by Adam Silvera
MATEO
1:28 p.m.
The fire has been put out.
My stomach has been screaming at me for the past twenty minutes to feed it, as if I can call time-out on my End Day to have another meal without wasting valuable time, and as if Rufus and I weren’t almost just killed in an explosion that claimed other Deckers.
Witnesses are speaking to the cops and I don’t know what they could possibly be saying. The explosion that destroyed the gym came out of nowhere.
I sit beside Rufus, his bike, and my bookstore bag. The postcards are scattered all around us and they can stay there on the ground. I don’t have it in me to write anything when there are Deckers who’ve now found themselves in body bags, on the way to the morgue.
I can’t trust this day.
RUFUS
1:46 p.m.
I gotta keep it moving.
I want more than anything to sit across from the Plutos and talk about nothing, but the next best thing to break me out of this mood is a bike ride. It’s what I did after my parents and Olivia died, and when Aimee broke up with me, and this morning after beating down Peck and getting the alert. Once we’re away from the chaos I get on the bike, flexing the brakes. Mateo dodges my gaze. “Please get on,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve spoken since being thrown in the air like a wrestler.
“No,” Mateo says. “I’m sorry. It’s not safe.”
“Mateo.”
“Rufus.”
“Mateo.”
“Rufus.”
“Please, Mateo. I gotta ride after what went down and I don’t wanna leave you behind. We’re supposed to be living, period. We know how this ends for both of us, but I don’t wanna look back on any moment thinking we straight wasted it. This isn’t some dream and we won’t wake up from this.”
I don’t know what else I can do. Get on my knees and beg? It’s not my style, but I’ll give it a go if it gets him to come with me.
Mateo looks seasick. “Promise to go slow, okay? Avoid going down any hills and through puddles.”
“Promise.”
I hand him the helmet, which he’s refusing, but there’s no way in hell I’m more at risk than he is. He straps the helmet on, hangs the bookstore bag from the handlebar, climbs on the rear pegs, and grips my shoulders.
“Is this too tight? I just don’t want to fall, helmet or not.”
“No, you’re fine.”
“Cool.”
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
I pedal, slowly, feeling the burn in my calves as I carry two people forward; it’s like running up a hill. I find a good rhythm and put the police and corpses and destroyed gym behind us.
DEIRDRE CLAYTON
1:50 p.m.
Death-Cast did not call Deirdre Clayton because she isn’t dying today, but she’s going to prove them wrong.
Deirdre is on the ledge of her apartment building roof, eight stories high. There are two deliverymen watching her, either interested in catching her with the couch they’re moving into the building or else placing bets on if she’s a Decker or not. The blood and broken bones on the pavement will settle their wager.
This isn’t the first time Deirdre has found herself higher than the world. Seven years ago, back when she was in high school and months after Death-Cast’s services became available to the public, Deirdre was challenged to a fight after school, and when Charlotte Simmons and instigators and other students who only knew Deirdre as “that lesbian with the dead parents” arrived at what was supposed to be the battlefield, Deirdre was on the roof instead. She never understood how the way she loves could drag such hatred out of others, and she refused to stick around to find the love everyone hated her for. Except back then she had her childhood best friend to talk her down.
Today Deirdre is alone, knees wobbling, and crying because, as much as she wants to believe in better days, her job prevents her from doing so. Deirdre works at Make-A-Moment, where she’s charging Deckers for thrills and fake experiences, fake memories. She doesn’t understand why these Deckers aren’t home with loved ones, particularly those two teen boys today, who, as they were leaving, talked about how underwhelming the virtual reality experience was. It’s wasted time.
The boys from earlier reminded her of a short story she’d finished working on this morning, something for her eyes only that has kept her distracted in the quiet times at work. Her story is set in an alternate world where Death-Cast has another branch called Life-Cast, and this extension informs Deckers of when they will be reincarnated so their families and friends will know how to find them in their next life. It’s centered around fifteen-year-old twin sisters, Angel and Skylar, who are devastated to learn one twin is about to die and immediately seek out Life-Cast’s services to find out when Skylar will be reincarnated. Angel is upset because she won’t be reunited with her sister for another seven years, when Skylar will be reincarnated as the son of some family in Australia. Skylar dies saving her sister’s life, and it ends with a devastated Angel depositing a hundred-dollar bill into an old piggy bank to start funding her way to Australia in seven years to welcome her sister back into the world—albeit as an infant boy.
Deirdre thought she would continue that story, but scratch that now. Life-Cast doesn’t exist, and she’s not waiting around for Death-Cast to let her know when her time is up. This is a world of violence and fear and children dying without having lived and she wants no part of it.
It will be so easy to jump. . . .
She stands on one foot, her entire body shaking, surely about to tumble forward any moment now. She once scaled a rooftop at work, in their virtual parkour station, but that was an illusion.
Death is prophesied in Deirdre’s name, that of a heroine in Irish mythology who took her own life.
Deirdre looks down, ready to fly, when two boys on a bike turn the corner—they resemble the boys from earlier.
Deirdre reaches deep within herself, far past the place where lies and hopelessness come easily, and even beneath the very honest truth where she’s okay with the impacting relief that comes with flying off this roof. She sees two boys living and this makes her feel less dead inside.
