They Both Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

  Weight: 164 lbs.

  Ethnicity: Puerto Rican

  Orientation:

  Job:

  Interests: Music; Wandering

  Favorite Movies / TV Shows / Books: Timberwolves by Gabriel Reeds; “Plaid Is the New Black”; the Scorpius Hawthorne series

  Who You Were in Life: I’m an only child and I’ve only ever really had my dad. But my dad has been in a coma for two weeks and will probably wake up after I’m gone. I want to make him proud and break out. I can’t go on being the kid who keeps his head low, because all that did was rob me of being out there with you all—maybe I could’ve met some of you sooner.

  Bucket List: I want to go to the hospital and say goodbye to my dad. And then my best friend, but I don’t want to tell her I’m dying. After that, I don’t know. I want to make a difference for others and find a different Mateo while I’m at it.

  Final Thoughts: I’m going for it.

  I submit my answers. The app prompts me to upload a photo. I scroll through my phone’s album and there are a lot of photos of Penny and screenshots of songs I’d recommend to Lidia. There are others of me out in the living room with Dad. There’s my junior year photo, which is lame. I stumble on one I took of myself wearing the Luigi hat I won in June for entering this Mario Kart contest online. I was supposed to send the contest host my picture to be featured on the website, but I didn’t think the boy-goofing-around-in-the-Luigi-hat was very me so I never submitted it.

  But I was wrong, go figure. This is exactly the person I always wanted to be—loose, fun, carefree. No one will look at this photo and think it was out of character, because none of these people know me, and their only expectations of me are to be the person I’m presenting myself as in my profile.

  I upload the photo and a final message pops up: Be well, Mateo.

  RUFUS

  1:59 a.m.

  My foster parents are waiting downstairs. They tried rushing in here the second they found out, but Malcolm played bodyguard because he knew I still needed a minute. I change into my cycling gear—my gym tights with blue basketball shorts over them so my package isn’t poking out there like Spider-Man’s, and my favorite gray fleece—because there’s no other way I can imagine getting around this city on my End Day except on my bike. I grab my helmet because safety first. I take one last look at the room. I don’t break down or nothing like that, seriously, even as I remember playing catch with my boys. I leave the light on as I step out and keep the door open so Malcolm and Tagoe don’t get weird about going back in.

  Malcolm gives me a little smile. His playing-it-cool game is weak ’cause I know he’s been losing his head, they all are. I would too if the cards were reversed.

  “You actually got Francis awake?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  It’s possible I’m gonna die at the hands of my foster father; if you’re not his alarm clock, you shouldn’t wake him up.

  I follow Malcolm downstairs. Tagoe, Jenn Lori, and Francis are there, but they don’t say anything. The first thing I wanna ask is if anyone has heard from Aimee, like if her aunt is holding her up, but that’s not right.

  I really hope she didn’t change her mind about wanting to see me.

  It’s gonna be okay, I gotta focus on everyone who is here.

  Francis is wide awake and wearing his favorite-slash-only bathrobe, like he’s some kingpin whose business makes him stacks on stacks of money instead of a technician spending the little he makes on us. Good guy, but he looks mad wild because his hair is patchy since he cuts it himself to save a few bucks, which is crazy stupid because Tagoe is a haircut artist. I kid you not, Tagoe gives the best fades in the city and that bastard better open up his own barbershop one day and give up his screenwriting dreams. Francis is too white to rock a fade, though.

  Jenn Lori dries her eyes with the collar of her old college T-shirt before putting her glasses back on. She’s at the edge of her seat, like when we’d watch Tagoe’s favorite slasher flicks, and just like then, she gets up, but not because of some gross spontaneous combustion. She hugs me and cries into my shoulder, and it’s the first time anyone’s hugged me since I got the alert and I don’t want her to let go, but I have to keep it moving. Jenn stays by my side as I stare at the floor.

  “One less mouth to feed, right?” No one laughs. I shrug. I don’t know how to do this. No one gives you lessons on how to brace everyone for your death, especially when you’re seventeen and healthy. We’ve all been through enough seriousness and I want them to laugh. “Rock, Paper, Scissors, anyone?”

