Tagoe twitches. I’m sure he’s itching to remind me that Aimee said she needs space from me, but those kinds of requests get tossed out the window on End Days.
I climb off the bike, throwing down the kickstand. I don’t go far from them, just closer to the entrance right as a priest is escorting a crying woman out the church. She’s knocking her rings together, topaz, I think, like the kind my mom once pawned when she wanted to buy Olivia concert tickets for her thirteenth birthday. This woman has gotta be a Decker, or know one. The graveyard shift here is no joke. Malcolm and Tagoe are always mocking the churches that shun Death-Cast and their “unholy visions from Satan,” but it’s dope how some nuns and priests keep busy way past midnight for Deckers trying to repent, get baptized, and all that good stuff.
If there’s a God guy out there like my mom believed, I hope he’s got my back right now.
I call Aimee. It rings six times before going to voice mail. I call again and it’s the same thing. I try again, and it only rings three times before going to voice mail. She’s ignoring me.
I type out a text: Death-Cast called me. Maybe you can too.
Nah, I can’t be a dick and send that.
I correct myself: Death-Cast called me. Can you call me back?
My phone goes off before a minute can pass, a regular ring and not that heart-stopping Death-Cast alert. It’s Aimee.
“Hey.”
“Are you serious?” Aimee asks.
If I weren’t serious, she’d certainly kill me for crying wolf. Tagoe once played that game for attention and Aimee shut that down real fast.
“Yeah. I gotta see you.”
“Where are you?” There’s no edge to her, and she’s not trying to hang up on me like she has on recent calls.
“I’m by the church you took me to, actually,” I say. It’s mad peaceful, like I could stay here all day and make it to tomorrow. “I’m with Malcolm and Tagoe.”
“Why aren’t you at Pluto? What are you guys doing out on a Monday night?”
I need more time before answering this. Maybe another eighty years, but I don’t have that and I don’t wanna man up to it right now. “We’re headed back to Pluto now. Can you meet us there?”
“What? No. Stay at the church and I’ll come to you.”
“I’m not dying before I can make it back to you, trust—”
“You’re not invincible, dumbass!” Aimee is crying now, and her voice is shaking like that time we got caught in the rain without jackets. “Ugh, god, I’m sorry, but you know how many Deckers make those promises and then pianos fall on their heads?”
“I’m gonna guess not many,” I say. “Death by piano doesn’t seem like a high probability.”
“This is not funny, Rufus. I’m getting dressed, do not move. I’ll be thirty minutes, tops.”
I hope she’s gonna be able to forgive me for everything, tonight included. I’ll get to her before Peck can, and I’ll tell my side. I’m sure Peck is gonna go home, clean himself up, and call Aimee off his brother’s phone to tell her what a monster I am. He better not call the cops though, or I’ll be spending my End Day behind bars, or maybe find myself on the wrong end of some officer’s club. I don’t wanna think about any of that, I just wanna get to Aimee and say goodbye to the Plutos as the friend they know I am, not the monster I was tonight.
“Meet me at home. Just . . . get to me. Bye, Aimee.”
I hang up before she can protest. I get my bike, climbing on it as she calls nonstop.
“What’s the plan?” Malcolm asks.
“We’re going back to Pluto,” I tell them. “You guys are gonna throw me a funeral.”
I check the time: 1:30.
There’s still time for the other Plutos to get the alert. I’m not wishing it on them, but maybe I won’t have to die alone.
Or maybe that’s how it has to be.
MATEO
1:32 a.m.
Scrolling through CountDowners is a very serious downer. But I can’t look away because every registered Decker has a story they want to share. When someone puts their journey out there for you to watch, you pay attention—even if you know they’ll die at the end.
If I’m not going outside, I can be online for others.
There are five tabs on the site—Popular, New, Local, Promoted, Random—and I browse through Local searches first, as usual, to make sure I don’t recognize anyone. . . . No one; good.
