They Both Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

  Playing a game of darts against himself isn’t exactly thrilling.

  Talking to Peck on the phone isn’t exciting either.

  “Calling the cops is some little bitch shit,” Damien says, loud enough for his speakerphone. “Getting me to call the cops goes against everything I stand for.”

  “I know. You only like the cops when they’re called on you,” Peck says.

  Damien nods, like Peck can see him. “We should’ve handled that ourselves.”

  “You’re right,” Peck says. “The cops never even got Rufus. They’re probably giving up because he’s a Decker.”

  “Let’s get you some justice,” Damien says. Excitement and purpose surge through him. He’s been living away from the edge all summer and now he’s inching closer and closer to his favorite place in the world.

  He imagines Rufus’s face where the dartboard is. He throws the dart and hits bull’s-eye—right between Rufus’s eyes.

  MATEO

  2:34 p.m.

  It’s raining again, harder than back at the cemetery. I feel like the bird I looked after as a kid, the one pummeled by the rain. The one that left its nest before it was ready.

  “We should go inside,” I say.

  “Scared of catching a cold?”

  “Scared of becoming a statistic who gets struck by lightning.” We hang out underneath the awning of this pet store, puppies in the window distracting us from figuring out our next move. “I have an idea to honor your explorer side. Maybe we can ride the train back and forth. There’s so much I never got to see in my own city. Maybe we’ll stumble into something awesome. Forget it, that’s stupid.”

  “That’s not stupid at all. I know exactly what you’re talking about!” Rufus leads the way to a nearby subway station. “Our city is gigantic, too. Someone can live here their entire life and never walk every block in every borough. I once dreamt I was on some intense cycling trip where my tires had this glow-in-the-dark paint on them and I was aiming to make the city light up by midnight.”

  I smile. “Did you succeed?” There’s actual race-against-the-clock suspense in this dream.

  “Nah, I think I started dreaming about sex or something and woke up from that,” Rufus says. He’s probably not a virgin, but I don’t ask because it’s not my business.

  We’re heading back downtown. Who knows how far we’ll go. Maybe we’ll ride the train until the very last stop, catch a bus, ride that to an even farther stop. Maybe we’ll end up in another state, like New Jersey.

  There’s a train, door open, at the platform and we run into it, finding an empty bench in the corner.

  “Let’s play a game,” Rufus says.

  “Not Gladiator again.”

  Rufus shakes his head. “Nope. It’s a game called Traveler I used to play with Olivia. Make up a story about another passenger, where they’re going and who they are.” He shifts, his body leaning against mine as he discreetly points at a woman in blue medical scrubs under her jacket, holding a shopping bag. “She’s going home to take a nap and then blast some pop music as she gets ready for her first day off in nine days. She doesn’t know it yet, but her favorite bar is gonna be closed for renovations.”

  “That sucks,” I say. Rufus turns to me, his wrist spinning, encouraging me to go on. “Oh. She’ll go back home, where she’ll find her favorite movie on some cable network and catch up on emails to her friends during commercial breaks.” He grins. “What?”

  “She started her evening fairly adventurous,” he says.

  “She was taking a nap.”

  “So she’d have energy to party all night!”

  “I figured she’d want to see what her friends are up to. She probably misses text messages and phone calls since she’s usually too busy saving lives and delivering babies. She needs this, believe me.” I nod at a girl with headphones bigger than fists and hair dyed platinum. She’s drawing something colorful on her tablet with a blue stylus. I nod toward her. “She got the tablet for her birthday last week and she really wanted it for games and video-chatting with her friends, but she discovered this design app and experimented with it when she was bored. It’s her new obsession.”

  “I like that,” Rufus says. The train stops and the girl is scrambling to get her illustrated tote bag together. She runs out of the car right when the doors are closing—like an action movie sequence. “And now she’s going home where she’ll be late for a video chat with her friends because she’s too busy getting this one idea right.”

