I corner Mateo as he picks up one of the “Farewell!” cards offered here. “You made me jump and now it’s your turn.”
“I jumped with you.”
“Not what I’m talking about. Come with me to this underground dance club place. Deckers go there to dance and sing and chill. You down?”
OFFICER ANDRADE
4:32 p.m.
Death-Cast did not call Ariel Andrade because he isn’t dying today, but since he’s an officer of the law, getting the call is his greatest fear every night when the clock strikes midnight. Especially since losing his partner two months ago. He and Graham could’ve been a buddy-cop movie, the way they handled business and traded dad jokes over beers.
Graham is always on Andrade’s mind, and today is no exception, with these foster kids in the holding cell who are acting out because their brother is a Decker. You don’t need matching DNA for someone to be your brother, Andrade knows this. And you definitely don’t need the same blood to lose a part of yourself when someone dies.
Andrade doesn’t believe the Decker, Rufus Emeterio, who he stopped pursuing in the early-morning hours, is going to be trouble—if he’s even still alive. He’s always had a sixth sense for Deckers who will spend their final hours creating chaos. Like the Decker responsible for Graham’s death.
On the day Graham received his alert, he insisted on spending his End Day working. If he could die saving lives, it was a better way to go than one last lay. The officers were pursuing a Decker who was signing up for Bangers, the challenge for online feeds that has had a heartbreaking amount of daily hits and downloads the past four months. People tune in every hour to watch Deckers kill themselves in the most unique way possible—to go out with a bang. The most popular death wins the Decker’s family some decent riches from an unknown source, but for the most part, it’s just a bunch of Deckers who don’t kill themselves creatively enough to please the viewers and, well, you don’t exactly get a second shot. Graham’s attempts to prevent a Decker from riding his motorcycle off the Williamsburg Bridge only got himself killed.
Andrade is doing his damn best to get that snuff channel terminated by the end of the year. No way in hell he can share a beer with Graham in heaven without getting this job done. Andrade wants to focus on his real work, not babysitting. That’s why he has their foster parents signing release forms this very second. Let them go home with firm warnings so they can sleep.
And grieve.
Maybe even find their friend if he’s still alive.
If you’re close enough to a Decker when they die, you won’t be able to put words to anything for the longest time. But few regret spending every possible minute with them while they were still alive.
PATRICK “PECK” GAVIN
4:59 p.m.
“Maybe he’s dead already.”
Peck has notifications turned on for Rufus’s Instagram, but stays personally locked on anyway. “Come on, come on. . . .”
Peck wants Rufus dead, of course. But he wants to deliver the killing blow.
RUFUS
5:01 p.m.
The line for Clint’s Graveyard isn’t as long as it was last night when I was headed back to Pluto. Not even gonna start speculating if this means everyone is inside or if they’ve gone and died already. It’s gotta be the greatest club, hands down, for Mateo. They better let me in even though I don’t turn eighteen for another few weeks.
“Weird coming to a club at five,” Lidia says.
My phone goes off and I’m banking on it being Aimee when I see Malcolm’s dead-ass ugly profile pic. “The Plutos! Oh shit.”
“Plutos?” Lidia asks.
“His best friends!” Mateo says, which doesn’t really scratch the surface on who they are to me, but I let it slide because this is so wild even Mateo is tearing up for me. I bet I’d be the same way if his dad called him right now.
I answer FaceTime, walking away from the line. Malcolm and Tagoe are together, legit surprised I answered. They’re smiling at me like they wanna tag-team bang me.
“ROOF!”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“You’re alive!” Malcolm says.
“You’re not locked up!”
“They can’t hold us,” Tagoe says, fighting for space so he can be seen too. “You see us?”
“Screw all of this. Roof, where you at?” Malcolm is squinting, looking beyond my head. I have no idea where they’re at either.
“I’m at Clint’s.” I can give them a better goodbye. I can hug them. “Can you guys get here? Soon?” Making it past five has been a fucking miracle, but time is running out, no doubt. Mateo is holding Lidia’s hand, and I want my best friends here too. All of them. “Can you grab Aimee too? Not that asshole Peck. I’ll beat his ass again.” If there was a lesson I was supposed to learn here, I didn’t. Dude ruined my funeral and got my friends locked up, I get to deck him again and don’t try to tell me I’m wrong.
“He’s lucky you’re still alive,” Malcolm says. “We’d be spending our night hunting him down if you weren’t.”
“Don’t leave Clint’s,” Tagoe says. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Smelling like prison.” Funny how Tagoe swears he’s a hardened criminal now.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here with a friend. Just get here, all right?’
“You better be there, Roof,” Malcolm says.
I know what he’s really saying. I better be alive.
I take a photo of the sign for Clint’s Graveyard and upload it to Instagram in full color.
PATRICK “PECK” GAVIN
5:05 p.m.
“Got him,” Peck says, hopping off his bed. Clint’s Graveyard. He puts the loaded gun in his backpack. “We gotta be fast. Let’s go.”
PART FOUR
The End
No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.
—Steve Jobs
MATEO
5:14 p.m.
This day has some miracles.
