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 no 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.