my bank account. What about your investments? Are they all liquid?"

"You're missing the bigger point," Adam shot back.

There was a moment of silence.

"And that is?" Tony prodded.

"I want to win this bet."

Tony rolled his eyes to the back of his head as he leaned back in his chair.

"Guy, we were ten years old. Ten!"

"And Derrick is going to be thirty-three! I have to know!"

The voices of the two were getting loud enough to attract attention. Wandering eyes began to focus in on their direction and they suddenly felt uncomfortable. Adam lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

"Think about it—we get to spend time together going back in our hometown, tracking Derrick down, causing some shenanigans and even making a scene at the reunion. This will be a summer to remember."

Tony paused to think about it.

"And a million dollar bet hangs in the balance," Adam finished.

The longer Tony sat in silence, the more Adam prodded him to think about the good times they would have. After moving away from their hometown after graduation, the two had all but forgotten the place except for the times they would drink one too many and recall the good memories. Adam started to press on those and got Tony to envision how hilarious it would be to be part of it again.

"You might run into Michelle," Adam teased.

"Christ! I'm a married man with a family," Tony rebuked.

"She might be as well," Adam offered. "Wouldn't it be nice to finally get some closure if we run into her?"

Tony put his hands out to stop him from continuing.

"Hold on. If we do this, we make it about Derrick, right? This isn't about you trying to make up for lost opportunities now that Jessica is out of the picture?"

Adam put his hand over his heart, only to realize he made this gesture unconsciously at the mention of his ex-wife.

"Derrick's the only man of my heart," he said out of character, trying to recover the situation.

Tony shook his head.

"However, there is one complication," Adam began.

"And that is?"

"I don't have a car anymore, which means we'd be stuck driving your beast of a Crown Vic."

"That's an issue," Tony replied. "My car is in the shop right now."

It seemed in that moment that all would be lost for the two, until Tony slammed his hand down on the table. The two papers went scurrying off causing Adam to dive down and snatch them before they could get trampled on.

"I have an idea," he said.