by Adam Silvera
Delilah can’t believe Victor would abuse his power like this.
She deletes the email with the time-stamp receipt of her call with the herald, Mickey, whom she cursed out before hanging up. She picks up her phone, tempted to call Victor. She shakes her head and places her phone back by the pillow on the side of the bed that was Victor’s whenever he stayed over. Delilah refuses to give Victor the satisfaction of thinking she’s paranoid, which she isn’t. If he’s waiting on her to log on to death-cast.com to see if her name is actually registered on the site as a Decker or to call him and threaten him with a lawsuit until he admits Mickey is a friend at work he recruited to scare her, he’s going to be waiting a very long time—time she has plenty of.
Delilah is moving on with her day because just as she didn’t second-guess her decision to call off the engagement, she will not second-guess that bullshit call.
She goes to the bathroom and brushes her teeth while admiring her hair in the mirror. Her hair is vibrant—too vibrant, according to her boss. In the past few weeks, Delilah needed a change, ignoring the voice in her head urging her to end things with Victor. Dyeing her hair was simpler. Fewer tears involved. When asked by the hairdresser what she wanted, Delilah asked for the aurora borealis treatment. The combination of pink, purple, green, and blue needs some touch-ups, but that can wait until next week after she catches up on assignments.
She returns to bed and opens her laptop. Breaking up with Victor last night before his shift pulled her away from her own work, a season premiere recap she’s writing for Infinite Weekly, where she’s been working as an editorial assistant since graduating from college this spring. She’s not a Hipster House fan, but those hipsters are more clickbait-y than the Jersey Shore crew, and someone has to write the pieces because the editors are busy covering the respected franchises. Delilah is well aware how lucky she is to be given the grunt work, and to have a job at all considering she’s the new hire who missed several deadlines because she was preoccupied planning a wedding with someone she’s only known for fourteen months.
Delilah turns on her TV to re-watch the painfully absurd premiere—a challenge in a crowded Brooklyn coffee shop where the hipsters have to cowrite short stories on a typewriter—and before she can switch to her DVR, a Fox 5 anchor shares something truly newsworthy, given her interests.
“. . . and we’ve reached out to his agents for word. The twenty-five-year-old actor may have played the young antagonist of the blockbuster Scorpius Hawthorne films about the demonic boy wizard, but fans all over the world have been sharing nothing but love online for Howie Maldonado. Follow us on Twitter and Facebook for immediate updates on this developing story. . . .”
Delilah jumps out of bed, her heart pounding.
She isn’t waiting around for this developing story.
Delilah will be the writer who reports the story.
MATEO
5:20 a.m.
I approach the ATM on the corner while Rufus watches my back. My dad thankfully had the common sense to send me to the bank after I turned eighteen so I could get a debit card. I withdraw four hundred dollars, the max limit at this ATM. My heart is pounding as I slide the cash into an envelope for Lidia, praying someone doesn’t come out of nowhere and hold us up at gunpoint for the money—we know how that would end. I grab the receipt, memorizing how I have $2,076.27 left in my account as I tear up the slip. I don’t need that much. I can get more cash for Lidia and Penny at another ATM or the bank, when it opens.
“It might be too early to go to Lidia’s,” I say. I fold up the envelope and put it in my pocket. “She’ll know something is up. Maybe we can hang in her lobby?”
“Nah, dude. We’re not sitting around in your bestie’s lobby because you don’t wanna burden her. It’s five o’clock, let’s eat. Potential Last Supper.” Rufus leads the way. “My favorite diner is open twenty-four hours.”
“Sounds good.”
I’ve always been a superfan of mornings. I follow several Facebook pages about mornings in other cities (“Good Morning, San Francisco!”) and countries (“Good Morning, India!”), and no matter the time of day, in my feed there are pictures of glowing buildings, breakfast, and people beginning their lives. There’s newness that comes with the rising sun, and even though there’s a chance I won’t reach daytime or see sun rays filtering through trees in the park, I should look at today as one long morning. I have to wake up, I have to start my day.
