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.
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.”