Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

I switch to another feed. Username: WebMavenMarc. Marc is a former social media manager for a soda company, which he’s mentioned twice in his profile, and he isn’t sure if his daughter will reach him in time. It’s almost as if this Decker is right in front of me, snapping his fingers in my face.

I have to visit Dad, even if he’s unconscious. He has to know I made my way to him before I died.

I put down my laptop, ignoring the chimes from the couple accounts I’ve pinned, and go straight to Dad’s bedroom. His bed was unmade the morning he left for work, but I’ve made it for him since then, making sure to tuck the comforter completely under the pillows, as he prefers it. I sit on his side of the bed—the right side, since my mother apparently always favored the left, and even with her gone he still lives his life in two sides, never writing her out—and I pick up the framed photo of Dad helping me blow out the candles of my Toy Story cake on my sixth birthday. Well, Dad did all the work. I was laughing at him. He says the gleeful look on my face is why he keeps this picture so close.

I know it’s sort of strange, but Dad is just as much my best friend as Lidia is. I could never admit that out loud without someone making fun of me, I’m sure, but we’ve always had a great relationship. Not perfect, but I’m sure every two people out there—in my school, in this city, on the other side of the world—struggle with dumb and important things, and the closest pairs just find a way to get over them. Dad and I would never have one of those relationships where we had a falling-out and never talked to each other again, not like these Deckers on some CountDowners feeds who hate their fathers so much they either never visited them on their deathbeds or refused to make amends before they themselves died. I slip the photo out of the frame, fold it, and put it in my pocket—the creases won’t bother Dad, I don’t think—and get up to go to the hospital and say my goodbye and make sure this photo is by his side when he finally wakes up. I want to make sure he quickly finds some peace, like it’s an ordinary morning, before someone tells him I’m gone.

I leave his room, pumped to go out and do this, when I see the stack of dishes in the sink. I should clean those up so Dad doesn’t come home to dirty plates and mugs with impossible stains from all the hot chocolate I’ve been drinking.

I swear this isn’t an excuse to not go outside.

Seriously.

1:41 a.m.

We used to beast through the streets on our bikes like we were racing without brakes, but not tonight. We look both ways constantly and stop for red lights, like now, even when the street is clear of cars. We’re on the block with that Decker-friendly club, Clint’s Graveyard. There’s a crowd forming of twentysomething-year-olds and the line is straight chaos, which has gotta be keeping the paychecks coming for the bouncers dealing with all these Deckers and their friends trying to get crazy on the dance floor one last time before their time is up.

This brunette girl, mad pretty, is bawling when a guy advances on her with some tired-ass pickup line (“Maybe you’ll live to see another day with some Vitamin Me in your system.”), and her friend swings her purse at him until he backs up. Poor girl can’t even get a break from assholes hitting on her when she’s grieving herself.

It’s a green light and we ride on, finally reaching Pluto minutes later. The foster home is a jacked-up duplex with the face of a battered building—bricks missing, indecipherable and colorful graffiti. There are bars on the ground floor windows, not because we’re criminals or anything like that, but so no one busts in and steals from a bunch of kids who’ve already lost enough. We leave our bikes down at the bottom of the steps, racing up to the door and letting ourselves in. We go down the hall, not bothering to tiptoe across the tacky, chessboard-like tiled floor into the living room, and even though there’s a bulletin board with information about sex, getting tested for HIV, abortion and adoption clinics, and other sheets of that nature, this place still feels like a home and not some institution.

There’s the fireplace that doesn’t work but still looks dope. The warm orange paint covering the walls, which had me ready for fall this summer. The oak table we’d gather around to play Cards Against Humanity and Taboo on weeknights after dinner. The TV where I’d watch this reality show Hipster House with Tagoe, even though Aimee hated all those hipsters so much she wished I watched cartoon porn instead. The couch where we’d take turns napping since it’s more comfortable than our beds.

We go up to the second floor, where our bedroom is, this tight spot that wouldn’t really be all that comfortable for one person, let alone three, but we make it work. There’s a window we keep open on the nights Tagoe eats beans, even if it’s mad loud outside.

“I gotta say it,” Tagoe says, closing the door behind us. “You’ve come really far. Think about all you’ve done since coming here.”

“There’s so much more I could be doing.” I sit on my bed and throw my head back on my pillow. “It’s mad pressure to do all my living in one day.” Might not even be a full day. I’ll be lucky to get twelve hours.

“No one’s expecting you to cure cancer or save endangered pandas,” Malcolm says.

“Yo, Death-Cast is lucky they can’t predict when an animal is gonna die,” Tagoe says, and I suck my teeth and shake my head because he’s speaking up for pandas when his best friend is dying. “What, it’s true! You would be the most hated dude on the planet if you called up the last panda ever. Imagine the media, there’d be selfies and—”

“We get it,” I interrupt. I’m not a panda so the media doesn’t give a shit about me. “You guys gotta do me the biggest favor. Wake up Jenn Lori and Francis. Tell them I wanna have a funeral before heading out.” Francis never really took a liking to me, but I got a home out of this arrangement and that’s more than others get.

“You should stay here,” Malcolm says. He opens up the only closet. “Maybe we can beat this. You can be the exception! We can lock you in here.”

“I’ll suffocate or the shelf with your heavy-ass clothes will collapse on my head.” He should know better than to believe in exceptions and shit like that. I sit up. “I don’t have a lot of time, guys.” I shake a little, but I get it together. I can’t let them see me freaking.

Tagoe twitches. “You gonna be okay by yourself?”

It takes a few seconds before I get what he’s really asking me. “I’m not offing myself,” I say.

I’m not trying to die.

They leave me alone in the room with laundry I’ll never have to worry about washing and summer course work I’ll never have to finish—or start. Bunched up in the corner of my bed is Aimee’s blanket, this yellow thing with a pattern of colorful cranes, which I wrap around my shoulders. It belonged to Aimee as a kid, a relic from her mother’s childhood. We started dating when she was still here at Pluto, and we’d rest underneath the blanket together and use it for the occasional living room picnic. Those were mad chill times. She didn’t ask for the blanket back after we broke up, which I think was her way of keeping me around, even when she wanted distance. Like I still have a chance with her.

This room couldn’t be more different from the bedroom I grew up in—beige walls instead of green; two extra beds, and roommates; half the size; no weights or video game posters—but it still feels like home, and it showed me how people matter more than stuff. Malcolm learned that lesson after firefighters put out the flames that burned his house, parents, and favorite things.