The streets are really clear this early. I’m not anti-people, I just don’t have the courage to sing in front of anyone. If I were alone right now, I’d probably play some depressing song and sing along. Dad taught me it’s okay to give in to your emotions, but you should fight your way out of the bad ones, too. The days after his admittance, I was playing positive and soulful songs, like Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are,” so I wouldn’t feel hopeless.
We reach Cannon Café. There’s a triangular sign above the door with an illustrated logo of a cannon blasting a cheeseburger toward the café’s name, with French fries exploding wayward like fireworks. Rufus chains his bike to a parking meter and I follow him inside the fairly empty café, immediately smelling scrambled eggs and French toast.
A tired-eyed host greets us, telling us we can sit wherever. Rufus passes me and goes all the way to the back, settling into a two-person booth beside the bathroom. The navy-blue leather seats are cracked in various places, and it reminds me of the couch I had as a kid where I would absentmindedly peel the fabric off until there was so much exposed cushion foam that Dad threw the couch out for our current one.
“This is my spot,” Rufus says. “I come here once or twice a week. I get to say stuff like ‘I’ll have the usual.’”
“Why here? Is this your neighborhood?” I realize I have no idea where my Last Friend actually lives, or where he’s from.
“Only for the past four months,” Rufus says. “I ended up in foster care.”
Not only do I not know much about Rufus, I haven’t done anything for him. He’s been all about the mission of shadowing me on my journey—getting me out of my home, going to and getting me out of the hospital, and soon coming with me to Lidia’s. This Last Friendship has been very one-sided so far.
Rufus slides the menu my way. “There’s a Decker discount on the back. Everything is free, if you can actually believe that.”
This is a first. In all the CountDowners feeds I’ve read, the Deckers go to five-star restaurants expecting to be treated like kings with courtesy meals, but are only ever offered discounts. I like that Rufus returned here.
A waitress comes out from the back and greets us. Her blond hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and the button clipped to her yellow tie reads “Rae.” “Good morning,” she greets us, in a southern accent. She grabs the pen out from behind her ear, and I glimpse a curly tattoo above her elbow—I’ll never grow into someone unafraid of needles. She twirls the pen between her fingers. “Late night for you two?”
“You could say that,” Rufus answers.
“Feels more like a really early morning,” I counter.
If Rae is actually interested in my distinction, she doesn’t show it. “What can I get you two?”
Rufus looks at the menu.
“Don’t you have a usual?” I ask him.
“Changing it up today. Last chance and all that.” He puts the menu down and looks up at Rae. “What do you suggest?”
“What, did you get the alert or something?” Her laughter is short-lived. She turns to me and I lower my head until she crouches beside us. “No way.” She drops her pen and notepad onto the table. “Are you boys okay? Sick? You’re not pranking me for a free meal, are you?”
Rufus shakes his head. “Nah, not kidding. I come here a lot and wanted to roll through one last time.”
“Are you seriously thinking about food right now?”
Rufus leans over and reads her pin. “Rae. What should I try?”
Rae hides behind her hand, shakes he
r shoulders, and mutters, “I don’t know. Don’t you just want the Everything Special? It has fries, sliders, eggs, sirloin, pasta . . . I mean, it has everything you could want that we have in the kitchen.”
“No way I’m gonna eat all that. What’s your favorite meal here?” Rufus asks. “Please don’t say fish.”
“I like the grilled chicken salad, but that’s because I eat like a bird.”
“I’ll have that,” Rufus decides. He looks at me. “What do you want, Mateo?”
I don’t even bother looking at the menu. “I’ll have whatever your usual is.” Like him, I’m hoping it’s not fish.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“As long as it’s not chicken tenders it’ll be something new for me.”