It could’ve been nice to have some company today, I guess.
I randomly select a Decker. Username: Geoff_Nevada88. Geoff received his call four minutes after midnight and is already out in the world, heading to his favorite bar, where he hopes he doesn’t get carded because he’s a twenty-year-old who recently lost his fake ID. I’m sure he’ll get through okay. I pin his feed and will receive a chime next time he updates.
I switch to another feed. Username: WebMavenMarc. Marc is a former social media manager for a soda company, which he’s mentioned twice in his profile, and he isn’t sure if his daughter will reach him in time. It’s almost as if this Decker is right in front of me, snapping his fingers in my face.
I have to visit Dad, even if he’s unconscious. He has to know I made my way to him before I died.
I put down my laptop, ignoring the chimes from the couple accounts I’ve pinned, and go straight to Dad’s bedroom. His bed was unmade the morning he left for work, but I’ve made it for him since then, making sure to tuck the comforter completely under the pillows, as he prefers it. I sit on his side of the bed—the right side, since my mother apparently always favored the left, and even with her gone he still lives his life in two sides, never writing her out—and I pick up the framed photo of Dad helping me blow out the candles of my Toy Story cake on my sixth birthday. Well, Dad did all the work. I was laughing at him. He says the gleeful look on my face is why he keeps this picture so close.
I know it’s sort of strange, but Dad is just as much my best friend as Lidia is. I could never admit that out loud without someone making fun of me, I’m sure, but we’ve always had a great relationship. Not perfect, but I’m sure every two people out there—in my school, in this city, on the other side of the world—struggle with dumb and important things, and the closest pairs just find a way to get over them. Dad and I would never have one of those relationships where we had a falling-out and never talked to each other again, not like these Deckers on some CountDowners feeds who hate their fathers so much they either never visited them on their deathbeds or refused to make amends before they themselves died. I slip the photo out of the frame, fold it, and put it in my pocket—the creases won’t bother Dad, I don’t think—and get up to go to the hospital and say my goodbye and make sure this photo is by his side when he finally wakes up. I want to make sure he quickly finds some peace, like it’s an ordinary morning, before someone tells him I’m gone.
I leave his room, pumped to go out and do this, when I see the stack of dishes in the sink. I should clean those up so Dad doesn’t come home to dirty plates and mugs with impossible stains from all the hot chocolate I’ve been drinking.
I swear this isn’t an excuse to not go outside.
Seriously.
RUFUS
1:41 a.m.
We used to beast through the streets on our bikes like we were racing without brakes, but not tonight. We look both ways constantly and stop for red lights, like now, even when the street is clear of cars. We’re on the block with that Decker-friendly club, Clint’s Graveyard. There’s a crowd forming of twentysomething-year-olds and the line is straight chaos, which has gotta be keeping the paychecks coming for the bouncers dealing with all these Deckers and their friends trying to get crazy on the dance floor one last time before their time is up.
This brunette girl, mad pretty, is bawling when a guy advances on her with some tired-ass pickup line (“Maybe you’ll live to see another day with some Vitamin Me in your system.”), and her friend swings her purse at him until he backs up. Poor girl can’t even get
a break from assholes hitting on her when she’s grieving herself.
It’s a green light and we ride on, finally reaching Pluto minutes later. The foster home is a jacked-up duplex with the face of a battered building—bricks missing, indecipherable and colorful graffiti. There are bars on the ground floor windows, not because we’re criminals or anything like that, but so no one busts in and steals from a bunch of kids who’ve already lost enough. We leave our bikes down at the bottom of the steps, racing up to the door and letting ourselves in. We go down the hall, not bothering to tiptoe across the tacky, chessboard-like tiled floor into the living room, and even though there’s a bulletin board with information about sex, getting tested for HIV, abortion and adoption clinics, and other sheets of that nature, this place still feels like a home and not some institution.