  We keep playing Traveler. Rufus points out a girl with a suitcase who he thinks is running away, but I correct him. She’s actually returning home after a big fight with her sister and they’re going to repair their relationship. I mean, anyone with eyes can see that’s what’s happening. Another passenger, soaked, was having car trouble and had to ditch his van—no, wait, his Mercedes, Rufus corrects, because a train ride is a humbling experience for this rich guy. Some NYU students jump on the train with umbrellas by their sides, possibly coming from orientation, their whole lives ahead of them, and we play a flash round predicting who they’ll become: a family court judge in a family of artists; a comedian in Los Angeles, where they’ll appreciate her traffic jokes; a talent agent who won’t make it big for a few years but will have her time to shine; a screenwriter for a children’s TV show about monsters playing sports; a skydiving instructor, which is funny because he has this handlebar mustache that must look like it’s smiling against the wind during every descent.

  If someone else were playing Traveler, what would they predict for me and Rufus?

  Rufus taps my shoulder, pointing at the exit as the doors open. “Hey, isn’t this the stop where we spontaneously got our gym memberships?”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, it is! You wanted to be brolic after some dick bumped into you at the Bleachers concert,” Rufus says, right when the doors close.

  I haven’t been to a Bleachers concert but I get the game now. “Wrong night, Rufus. The dude bumped into me at the Fun concert. Hey, this is the stop where we got tattoos.”

  “Yeah. The tattoo artist, Barclay—”

  “Baker,” I correct. “Remember? Baker the tattoo artist who quit medical school?”

  “Riiiight. We caught Baker in a good mood and he gave us a Buy One, Get One Free deal. I got the bike tire on my forearm”—he taps his arm—“and you got . . . ?”

  “A male seahorse.”

  Rufus looks so confused, like he might call time-out to see if we’re still playing the same game. “Uh . . . remind me why you got that one again.”

  “My dad is really into male seahorses. He carried me through life solo, remember? I can’t believe you forgot the meaning of the seahorse tattoo on my shoulder. No, wrist. Yeah, it’s on my wrist. That’s cooler.”

  “I can’t believe you forgot where your tattoo is.”

  When we get to the next stop, Rufus throws us into the future: “Hey, this is where I normally get off for work. When I’m in the office, at least, and not in whatever resort around the world they send me to for review. It’s wild I get to work in a building you designed and built.”

  “So wild, Rufus.”

  I look down at where my seahorse tattoo should be.

  In the future, Rufus is a travel blogger and I’m an architect. We have tattoos we got together. We’ve gone to so many concerts he can’t keep them straight in his head. I almost wish we weren’t so creative in this moment, because these fake memories of friendship feel incredible. Imagine that—reliving something you never lived.

  “We have to leave our mark,” I say, getting up from my seat.

  “We going outside to piss on fire hydrants?”

  I put the blind-date book on the seat. “I don’t know who will find this. But isn’t it cool knowing someone will if we leave it here?”

  “It’s true. This is prime seating,” Rufus says, getting up from the bench.

  The train stops and the doors open. There has to be more to life tha
n imagining a future for yourself. I can’t just wish for the future; I have to take risks to create it.

  “There’s something I really want to do,” I say.

  “We out,” Rufus says, smiling.

  We get off the train before the doors close, almost bumping into two girls, and we take off out of the subway.

  ZOE LANDON

  2:57 p.m.

  Death-Cast called Zoe Landon at 12:34 a.m. to tell her she’s going to die today. Zoe was lonely, having only moved to New York eight days ago to begin classes at NYU today. She’s barely unpacked her boxes, let alone made friends yet. But thankfully the Last Friend app was one click away. Her first message went to this boy Mateo, but he never responded. Maybe he died. Maybe he ignored her message. Maybe he found a Last Friend.

  Like Zoe ultimately did.

  Zoe and Gabriella get on the train right before the doors close, dodging two boys to do so. They rush to the bench in the corner, halting when they see a paper-wrapped object sitting there. Rectangular. Every time Zoe enters the subway, there are all these signs encouraging her to say something if she sees something—she’s seeing something.