Intent may not be enough to cause her to actually die, she knows this from the countless other mornings when she’s woken up to ugliness, but when faced with the chance to prove Death-Cast wrong, Deirdre makes the right decision and lives.
MATEO
1:52 p.m.
This bike isn’t the worst thing.
I squeeze Rufus’s shoulder when he makes a sharp left, dodging some delivery guys who are staring up into the sky instead of moving a couch into a building, and we continue sailing down the street.
I felt really wobbly when he first got going, but as he picks up a good enough speed to throw a breeze our way, I appreciate the control I’m entrusting to him.
It’s freeing.
I’m not expecting to go any faster than we are, but it’s more exciting than the Make-A-Moment skydiving. Yeah, riding a bike is more thrilling than quote-unquote jumping out of a plane.
If I weren’t such a coward, or a Decker, I would lean against Rufus, shifting my weight against him. I’d put my arms out and close my eyes, but it’s too risky, so I keep holding him, which works for me, too. But when we reach our destination I’m going to do something small and brave.
RUFUS
2:12 p.m.
I slow down as we turn in to Althea Park. Mateo’s hands slip off my shoulders and my bike is immediately lighter. I brake. I turn to see if he’s broken his face or busted his head open despite the helmet, but he’s jogging toward me and a smile cracks on his face; he’s all good. “Did you jump off?”
“I did!” Mateo takes off the helmet.
“You didn’t want me riding the bike, and now you’re going ahead and throwing yourself off one?”
“I was in the moment.”
I wanna take full credit, but he’s had this in him all along, always wanting to do someth
ing exciting, just being too scared to go out and do it.
“You feeling better?” Mateo asks.
“A little,” I admit. I get off the bike. I limp toward the deserted playground as some college-age-looking dudes play handball in a nearby court, splashing in the puddles as they chase after the ball whenever someone misses. My basketball shorts are damp and dirty from the cemetery, same for Mateo’s jeans, so the wet bench doesn’t bother us when we sit. “I hate that we were there for that.”
“I know. You never want to see someone die, even if you never knew them.”
“It pulled me out of my bullshit zone. My whole I’m-ready-for-whatever-is-gonna-hit-us thing is bullshit, and I’m scared shitless. We could legit die in the next thirty seconds from rogue bullets or something, and I hate that. Whenever I get into this freaking-out headspace, I end up here. Never fails.”
“But good times brought you here, too,” he says. “Like finishing your first marathon.” He takes a deep breath. “And having your first kiss with some girl.”
“Yeah.” That kiss bothers him, huh. I guess my gut was right. I stay shut for a solid stretch of time, only staring at squirrels climbing trees and birds chasing each other on foot. “Have you ever played Gladiator?”
“I know the game,” he says.
“Good. Have you ever played?”
“I’ve seen others play.”
“So no.”
“No.”
I stand, pull Mateo by his wrists, and lead him to the monkey bars. “I challenge you to a Gladiator match.”
“I can’t refuse, can I?”
“Definitely not.”
“We just survived an explosion.”
“What’s a little more pain?”
Jungle gym Gladiator isn’t crazy like an age-old coliseum match, but I’ve seen schoolmates get hurt before. Hell, I’m the reason some of them got hurt. Two players—gladiators—swing from the monkey bars into each other to try and knock their opponent down. It’s the most barbaric childhood game, mad fun. We’re both fairly tall, so we could just tiptoe and grab hold of the monkey bars, but I mini-hop and lift myself up, like I’m doing pull-ups. Mateo hops and takes hold but has zero upper-body strength, so he falls back on his feet ten seconds later. He jumps again and holds himself up this time. I count down from three as we swing toward each other, closing the small distance between us. I kick at him and he swerves to the side, almost falling. I lift my legs higher, throwing my legs around his midriff. He tries breaking out of my grapple as I rattle him, but no dice. My hands are kind of aching, so when he lets go, laughing, I fall with him onto the mat. I bang against the mat, shocks chasing each other around my body, but the pain doesn’t kill me. We’re side by side with each other, laughing while we massage our aching elbows and legs. Our backs are wetter and we keep slipping while trying to get up. Idiots. Mateo gets it together and helps me up.
“I won, right?” I say.
“I think it’s a tie,” he says.
“Rematch?”
“I’m good. I’m pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes when we were falling.”
I smile. “Let me get real with you, Mateo.” I say his name a lot, even though I’m obviously talking to him, because it’s just cool, seriously—Mateo. “Past few months have been brutal. My life always felt over even without the alert. There were days I believed I could prove Death-Cast wrong and ride my bike into the river. But on top of being scared now, I’m pissed off because there’s so much I’ll never get to have. Time . . . other stuff, like—”
“You’re not going to off yourself today, right?” Mateo asks.
“I’m safe from myself, I promise. I don’t want everything over. Please promise you won’t go dying before me. I can’t see that.”
“Only if you promise the same thing.”
“We can’t both promise this.”
“Then I’m not promising my promise,” Mateo says. “I don’t want you to see me die, but I can’t watch you die either.”