Rufus nods. He points to a couple items on the menu and Rae tells us she’ll return shortly, then rushes away so quickly she leaves behind her pen and notepad. We overhear Rae telling the chef to make our order priority number one because “there are Deckers at the table.” Not sure who our competition is—the guy in the back already drinking his coffee while he reads his newspaper? But I do appreciate Rae’s heart, and I wonder if Andrea at Death-Cast was once like her before the job killed her compassion.
“Can I ask you something?” I say to Rufus.
“Don’t waste your breath on questions like that. Just come out and say whatever you want,” he says.
He’s coming on a little strong, but good call.
“Why did you tell Rae we’re dying? Doesn’t that screw with her day?”
“I guess. But dying is screwing with my day and there isn’t anything I can do about it,” Rufus says.
“I’m not telling Lidia I’m dying,” I say.
“That makes no sense. Don’t be a monster. You have a chance to say goodbye, you should do it.”
“I don’t want to ruin Lidia’s day. She’s a single mom and she’s already had a rough time since her boyfriend died.” Maybe I’m not actually so selfless—maybe not telling her is really selfish, but I can’t bring myself to do it, because how do you tell your best friend you won’t be around tomorrow? How do you convince her to let you leave so you have a chance of living before you die?
I push back against my seat, pretty disgusted with myself.
“If that’s your call, I back it. I don’t know if she’ll resent you or not, you know her best. But look, we gotta stop caring about how others will react to our deaths and stop second-guessing ourselves.”
“What if by not second-guessing our actions we end ourselves?” I ask. “Don’t you have little freak-outs wondering if life was better before Death-Cast?”
This question is suffocating.
“Was it better?” Rufus asks. “Maybe. Yes. No. The answer doesn’t matter or change anything. Just let it go, Mateo.”
He’s right. I am doing this to myself. I’m holding myself back. I’ve spent years living safely to secure a longer life, and look where that’s gotten me. I’m at the finish line, but I never ran the race.
Rae returns with drinks, hands a grilled chicken salad to Rufus, and places sweet potato fries and French toast in front of me. “If there’s anything else I can get you boys please just shout for me. Even if I’m in the back or with another customer, I’m yours.” We thank her but I can tell she’s hesitant about walking away, almost as if she wants to scoot down next to one of us and just talk some more. But she collects herself and walks away.
Rufus taps my plate with his fork. “How’s my usual looking for you?”
“I haven’t had French toast in years. My dad really got into making BLTs on toasted tortillas every morning instead.” I kind of forgot French toast was even a thing, but that cinnamon smell restores many memories of eating breakfast across from Dad at our rickety table while we listened to the news or brainstormed lists he should write. “This is pretty perfect. Do you want some?”
Rufus nods, but doesn’t reach over to my plate. His mind is elsewhere as he plays around with his salad, seemingly disappointed and only eating the chicken. He drops his fork and grabs the notepad and pen Rae left behind. He sketches a circle, bold. “I wanted to travel the world taking photos.”
Rufus is drawing the world, outlining the countries he’ll never get to visit.
“Like a photojournalist?” I ask.
“Nah. I wanted to do my own thing.”
“We should go to the Travel Arena,” I say. “It’s the best way to travel the world in a single day. CountDowners speak highly of it.”
“I never read that stuff,” Rufus says.
“I read it daily,” I admit. “It’s comforting seeing other people breaking out.”
Rufus glances up from his drawing, shaking his head. “Your Last Friend is gonna make sure you go out with a bang. Not a bad bang, or a you-know-what bang, but a good bang. That made no sense.”
“I get it.” I think.
“What did you see yourself doing? Like, as a job?” Rufus asks.
“An architect. I wanted to build homes and offices and stages and parks,” I say. I don’t tell him how I never wanted to work in any of those offices, or that I’ve also dreamt of performing on a stage I’ve built. “I played with Legos a lot as a kid.”
“Same. My spaceships always came apart. Those smiling block-headed pilots never stood a chance.” Rufus reaches over and carves himself a piece of French toast and then chews it, savoring the bite with his head down and eyes closed. It’s hard watching someone swallow their favorite food one last time.