  “This is bad,” Zoe says. “You should get off at the next stop.”

  Gabriella, fearless because she didn’t receive the alert today, picks up the object.

  Zoe flinches.

  “It’s a book,” Gabriella says. “Ooh! It’s a surprise book!” She sits and eyes the illustration of a fleeing criminal. “I love this art.”

  Zoe sits next to her. She thinks the drawing is cute but respects Gabriella’s opinion.

  “It’s my turn to tell you a secret,” Gabriella says. “If you want.”

  Zoe shared all her secrets today with Gabriella. All the secrets she made her childhood best friends pinkie swear to never tell another soul. All the heartbreaking ones she always kept to herself because speaking up was too hard. Together, the two have laughed and cried, as if they’ve been best friends their entire lives. “Your secret dies with me,” Zoe says. She doesn’t laugh and neither does Gabriella, but she squeezes her hand to let her know she’s going to be okay. A promise based on nothing but a gut instinct. Screw evidence of the afterlife.

  “It’s not a huge secret, but I’m Batman . . . of the Manhattan graffiti world,” Gabriella says.

  “Aw, you had me really excited, Batman . . . of the Manhattan graffiti world,” Zoe says.

  “I specialize in graffiti pushing Last Friends. In some places I’ll draw with marker, like on menus and train posters, but my true love is graffiti. I’ve done tags for the Last Friends I’ve met. Anywhere I can. In the past week, I’ve covered walls with the cute silhouettes from the app by McDonald’s, two hospitals, and a soup spot. I hope everyone uses it.” Gabriella taps her fingers against the book. At first look, Zoe thought the colors around her nails was a polish job gone terribly wrong, but she knows the truth now. “Anyway. I love art and I will tag a mailbox or something with your name.”

  “Maybe somewhere on the Broadway strip? I won’t ever have my name in lights, but it’ll be there,” Zoe says. She pictures her request now. Her heart is full and empty at the thought.

  Passengers look up from their newspapers and phone games and stare at Zoe. Indifference on one’s face, pity on another’s. Pure sadness from a black woman with this gorgeous afro. “Sorry to lose you,” the woman says.

  “Thank you,” Zoe says.

  The woman returns to her phone.

  Zoe scoots closer to Gabriella. “I feel like I made this weird,” she says, her voice quieter than before.

  “Speak up while you can,” Gabriella says.

  “Let’s see what that book is,” Zoe says. She’s curious. “Open it.”

  Gabriella hands Zoe the book. “You open it. It’s your . . .”

  “It’s my End Day, not my birthday,” Zoe says. “I don’t need a gift and I’m not exactly going to read the book in the next . . .” Zoe checks her watch and feels dizzy. She has at most nine hours left—and she’s a very slow reader. “Consider this gift left behind by someone else my gift to you. Thanks for being my Last Friend.”

  The woman across looks up. Her eyes widen. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just really happy to hear you’re Last Friends. I’m happy you found someone on your End Day.” She gestures to Gabriella. “And that you’re helping make days full. It’s beautiful.”

  Gabriella wraps an arm around Zoe’s shoulders and pulls her close. The two thank the woman.

  Of course Zoe meets the most welcoming New Yorkers on her End Day.

  “Let’s open it together,” Gabriella says, returning their attention to the book.

  “Deal,” Zoe says.

  Zoe hopes Gabriella continues befriending Deckers when she can.

  Life isn’t meant to be lived alone. Neither are End Days.

  MATEO

  3:18 p.m.

  Seeing Lidia will be a huge risk, but it’s one I want to take.

  The bus pulls up and we allow everyone else to get on first before boarding. I ask the bus driver if he received the alert today and he shakes his head. This ride should be safe. We can still die on the bus, yeah, but the odds of the bus being completely totaled and killing us while leaving everyone else severely injured seem pretty low.

  I borrow Rufus’s phone so I can call Lidia. My phone’s battery is dying, down close to thirty percent, and I want to make sure the hospital can reach me in case my dad wakes up. I move to a different seat near the back of the bus and dial Lidia’s number.