“That’s messed up. You’re really gonna go down as the Decker who didn’t promise to grant another Decker his dying wish?”
“Forcing myself to watch you die is not something I’ll promise you. You’re my Last Friend, and it would wreck me.”
“You don’t deserve to die, Mateo.”
“I don’t think anyone deserves to die.”
“Except serial killers, right?”
He doesn’t answer because he probably thinks I won’t like his answer. If anything, it only further proves my point: Mateo doesn’t deserve to die.
A handball bounces our way, and Mateo races past me to catch it. This guy chases after the ball, but Mateo gets to it first and tosses it to him.
“Thanks,” the guy says.
Homeboy is really pale, like he doesn’t leave his apartment nearly enough. What a shitty, stormy day to come out and play. I’m guessing he’s nineteen or twenty, but I’m not ruling out he’s our age.
“No problem,” Mateo says.
He’s turning away when he sees my bike. “Nice! Is that a Trek?”
“It is. Got it for off-road races. Do you ride one?”
“Mine got wrecked—brake cable got busted and the seat clamp was all screwy. I’m buying another one when I get a job that pays more than eight an hour,” he says.
“Take mine,” I say. I can do this. I walk to my bike, which carried me through a brutal race and everywhere else I wanted to go, and wheel it toward this guy. “It’s your lucky day, seriously. My friend isn’t about me riding this thing, so you can have it.”
“You serious?”
“You sure?” Mateo asks.
I nod. “It’s yours,” I tell the guy. “Have at it. I’m moving soon anyway and won’t be able to bring it.”
The dude throws the handball over to his friends, who’ve been shouting for him to come back and play. He sits on the bike and plays with the gears. “Wait. You didn’t jack this from someone, right?”
“Nope.”
“And it’s not broken? Is that why you’re leaving it behind?”
“It’s not broken. Look, do you want it or not?”
“We good, we good. Can I pay you something?”
I shake my head. “We good,” I say back.
Mateo gives the guy the helmet and he doesn’t put it on before riding back to his friends. I get my phone out and snap photos of him riding my bike, his back to me as he stands on the pedals, while his friends play handball. It’s a solid portrait of kids—a little older than me, but they’re kids, don’t fight me on that—too young to be worried about shit like Death-Cast alerts. They know their day is going to end like it usually does.
“Good move,” Mateo says.
“I got one last ride out of it. I’m set.” I take more photos: the ongoing handball match, the monkey bars where we played Gladiator, the long yellow slide, the swings. “Come.”
I almost go back for my bike before remembering I’ve just given it up. I feel lighter, like my shadow just quit his day job, walked off, and threw up a peace sign. Mateo follows me to the swings. “You said you’d come here with your dad, right? Naming clouds and shit? Let’s swing.”
Mateo sits on the swing, holds on for dear life—I know—takes a few steps, and propels forward, his legs looking like they’re about to kick over a building. I get a picture before joining him on the swing, my arms wrapped around the chains, and I manage to take some pictures. Puts me and my phone at risk—again, I know—but for every four blurry shots I snap a good one. Mateo points out the dark nimbus clouds, and I’m straight wowed I get to live in this moment with someone who doesn’t deserve to die.
It’ll storm again soon, but for now we go back and forth, and I wonder if he’s thinking two Deckers sharing swings might mean the entire thing will collapse and kill us, or if we’ll swing so high we’ll fly and fall out of life, but I feel safe.
We slow down and I shout to him, “The Plutos gotta scatter me here.”
“
Your place of change!” Mateo shouts while the swing throws him backward. “Any other big changes today? Besides the obvious?”
“Yeah!”
“What?”
I smile over at him as our swinging comes to a stop. “I gave up my bike.” I know what he’s really asking, but I don’t take the bait. He’s gotta make a move himself, I’m not robbing him of that moment, it’s too big. I stay seated as he stands. “Weird how this is the last time I’ll be in this park—with flesh and a heart that works.”
Mateo looks around; it’s his last time here too. “You ever hear about those Deckers who turn into trees? Sounds like a fairy tale, I know. The Living Urn offers Deckers the opportunity to have their ashes put in a biodegradable urn containing a tree seed that absorbs nutrients and stuff from their ashes, which I thought was fantasy but nope. Science.”
“Maybe instead of having my ashes just scattered on the ground some dog is going to shit on, I could live on as a tree?”
“Yeah, and other teens will carve hearts into you and you can produce oxygen. People like air,” Mateo says.
It’s drizzling so I get up from the swing, the chain rattling behind me. “Let’s get somewhere dry, weirdo.”
Coming back as a tree would be pretty chill, like I’m growing up in Althea Park again, not that I’ll say that out loud because yo, you can’t go around telling people you wanna be a tree and expect them to take you seriously.
DAMIEN RIVAS
2:22 p.m.
Death-Cast did not call Damien Rivas because he isn’t dying today, which he considers a shame because he’s not very impressed with the way he’s been living his life lately. Damien has always been an adrenaline junkie. New roller coasters every summer he met the required height. Stealing candy from drugstores and cash from his father’s pouch. Fighting those who are the Goliath to his David. Starting a gang.