I found a Last Friend in Rufus. Our best friends are joining us on our End Day. We’ve overcome fears. And we’re now at Clint’s Graveyard, which receives high praise online, and this could be the perfect stage for me if I outgrow my insecurities—in the next few minutes.
From all the movies I’ve seen, bouncers are normally stubborn in their ways and absolutely intimidating, but here at Clint’s Graveyard there’s a young woman wearing a fitted cap backward welcoming everyone.
The young woman asks for my ID. “Sorry to lose you, Mateo. Have fun in there, okay?” I nod. I drop some cash into a plastic donations container and wait for Rufus to pay his way in. The girl eyes him up and down and my face heats up. But then Rufus catches up to me and pats my shoulder and the burn is different, like when he grabbed my hand back at the Travel Arena.
Music is booming from the other side of the door and we wait for Lidia.
“You good?” Rufus asks.
“Nervous and excited. Mainly nervous.”
“Regret making me jump off a cliff yet?”
“Do you regret jumping?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“Are you gonna have fun in there?”
“No pressure,” I say. There’s a difference between jumping off a cliff and having fun. Once you jump off a cliff, there’s no undoing it, there’s no stopping midair. But having the kind of fun that seems daring and embarrassing in front of strangers requires a special bravery.
“There’s no pressure,” Rufus says. “Just our last few hours left on this planet to die without any regrets. Again, no pressure.”
No regrets. He’s right.
My friends stand behind me as I pull open the door and walk into a world where I immediately regret not having
spent every minute possible. There are strobe lights, flashing blues, yellows, and grays. The graffiti on the walls was marked by Deckers and their friends, sometimes the last piece of themselves the Deckers have left behind, something that immortalizes them. No matter when it happens, we all have our endings. No one goes on, but what we leave behind keeps us alive for someone else. And I look at this crowded room of people, Deckers and friends, and they are all living.
A hand closes on mine, and it’s not the same one that grabbed mine less than an hour ago; this hand carries history. The hand I held when my goddaughter was born, and the many mornings and evenings after Christian died. Traveling that world-within-a-world with Lidia was incredible, and having her here in this moment, a moment I couldn’t buy, makes me happy despite every reason to be down. Rufus comes up beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“The floor is yours,” Rufus says. “The stage, too, when you’re game.”
“I’m getting there,” I say. I have to get there.
Onstage there’s a teenager on crutches singing “Can’t Fight This Feeling” and, as Rufus would say, he’s absolutely killing it. There are a couple people dancing behind him—friends, strangers, who knows, who cares—and this energy elevates me. I guess I could call this energy freedom. No one will be around to judge me tomorrow. No one will send messages to friends about the lame kid who had no rhythm. And in this moment, how stupid it was to care hits me like a punch to the face.
I wasted time and missed fun because I cared about the wrong things.
“Got a song in mind?”
“Nope,” I say. There are plenty of songs I love: “Vienna” by Billy Joel; “Tomorrow, Tomorrow” by Elliott Smith. “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen is one of Dad’s favorites. All these songs have notes I have no chance of hitting, but that’s not what’s stopping me. I just want the song to be right.
The menu above the bar is illustrated with a skull and crossbones, and it’s striking to see the skull smiling. Last Day to Smile, it reads. The drinks are all alcohol-free, which makes sense since dying isn’t an excuse to sell alcohol to minors. There was a huge debate a couple years ago about whether or not Deckers eighteen and up should be allowed to purchase drinks. When lawyers presented percentages about teenagers dying from alcohol poisoning and drunk driving, it was ruled things would remain as they have been—legally. It’s still really easy to get liquor and beer, is my understanding; always has been, always will be.
“Let’s grab a drink,” I say.
We push past the crowd, strangers dancing against us as we try to clear a path. The deejay calls up a bearded guy named David to the stage. David rolls onto the stage and announces he’s singing “A Fond Farewell” by Elliott Smith; I don’t know if he’s a Decker or singing for a friend, but it’s beautiful.
We reach the bar.
I’m not in the mood for a GrapeYard Mocktail. Definitely not Death’s Spring.
Lidia orders a Terminator, this ruby-red mocktail. They serve her quickly. She takes a sip, scrunching her face like she’s eaten a handful of sour candy. “Do you want?”
“I’m good,” I say.
“I wish this had some kick to it,” Lidia says. “I can’t be sober when I lose you.”
Rufus orders a soda and I do the same.
Once we have our drinks, I raise my glass. “To smiling while we can.” We clink glasses and Lidia is biting her quivering lower lip while Rufus, like me, is smiling.
Rufus cuts through our circle and he’s so close his shoulder is pressed against mine. He talks directly into my ear since the music and cheers are so loud. “This is your night, Mateo. Seriously. You sang to your dad earlier and stopped when I came in. No one is judging you. You’re holding yourself back and you have to go for it.” That David guy finishes his song and everyone applauds, and it’s not some faint applause either; you would think there’s a rock legend performing up there.
“See? They just wanna see you having fun, living it up.”
I smile and lean in to his ear. “You have to sing with me. You choose the song.”
Rufus nods and his head leans against mine. “Okay. ‘American Pie.’ Can we make that happen?”