There’s the fireplace that doesn’t work but still looks dope. The warm orange paint covering the walls, which had me ready for fall this summer. The oak table we’d gather around to play Cards Against Humanity and Taboo on weeknights after dinner. The TV where I’d watch this reality show Hipster House with Tagoe, even though Aimee hated all those hipsters so much she wished I watched cartoon porn instead. The couch where we’d take turns napping since it’s more comfortable than our beds.
We go up to the second floor, where our bedroom is, this tight spot that wouldn’t really be all that comfortable for one person, let alone three, but we make it work. There’s a window we keep open on the nights Tagoe eats beans, even if it’s mad loud outside.
“I gotta say it,” Tagoe says, closing the door behind us. “You’ve come really far. Think about all you’ve done since coming here.”
“There’s so much more I could be doing.” I sit on my bed and throw my head back on my pillow. “It’s mad pressure to do all my living in one day.” Might not even be a full day. I’ll be lucky to get twelve hours.
“No one’s expecting you to cure cancer or save endangered pandas,” Malcolm says.
“Yo, Death-Cast is lucky they can’t predict when an animal is gonna die,” Tagoe says, and I suck my teeth and shake my head because he’s speaking up for pandas when his best friend is dying. “What, it’s true! You would be the most hated dude on the planet if you called up the last panda ever. Imagine the media, there’d be selfies and—”
“We get it,” I interrupt. I’m not a panda so the media doesn’t give a shit about me. “You guys gotta do me the biggest favor. Wake up Jenn Lori and Francis. Tell them I wanna have a funeral before heading out.” Francis never really took a liking to me, but I got a home out of this arrangement and that’s more than others get.
“You should stay here,” Malcolm says. He opens up the only closet. “Maybe we can beat this. You can be the exception! We can lock you in here.”
“I’ll suffocate or the shelf with your heavy-ass clothes will collapse on my head.” He should know better than to believe in exceptions and shit like that. I sit up. “I don’t have a lot of time, guys.” I shake a little, but I get it together. I can’t let them see me freaking.
Tagoe twitches. “You gonna be okay by yourself?”
It takes a few seconds before I get what he’s really asking me. “I’m not offing myself,” I say.
I’m not trying to die.
They leave me alone in the room with laundry I’ll never have to worry about washing and summer course work I’ll never have to finish—or start. Bunched up in the corner of my bed is Aimee’s blanket, this yellow thing with a pattern of colorful cranes, which I wrap around my shoulders. It belonged to Aimee as a kid, a relic from her mother’s childhood. We started dating when she was still here at Pluto, and we’d rest underneath the blanket together and use it for the occasional living room picnic. Those were mad chill times. She didn’t ask for the blanket back after we broke up, which I think was her way of keeping me around, even when she wanted distance. Like I still have a chance with her.
This room couldn’t be more different from the bedroom I grew up in—beige walls instead of green; two extra beds, and roommates; half the size; no weights or video game posters—but it still feels like home, and it showed me how people matter more than stuff. Malcolm learned that lesson after firefighters put out the flames that burned his house, parents, and favorite things.
We keep it simple here.
Behind my bed, I have pictures thumb-tacked to the wall, all printed out by Aimee from my Instagram: Althea Park, where I always go to think; my sweaty white T-shirt hanging from my bike’s handlebars, taken after my first marathon last summer; an abandoned stereo on Christopher Street, playing a song I’d never heard before and never heard again; Tagoe with a bloody nose from that time we tried creating a handshake for the Plutos and it all went wrong because of a stupid head-butt; two sneakers—one size eleven, the other size nine—from that time I bought new kicks but didn’t make sure they matched before leaving the store; me and Aimee, my eyes uneven, kind of like when I’m high, which I wasn’t (yet), but it’s still a keeper because the streetlight threw a cool glow on her; footprints in the mud from when I chased Aimee around the park after a long week of rain; two shadows sitting beside each other, which Malcolm wanted no part of, but I took anyway; and tons more I gotta leave behind for my boys when I walk out of here.