  I clap my fist against my palm, playing Scissors against no one. I do it again, this time playing Rock, still against no one. “Come on, guys.” I go again and Malcolm plays Paper against my Scissors. It takes another minute, but we get several rounds going. Francis and Jenn Lori are easy to beat. I go up against Tagoe and Rock beats Scissors.

  “Do-over,” Malcolm says. “Tagoe switched from Paper to Rock last second.”

  “Man, of all days to cheat Roof, why today?” Tagoe shakes his head.

  I give Tagoe a friendly bro push. “Because you’re a dick.”

  The doorbell rings.

  I dart to the door, heart racing like whoa, and open it. Aimee’s face is so flushed I almost can’t make out the huge birthmark on her cheek.

  “Are you kidding me?” Aimee asks.

  I shake my head. “I can show you the time stamp on my phone.”

  “Not about your End Day,” Aimee says. “This.” She steps to the side and points at the bottom of the stairs—at Peck and his wrecked face. The one I said I never wanted to see again as long as I lived.

  MATEO

  2:02 a.m.

  I don’t know how many Last Friend accounts are active in the world, but there are currently forty-two online in New York City alone, and staring down these users feels a lot like being in my high school auditorium on the first day of classes. There’s all this pressure, and I don’t know where to start—until I receive a message.

  There’s a bright blue envelope in my inbox, and it glows in pulses, waiting to be clicked open. There’s no subject line, just some basic information: Wendy Mae Greene. 19 years old. Female. Manhattan, New York (2 miles away). I click her profile. She isn’t a Decker, just a girl who’s up late looking to console one. In her bio she’s a self-described “bookworm obsessed with all things Scorpius Hawthorne,” and this common link is probably why she’s reaching out. She also likes walking around, too, “especially in late May when the weather is perfect.” I won’t be around for late May, Wendy Mae. I wonder how long she’s had this profile and if anyone’s told her that speaking about the future like that might offend some Deckers, how it might be mistaken as showing off how much life she still has left to live. I move past it and click her photo. She seems nice—light skinned, brown eyes, brown hair, a nose piercing, and a big smile. I open the message.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:02 a.m.): hi mateo. u have great taste in bks. bet ur wishing u had a death cloaking spell, huh??

  I’m sure she means well, but between her bio and this message, she’s hammering me with nails instead of giving me the pat on the back I was hoping for. I won’t be rude, though.

  Mateo T. (2:03 a.m.): Hey, Wendy Mae. Thanks, you have great taste in books too.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:03 a.m.): scorpius hawthorne 4 life . . . how r u doing?

  Mateo T. (2:03 a.m.): Not great. I don’t want to leave my room, but I know I have to get out of here.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:03 a.m.): what was the call like? were you scared?

  Mateo T. (2:04 a.m.): I freaked out a little bit—a lot of bit, actually.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:04 a.m.): lol. ur funny. n really cute. ur mom n dad must be losing their heads 2 rite?

  Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go now. Have a nice night, Wendy Mae.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): wat did i say? y do u dead guys always stop talking 2 me?

  Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): It’s n
o big deal, really. It’s hard for my parents to lose their heads when my mom is out of the picture and my dad is in a coma.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): how was i supposed 2 kno that?

  Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): It’s in my profile.

  Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): fine, watevr. do u have an open house then? i’m supposed to lose my virginity to my bf but i want to practice first and maybe u can help me out.

  I click out while she’s typing another message and block her for good measure. I get her insecurities, I guess, and I feel bad for her and her boyfriend if she manages to cheat on him, but I’m not some miracle worker. I receive some more messages, these with subject lines:

  Subject: 420?

  Kevin and Kelly. 21 years old. Male.

  Bronx, New York (4 miles away).

  Decker? No.

  Subject: My condolences, Mateo (great name)

  Philly Buiser. 24 years old. Male.

  Manhattan, New York (3 miles away).

  Decker? No.

  Subject: u selling a couch? good condition?

  J. Marc. 26 years old. Male.

  Manhattan, New York (1 mile away).

  Decker? No.

  Subject: Dying sucks, huh?

  Elle R. 20 years old. Female.

  Manhattan, New York (3 miles away).

  Decker? Yes.

