Interests: Music; Wandering
Favorite Movies / TV Shows / Books: Timberwolves by Gabriel Reeds; “Plaid Is the New Black”; the Scorpius Hawthorne series
Who You Were in Life: I’m an only child and I’ve only ever really had my dad. But my dad has been in a coma for two weeks and will probably wake up after I’m gone. I want to make him proud and break out. I can’t go on being the kid who keeps his head low, because all that did was rob me of being out there with you all—maybe I could’ve met some of you sooner.
Bucket List: I want to go to the hospital and say goodbye to my dad. And then my best friend, but I don’t want to tell her I’m dying. After that, I don’t know. I want to make a difference for others and find a different Mateo while I’m at it.
Final Thoughts: I’m going for it.
I submit my answers. The app prompts me to upload a photo. I scroll through my phone’s album and there are a lot of photos of Penny and screenshots of songs I’d recommend to Lidia. There are others of me out in the living room with Dad. There’s my junior year photo, which is lame. I stumble on one I took of myself wearing the Luigi hat I won in June for entering this Mario Kart contest online. I was supposed to send the contest host my picture to be featured on the website, but I didn’t think the boy-goofing-around-in-the-Luigi-hat was very me so I never submitted it.
But I was wrong, go figure. This is exactly the person I always wanted to be—loose, fun, carefree. No one will look at this photo and think it was out of character, because none of these people know me, and their only expectations of me are to be the person I’m presenting myself as in my profile.
I upload the photo and a final message pops up: Be well, Mateo.
RUFUS
1:59 a.m.
My foster parents are waiting downstairs. They tried rushing in here the second they found out, but Malcolm played bodyguard because he knew I still needed a minute. I change into my cycling gear—my gym tights with blue basketball shorts over them so my package isn’t poking out there like Spider-Man’s, and my favorite gray fleece—because there’s no other way I can imagine getting around this city on my End Day except on my bike. I grab my helmet because safety first. I take one last look at the room. I don’t break down or nothing like that, seriously, even as I remember playing catch with my boys. I leave the light on as I step out and keep the door open so Malcolm and Tagoe don’t get weird about going back in.
Malcolm gives me a little smile. His playing-it-cool game is weak ’cause I know he’s been losing his head, they all are. I would too if the cards were reversed.
“You actually got Francis awake?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
It’s possible I’m gonna die at the hands of my foster father; if you’re not his alarm clock, you shouldn’t wake him up.
I follow Malcolm downstairs. Tagoe, Jenn Lori, and Francis are there, but they don’t say anything. The first thing I wanna ask is if anyone has heard from Aimee, like if her aunt is holding her up, but that’s not right.
I really hope she didn’t change her mind about wanting to see me.
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.