Walking out of here . . .
I really don’t wanna go.
MATEO
1:52 a.m.
I’m almost ready to go.
I did the dishes, swept dust and candy wrappers out from underneath the couch, mopped the living room floor, wiped the bathroom sink clean of my toothpaste smears, and even made my bed. I’m back in front of my laptop, faced with a greater challenge: the inscription for my headstone in no more than eight words. How do I sum up my life in eight words?
He Lived Where He Died: In His Bedroom.
What a Waste of a Life.
Children Take More Risks Than Him.
I have to do better. Everyone wanted so much more out of me, myself included. I have to honor this. It’s my last day to do so.
Here Lies Mateo: He Lived for Everyone.
I hit Submit.
There’s no going back. Yeah, I can edit, but that’s not how promises work, and living for everyone is a promise to the world.
I know it’s early in the day, but my chest squeezes because it’s also getting late, for a Decker, at least. I can’t do this alone, the leaving part. I’m really not dragging Lidia into my End Day. Once I get out of here—not if—I’ll go see Lidia and Penny, but I’m not telling Lidia. I don’t want her to consider me dead before I am, or ever bring her any sadness. Maybe I’ll send her a postcard explaining everything while I’m out living.
What I need is a coach who can double as a friend for me, or a friend who can serve as a coach for me. And that’s what this popular app often promoted on CountDowners provides.
The Last Friend app is designed for lonely Deckers and for any good soul who wants to keep a Decker company in their final hours. This isn’t to be confused with Necro, which is intended for anyone who wants a one-night stand with a Decker—the ultimate no-strings-attached app. I’ve always been so disturbed by Necro, and not just because sex makes me nervous. But no, the Last Friend app was created so people can feel worthy and loved before they die. There are no user charges, unlike Necro, which goes for $7.99 a day, which disturbs me because I can’t help but feel as if a human is worth more than eight bucks.
Anyway, just like any potential new friendship, the relationships born from the Last Friend app can be pretty hit-or-miss. I was once following this CountDowners feed where this Decker met a Last Friend, and she was slow about updating, sometimes for hours, to the point where viewers in the chat room assumed she’d died. She was actually very much alive, just living her last day right, and after she died her Last Friend wrote a brief eulogy that taught me more about the girl than I’d learned in any of her updates. But it’s not always sweet like that. A few months ago this Decker with a sad life unwittingly b
efriended the infamous Last Friend serial killer, and that was so tragic to read about, and one of the many reasons I struggle with trusting this world.
I think engaging with a Last Friend could do me some good. Then again, I don’t know if it’s sadder to die alone or in the company of someone who not only doesn’t mean anything to you, but also probably doesn’t care much for you either.
Time is wasting.
I have to take a shot and find the same bravery hundreds of thousands of Deckers before me have found. I check my bank account online, and what remains from my college funds has been automatically deposited into my account, which is only about two thousand dollars, but it’s more than enough money to get through the day. I can visit the World Travel Arena downtown, where Deckers and guests can experience the cultures and environments of different countries and cities.
I download the Last Friend app on my phone. It’s the fastest download ever, like it’s some sentient being who understands the whole point of its existence is that time is running out for someone. The app has a blue interface with an animation of a gray clock as two silhouettes approach each other and high five. LAST FRIEND zooms into the center and a menu drops down.
Dying Today
Not Dying Today
I click Dying Today. A message pops up:
We here at Last Friend Inc. are collectively sorry for this loss of you. Our deepest sympathies extend to those who love you and those who will never meet you. We hope you find a new friend of value to spend your final hours with today. Please fill out the profile for best results.
Deeply sorry to lose you,
Last Friend Inc.
A blank profile pops up and I fill it out.
Name: Mateo Torrez
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Height: 5’10”