  I ignore Kevin and Kelly’s message; not interested in pot. I delete J. Marc’s message because I’m not selling the couch Dad will need again for his weekend naps. I’m going to answer Philly’s message—because it came first.

  Philly B. (2:06 a.m.): Hey, Mateo. How’s it going?

  Mateo T. (2:08 a.m.): Hey, Philly. Is it too lame to say I’m hanging in there?

  Philly B. (2:08 a.m.): Nah, I’m sure it’s rough. Not looking forward to the day Death-Cast calls me. Are you sick or something? Pretty young to be dying.

  Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): I’m healthy, yeah. I’m terrified of how it’s going to happen, but I’m nervous I’ll somehow disappoint myself if I don’t get out there. I definitely don’t want to stink up the apartment by dying in here.

  Philly B. (2:09 a.m.): I can help with that, Mateo.

  Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): Help with what?

  Philly B. (2:09 a.m.): Making sure you don’t die.

  Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): That’s not a thing anyone can promise.

  Philly B. (2:10 a.m.): I can. You seem like a cool guy who doesn’t deserve to die so you should come over to my apartment. It’ll have to be a secret, though, but I have the cure to death in my pants.

  I block Philly and open up Elle’s message. Maybe the third time will be the charm.

  RUFUS

  2:21 a.m.

  Aimee gets in my face and pushes me against the fridge. She doesn’t play when it comes to violence because her parents got real extra when they tag-team-robbed a convenience store, assaulting the owner and his twenty-year-old son. Shoving me around isn’t gonna get her locked up like them, though.

  “Look at him, Rufus. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  I refuse to look at Peck, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter. I already saw the damage I did when he walked in—one eye shut, a cut on his lip, spots of dried blood on his swollen forehead. Jenn Lori is right next to him, pressing ice against his forehead. I can’t look at her either, she’s so disappointed in me, End Day or not. Tagoe and Malcolm flank me, quiet too since she and Francis already gave them shit for hitting the streets with me way past bedtime to rough Peck up.

  “Not feeling so brave now, right?” Peck asks.

  “Shut up.” Aimee whips around, slamming her phone against the counter, startling everyone. “Don’t follow us.” She pushes open the kitchen door and Francis is not-so-casually hanging out by the staircase, trying to stay in the know but also keep back so he doesn’t have to shame or punish a Decker.

  Aimee drags me into the living room by my wrist. “So, what? Death-Cast calls and so you’re free to lay into whoever the fuck you want?”

  I guess Peck didn’t tell her I was beating his ass before I got the alert. “I . . .”

  “What?”

  “There’s no point lying. I was coming for him.”

  Aimee takes a step back, like I’m some monster who might lash out at her next, which kills me.

  “Look, Ames, I was freaking out. I already felt like I didn’t have a future before Death-Cast dropped that grenade in my lap. My grades have always been shit, I’m almost eighteen, I lost you, and I was wilding out because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. I felt like a straight-up nobody and Peck pretty much said the same damn thing.”

  “You’re not a nobody,” Aimee says, shaking a little as she comes toward me, no longer scared. She takes my hand and we sit on the couch where she first told me she was leaving Pluto because her aunt on her mom’s side had enough dough to take her in. A minute later, she also broke up with me because she wanted a clean slate, some cheap-ass tip from her elementary school classmate—Peck. “We didn’t make sense anymore. And there’s no point lying, like you said, even on your last day.” She holds my hand while she cries, which I was doubting she’d even do because she was so pissed when she got here. “I read our love wrong, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You were there for me when I needed to act out and be angry, and you made me happy when I was tired of hating everything. Nobodies can’t make someone feel all of that.” She hugs me, resting her chin on my shoulder the same way she would relax on my chest whenever she was about to watch one of her historical documentaries.

  I hold her because I don’t have anything new to say. I wanna kiss her, but I don’t need some fakeness from her. She’s mad close though, and I pull back so I can see her face because maybe one last kiss might be real for her too. She’s staring at me and I lean in—

  Tagoe comes into the living room and covers his eyes. “Oh! Sorry.”

  I back up. “Nah, you good.”