I love that song. “It’s happening.”
I ask Lidia to watch our drinks as Rufus and I run up to put in a request with the deejay. Before we reach the deejay, a Turkish girl named Jasmine sings “Because the Night” by Patti Smith and it’s amazing how someone so tiny can demand such attention and ignite this level of excitement. A brunette girl with a wide smile—a smile you don’t expect to find on someone dying—requests a song and steps away. I tell DJ LouOw our song and he compliments our choice. I sway a little to Jasmine’s performance, bopping my head when I feel it’s appropriate. Rufus is smiling, watching me, and I stop, embarrassed.
I shrug and pick it all up again.
I like being visible this time.
“The time of my life, Rufus,” I say. “I’m having it. Right now.”
“Me too, dude. Thanks for reaching out to me over Last Friend,” Rufus says.
“Thanks for being the best Last Friend a closet case could ask for.”
The brunette from earlier, Becky, is called to the stage and she performs Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness.” We’re next in the queue and we wait by the stage’s sticky steps. When Becky’s song is reaching its close, the nerves finally hit me—the next-ness of it all. But nothing prepares me for the moment when DJ LouOw says, “Rufus and Matthew to the stage.” Yes, he gets my name wrong, much like Andrea from Death-Cast so many hours ago it feels like it could’ve been a different day—I’ve lived a lifetime today and this moment is my encore.
Rufus rushes up the steps and I chase after him. Becky wishes me luck with the sweetest smile; I pray she’s not a Decker, and if she is, I hope she passes without any regrets. I shout back, “Great job, Becky!” before turning around. Rufus drags two stools center stage for our pretty lengthy song. Good call because my knees are trembling as I walk across the stage, spotlight in my eyes and a buzzing in my ears. I sit down beside him and DJ LouOw sends someone over to hand us microphones, which makes me feel mighty, like I’ve been handed Excalibur in a battle my army was losing.
“American Pie” begins to play and the crowd cheers, like it’s our own song, like they know who we are. Rufus squeezes my hand and lets go.
“A long, long time ago . . . ,” Rufus begins, “I can still remember . . .”
“How that music used to make me smile,” I join in. My eyes are tearing up. My face is warm—no, hot. I find Lidia swaying. A dream couldn’t possibly capture the intensity of this moment.
“. . . This’ll be the day that I die. . . . This’ll be the day that I die. . . .”
The energy in the room changes. Not just my confidence despite how off-key I am, no, our words are actually connecting with the Deckers in the audience, sinking deep past their skin and into their souls, which are fading, like a firefly turning off, but still very present. Some Deckers sing along and I’m sure if they were allowed to have lighters in here, they’d whip them out; some are crying, others are smiling with closed eyes, hopefully lost in good memories.
For eight minutes Rufus and I sing about a thorny crown, whiskey and rye, a generation lost in space, Satan’s spell, a girl who sang the blues, the day the music died, and so much more. The song ends, I catch my breath, and I breathe in everyone’s roaring applause, I breathe in their love, and it energizes me to grab Rufus’s hand while he’s bowing. I drag him offstage, and once we’re behind the curtain, I look him in the eyes and he smiles like he knows what’s about to go down. And he’s not wrong.
I kiss the guy who brought me to life on the day we’re going to die.
“Finally!” Rufus says when I give him the chance to breathe, and now he kisses me. “What took you so long?”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I know there’s no time to waste, but I had to be sure you are who I thought you were. The best
thing about dying is your friendship.” I never thought I would find someone I could say words like this to. They’re so broad yet deeply personal, and it’s a private thing I want to share with everyone, and I think this is that feeling we all chase. “And even if I never got to kiss you, you gave me the life I always wanted.”
“You took care of me too,” Rufus says. “I’ve been so damn lost the past few months. Especially last night. I hated all the doubts and being so pissed off. But you gave me the best assist ever and helped me find myself again. You made me better, yo.”
I’m ready to kiss him again when his eyes move away from mine, beyond the stage and into the audience. He squeezes my arm.
Rufus’s smile is brighter. “The Plutos are here.”
HOWIE MALDONADO
5:23 p.m.
Death-Cast called Howie Maldonado at 2:37 a.m. to tell him he’s going to die today.
His 2.3 million Twitter followers are taking it the hardest.
For the greater part of the day, Howie stayed in his hotel room with a team of security guards outside his door, all armed; fame gave him this life, but it won’t keep him alive. The only people allowed inside his hotel room were his lawyers, who needed wills created, and his literary agent, who needed his next contract signed before Howie could kick it. Funny how a book he didn’t write has more of a future than he does. Howie answered phone calls from costars, his little cousin whose popularity in school is tied to Howie’s success, more lawyers, and his parents.
Howie’s parents live in Puerto Rico, where they moved back after Howie’s career took off. Howie desperately wanted them to remain in Los Angeles, where he lives now, offering to take care of every last bill and splurge, but his parents’ love for San Juan, where they first met, was too great. Howie can’t help but be bothered by the fact that his parents, while clearly devastated, are going to be fine without him. They’ve already grown used to living without him, to watching his life from afar—like fans.