Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

“What’s going on?” I ask over the chorus of tiny tree frogs—it’s unclear if they’re actually here or just recordings—and the sounds of wildlife are so jarring, since I’m only used to sirens and cars honking, that hearing the people talking by the rum cart comforts me.

“We talked about how you wanted to do something exhilarating if you ever had the chance to travel, right?” Rufus says. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for something on this tour, and look.” He points at the sign by a tunnel: Rainforest Jump! “I don’t know what it means, but it’s gotta be better than that fake skydive earlier.”

“You went skydiving?!” Lidia asks. Her tone is both are-you-crazy and I’m-super-jealous. She’s possessive in the most nurturing, big-sister way possible.

The three of us walk along the beige tiles, sprinklings of actual sand around, to the tunnel. An arena employee hands us a brochure for the El Yunque Rainforest Room and offers us an audio tour, while admitting we’ll miss out on some of the more natural music of the area if we do. We pass on the headphones and walk through the tunnel, where the air is moist and warm.

The crowding trees withstand the drizzle as an artificial sunlight filters through the thick leaves. We walk around the twisting trunks, going off the beaten path toward the trilling croaks of more tree frogs. Dad told me stories about how when he was my age he’d race up the trees with his friends, catch frogs and sell them to other kids who wanted pets, and sometimes just sit with his thoughts. The deeper we go, the more the frog song is replaced by the sounds of people and a waterfall. I mistake the latter for a recording until we pass through a clearing and I find water spilling off a twenty-foot-high cliff into a pool with shirtless Deckers and lifeguards. This must be the advertised rainforest jump. Don’t know why I thought it was going to be something lamer, like jumping from rock to rock on even ground.

I’ve seen so much already that the idea of leaving this arena is sharper than that of this day ending, like being ripped out of a dream you’ve waited your entire life to have. But I’m not dreaming. I’m awake, and I’m going for it.

“My daughter hates the rain,” Lidia tells Rufus. “She hates anything she can’t control.”

“She’ll come around,” I say.

We walk toward the edge of the cliff where Deckers are jumping. A petite girl with a blue wristband, a headscarf, and floaties does something dangerous at the very last second—she turns around and falls backward, like someone pushed off a building. A lifeguard below whistles and the others swim to the center where she’s splashed through. She returns to the surface, laughing, and it looks like the lifeguards are scolding her, but she doesn’t care. How could anyone on a day like today?

4:24 p.m.

For all the mouth I ran about being brave, I’m not sure about this jump. I haven’t set foot onto a beach or gone inside a community pool since my family died. The closest I’ve come to big bodies of water like this before today was when Aimee was fishing in the East River, and that led to a nightmare of me fishing for my family’s car in the Hudson River, reeling up their skeletons in the clothes they died in, reminding me how I abandoned them .

“You’re all good to go here, Mateo. Gonna have to veto this for myself.”

“You should skip this too,” Lidia tells him. “I know I have no real say here, but veto, veto, veto, veto.”

Mad props to Mateo for getting in line anyway; I want this for him. There aren’t any more croaking frogs, so I know he heard me. This kid has changed. I know you’re paying attention, but look at him—he’s in line to leap off a cliff and I bet you anything he can’t even swim. He turns and waves us over, like he’s inviting us to a line for a roller coaster.

“Come on,” Mateo says, eyeing me. “Or we can go back to Make-A-Moment and swim around one of their pools if you want. I honestly think you’ll feel better about everything if you get back in the water. . . . Me coaching you through something is weird, right?”

“It’s a little ass-backward, yeah,” I say.

“I’ll make it short. We don’t need those Make-A-Moment stations and their virtual realities. We can make our own moment right here.”

“In this artificial rainforest?” I smile back.

“I made no claims to this place being real.”

The arena attendant tells Mateo he’s next.

“Is it cool if my friends and I jump together?” Mateo asks.

“Absolutely,” she responds.

“I’m not going!” Lidia says.

“Yes you are,” Mateo says. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“I should push you off the cliff,” I tell Mateo. “But I won’t because you’re right.” I can take on my fear, especially in a controlled environment like this with lifeguards and arm floaties.

No one planned for a swim, so we strip down to our underwear and yo, I had no idea how damn skinny Mateo is. He avoids looking my way—which I find funny—unlike Lidia, in nothing but her bra and jeans, who’s looking me up and down.

They attendants give us our gear—I’m calling the floaties “gear” because it sounds less cute—and we slip it on. The attendant tells us to jump when we’re comfortable, which shouldn’t be too long since a line is forming behind us.

“Count of three?” Mateo asks.

“Yeah.”

“One. Two . . .”

I grab Mateo’s hand and lock my fingers in his. He turns to me with flushed cheeks and grabs Lidia’s hand.

“Three.”

We all look ahead and below, and we jump. I feel like I’m falling through the air faster, dragging Mateo with me. Mateo shouts, and in the few seconds I have left before hitting the water I shout too, and Lidia cheers. I hit the water, Mateo still beside me, and we’re underwater for only a few seconds, but I open my eyes and see him there. He’s not panicking, and it reminds me of how settled my parents looked after they set me up for freedom. Lidia has disconnected; she’s already out of sight. Mateo and I float back to the top with our hands still locked, lifeguards flanking us. I move toward Mateo, laughing, and I hug him for this freedom he’s forced onto me. It’s like I’ve been baptized or some shit, ditching more anger and sadness and blame and frustration beneath the surface, where they can sink to who-cares-where.

The waterfall pummels the water around us, and a lifeguard ushers us to the hill.

An attendant at the bottom of the hill offers us towels and Mateo wraps his around his shoulders, shivering. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Not bad,” I say.

We don’t bring up the hand-holding or anything like that, but hopefully he gets where I’m coming from now in case he had any doubts. We head on up to the top of the hill, drying ourselves with towels, and retrieve our clothes and get dressed. We exit through the gift shop, where I catch Mateo singing along with the song on the radio.

I corner Mateo as he picks up one of the “Farewell!” cards offered here. “You made me jump and now it’s your turn.”

“I jumped with you.”

“Not what I’m talking about. Come with me to this underground dance club place. Deckers go there to dance and sing and chill. You down?”

4:32 p.m.

Death-Cast did not call Ariel Andrade because he isn’t dying today, but since he’s an officer of the law, getting the call is his greatest fear every night when the clock strikes midnight. Especially since losing his partner two months ago. He and Graham could’ve been a buddy-cop movie, the way they handled business and traded dad jokes over beers.