  “We should do the funeral,” Tagoe says. “But take your time. It’s your day. Sorry, it’s not your day, it’s not like a birthday, it’s the opposite.” He twitches. “I’m gonna get everyone in here.” He steps.

  “I don’t want to hog you,” Aimee says. She doesn’t let me go, not until everyone comes in.

  I needed that hug. I’m looking forward to hugging the Plutos for a final Pluto Solar System group hug after the funeral.

  I stay seated in the center of the couch. I’m battling my lungs for my next breath, hard-core. Malcolm sits to my left, Aimee to my right, and Tagoe at my feet. Peck keeps his distance, playing around on Aimee’s phone. I hate that he’s on her phone, but I broke his so I gotta stay shut.

  This is my first Decker funeral, since my family didn’t care about throwing one for themselves because we all had each other and didn’t need anyone else, not coworkers or old friends. Maybe if I’d gone to others I’d be ready for the way Jenn Lori speaks directly to me and not the other attendees. It makes me feel vulnerable and seen, and it gets me teary eyed, like when someone sings “Happy Birthday” to me—seriously, every year, it never fails.

  Failed.

  “. . . You never cried even though you had every reason to, like you were trying to prove something. The others . . .” Jenn Lori doesn’t turn to the Plutos, not even a little. She doesn’t break eye contact, like we’re in a staring contest. Respect. “They all cried, but your eyes were so sad, Rufus. You didn’t look at any of us for a couple days. I was convinced if someone posed as me you wouldn’t have known any better. Your hollowness was heavy until you found friends, and more.”

  I turn and Aimee won’t take her eyes off me—same sad look she gave me when she broke up with me.

  “I always felt good when you were all together,” Francis says.

  He’s not talking about tonight, I know that. Dying sucks, I bet, but getting locked up in prison while life keeps going on without you has gotta be worse.

  Francis keeps staring but doesn’t say anything else. “We don’t have all day
.” He waves Malcolm over. “Your turn.”

  Malcolm steps to the center of the room, his hunched back to the kitchen. He clears his throat, and it’s harsh, like he’s got something stuck in his pipes, and some spit flies out of his mouth. He’s always been a mess, the kind of dude who will unintentionally embarrass you because he has bad table manners and no filter. But he can also tutor you in algebra and keep a secret, and that’s the stuff I would talk about if I were giving his eulogy. “You were—you are our bro, Roof. This is bullshit. Total fucking bullshit.” His head hangs low as he picks at the cuticles on his left hand. “They should take me instead.”

  “Don’t say that. Seriously, shut up.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. “I know no one’s living forever, but you should live longer than others. You matter more than other people. That’s life. I’m this big nothing who can’t keep a job bagging groceries, and you’re—”

  “Dying!” I interrupt, standing. I’m heated and I punch him mad hard in the arm. Not saying sorry either. “I’m dying and we can’t trade lives. You’re not a big nothing, but you can step your damn game up anyway.”

  Tagoe stands, massaging his neck, beating back a twitch. “Roof, I’ll miss you shutting us up like this. You stop me from assassinating Malcolm whenever he eats off our plates and doesn’t flush twice. I was ready to see your damn mug until we were old.” Tagoe takes off his glasses, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, and closes it into a tight fist. He looks up, like he’s waiting for some Death piñata to drop from the ceiling. “You’re supposed to be a lifer.”

  No one says anything, they just cry harder. The sound of everyone grieving me before I’m gone gives me crazy chills. I wanna console them and stuff, but I can’t snap out of my daze. I spent a lot of time feeling guilty for living after I lost my family, but now I can’t beat this weird Decker guilt for dying, knowing I’m leaving this crew behind.

  Aimee steps up to the center and we all know this is about to get mad real. Brutal. “Is it lame to say I think I’m stuck in a nightmare? I always thought everyone was being so dramatic when they said that: ‘This feels like a nightmare.’ Like, really, that’s all you feel when tragedy happens? I don’t know how I wanted them to feel, but I can say now they hit the nail on the head. There’s another cliché for you, whatever. I want to wake up. And if I can’t wake up, I want to go to sleep forever where there’s a chance I dream everything beautiful about you, like how you looked at me for me and not because you wanted to gawk at this fuckery on my face.”