I have to get it together.
Things usually get worse before they get better, but today has to be the flip side.
Once our plates are clear, Rufus stands and gets Rae’s attention. “Could we get the check when you have a sec?”
“It’s on us,” Rae says.
“Please let us pay. It would mean a lot to me,” I say. I hope she doesn’t see it as a guilt card.
“Seconded,” Rufus says. Rufus may not be able to return here again, but we want to make sure they remain open for as long as possible for others, and money is how they pay the bills.
Rae nods vigorously, and she hands us a check. I hand her my debit card, and when she comes back, I tip her triple the inexpensive meal’s cost.
I have less than two thousand dollars after this debit charge. I may not be able to restart anyone’s life with this money, but every bit helps.
Rufus puts his drawing of the world inside his pocket. “Ready to go?”
I remain seated.
“Getting up means leaving,” I say.
“Yeah,” Rufus says.
“Leaving means dying,” I say.
“Nah. Leaving means living before you die. Let’s bounce.”
I stand, thanking Rae and the busboy and the host as we leave.
Today is one long morning. But I have to be the one who wakes up and gets out of bed. I look ahead at the empty streets, and I start walking toward Rufus and his bike, walking toward death with every minute we lose, walking against a world that’s against us.
RUFUS
5:53 a.m.
I can’t front, Mateo is cool and neurotic and fine company, but it would’ve been really dope to have one last sit-down at Cannon’s with the Plutos, talking about all the good and bad things that have gone down. But it’s too risky. I know what’s good with me and I’m not risking getting them hurt.
They could hit me back with a text, though.
I unchain my bike and wheel it out onto the street. I toss the helmet to Mateo, who just barely catches it. “So Lidia is right off where again?”
“Why are you giving me this?” Mateo asks.
“So you don’t crack your head open if you fall off the bike.” I sit on the bike. “It would suck if your Last Friend killed you.”
“This isn’t a tandem bike,” he says.
“There are pegs,” I say. Tagoe would ride on the back pegs all the time, trusting me to not crash into any cars and send him flipping off.
/> “You want me to stand on the back of your bike while we ride in darkness?” Mateo asks.
“While wearing a helmet,” I say. Holy shit, I really thought he was ready to take chances.
“No. This bike is going to be the death of us.”
This day is really doing a number on him. “No it won’t. Trust me. I’ve ridden this bike every day for almost two years. Hop on, Mateo.”
He’s mad hesitant, that’s obvious, but he forces the helmet onto his head. There’s extra pressure to be cautious because I’d hate for an “I told you so!” in the afterlife. Mateo holds on to my shoulders, pressing down on them as he gets on the pegs. He’s stepping his game up, I’m proud of him. It’s like pushing a bird out of its nest—maybe even shoving because it should’ve flown out years ago.
A grocery store down the block is opening its roll-up doors for business as the moon hangs high above this bank up ahead. I press down on a pedal when Mateo hops off.
“Nope. I’m walking. And I think you should too.” He unbuckles the helmet, takes it off his head, and hands it to me. “Sorry. I just have a bad feeling and I have to trust my gut.”
I should throw on the helmet and ride away. Let Mateo go to Lidia, and I can do my thing, whatever that is. But instead of parting ways, I hang my helmet off the handlebars and swing my leg over the seat. “We should get walking then. I don’t know how much life we have left but I don’t want to miss it.”
MATEO
6:14 a.m.
I’m already the worst Last Friend ever. It’s time to be the worst best friend.
“This is going to suck,” I say.
“Because you’re not outing your death?”
“I’m not dead yet.” I turn the corner. Lidia’s apartment is a couple blocks away. “And no.” The sky is finally lightening up, the orange haze of my final sunrise ready to take over. “Lidia was destroyed when we found out her boyfriend-future-husband-person was dying. He never got to meet Penny.”