  Lidia picks up almost instantly, but there’s still this pause before she answers, a lot like in the weeks after Christian died. “Hello?’

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Mateo!”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You blocked my number! I taught you how to do that!”

  “I had to—”

  “How could you not tell me?”

  “I—”

  “Mateo, I’m your fucking best fucking friend—Penny, don’t listen to Mommy—and you don’t fucking tell me you’re dying?”

  “I didn’t want—”

  “Shut up. Are you okay? How are you doing?”

  I’ve always thought Lidia is like a coin being flipped in the air. Tails is when she’s so pissed it’s like she’s turning her back on you and heads is when she sees you at her clearest. I think we’ve landed on heads, but who knows.

  “I’m okay, Lidia. I’m with a friend. A new friend,” I say.

  “Who is this? How’d you meet her?”

  “The Last Friend app,” I say. “His name is Rufus. He’s a Decker too.”

  “I want to see you.”

  “Me too. That’s why I’m calling. Any chance you could drop off Penny somewhere and meet me at the Travel Arena?”

  “Abuelita is already here. I called her—freaking the fuck out—hours ago and she came home from work. I’ll go to the arena, right now, but please get there safely. Don’t run. Walk slowly, except when you’re crossing the street. Only cross when it’s your light and only when there isn’t a car in sight, even if they’re stopped at a red light, or parked along the sidewalk. Actually, do not move. Where are you right now? I’m coming for you. Do not move unless someone around you looks shady.”

  “I’m on a bus with Rufus already,” I say.

  “Two Deckers on one bus? Do you have a death wish? Mateo, those odds are insane. That thing could topple over.”

  My face burns a little. “I don’t have a death wish,” I quietly say.

  “I’m sorry. I’m shutting up. Please be careful. I have to see you one la— I have to see you, okay?”

  “You’ll see me and I’ll see you. I promise.”

  “I don’t want to hang up,” she says.

  “Me either.”

  We don’t hang up. We could, and should, probably use this time to talk about memories or find things to apologize for in case I can’t keep my promise, but nope, we talk about how Penny just hit herself on th
e head with a big toy and isn’t crying, like the little soldier she is. A new memory to laugh over is just as good as reflecting on an old one, I think. It may even be better. I don’t want to kill Rufus’s phone battery in case the Plutos reach out, so Lidia and I agree to hang up at the same time. Pressing End kills my mood and the world feels heavier again.

  PECK

  3:21 p.m.

  Peck is getting the gang back together.

  The gang with no name.

  Peck got his nickname because there’s no power behind his punches. More annoying than harmful, like a bird pecking on you. If you want someone laid out, sic the Knockout King on them. Peck is good with stomping someone out if the occasion calls for it, but Damien and Kendrick don’t keep him around because he’s an extra body. Peck’s access to an end-all weapon makes him valuable.

  He walks toward his closet, feeling Damien’s and Kendrick’s eyes on his back. From here on it’s like a Russian nesting doll, designed that way by Peck. He opens the closet, wondering if he has it in him. He opens the hamper, wondering if he’s okay never seeing Aimee again, knowing she’ll never forgive him if she ever finds out he’s responsible. He opens the last box, a shoebox, knowing he’s got to respect himself for once.

  Peck will gain respect by unloading this gun into the one who disrespected him.

  “What we do now?” Damien asks.

  Peck opens up Instagram, goes on Rufus’s profile, and is pissed to find more comments from Aimee saying how much she misses him. He keeps refreshing the account, over and over.

  “We wait.”

  MATEO

  3:26 p.m.

  The rain turns to drizzle when the bus stops outside the World Travel Arena at Thirtieth and Twelfth. I step off the bus first and behind me there’s a squeak and “FUCK!” I turn in time to grab onto the steps’ railing so Rufus doesn’t fall face-first out of the bus and take me with him. He’s a little muscular, so the weight hurts my shoulders, but Rufus helps situate us both.