Paz
12:50 a.m.
Two hours until I get to die by my hand or Alano’s.
I honor my promise by telling Alano about my shitty life.
Recapping Alano on my heartbreaks and hardships feels like I’m back in therapy except instead of being in an office I’m going
downhill on a mountain with a loaded gun in my backpack. Alano is a great listener, he’s definitely acknowledging how much
shit sucks as I go on about how unwelcomed I’ve felt in life these past ten years, and after sharing everything about the
painful rejection from Orion’s producers, Alano straight up stops in his tracks.
“But they loved your work!” Alano says.
“Not enough to give me a shot.”
“I would’ve cast you,” he says, carrying on as we finally clear the mountain’s wilderness and reach the trail that will return
us to the street.
“You didn’t see my audition.”
“But I’ve seen you act. I used to be a big fan of the Scorpius Hawthorne movies. I was actually watching the last one on the
first End Day.” Alano looks over his shoulder and grins. “Fate?”
“It’s not fate for a nine-year-old to watch a Scorpius Hawthorne movie.”
“Maybe not, but I did think you were great in it.”
“All three minutes of it?”
“Three minutes where you’re running around the Milagro Castle and casting magic.”
That scene took all day to film, and the magic got edited in later. “I guess.”
I used to have Alano’s attitude about filming the movie. There was this childlike wonder where the Milagro Castle didn’t feel
like a set and my wand wasn’t a prop. I was chosen out of three thousand kids to become young Larkin Cano, even if it was
just for a day. That day felt fucking magical, but now I’m just fucking powerless.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get that other role,” Alano says once we hop the gate.
“It’s fine,” I say, shrugging it off.
Alano stops right under a streetlamp and gets in my face. Sweat is sliding toward his right eye, the green one. “Our time
together might be limited so you can’t dismiss your feelings. Tell me how it actually makes you feel.”
“Okay,” I say, thinking we’ll keep walking and talking, but Alano stands here, waiting. “If there was ever a movie I felt
destined or fated or whatever to star in, it was that one, but it’s not, and I can’t believe I was so stupid to think my comeback
story would be one written by the guy who lost his boyfriend because of my dad. Now I’m just fucking hopeless.” I catch my
breath. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want you feeling this way, but I’m glad you’re being honest about it.” Alano continues down the street toward the lone car that’s parked outside an apartment building. “Knowing you won’t be in the movie makes me happy I never read the book. I’ll ignore them both out of solidarity.”
“No, it’s fine, I’m sure they’ll cast someone great.”
Alano stops outside the driver’s door of his car. He raises his eyebrow.
“The movie won’t be as good without me,” I say, telling my truth.
“There’s a lot more than a movie that won’t be as good without you.”
I don’t say anything. I just feel something—something good —that I don’t deserve to feel.
Alano gets into his car and pushes open the passenger’s door when I don’t let myself in. It’s been a couple months since I’ve
gotten into a stranger’s car, something I was raised to believe was End Day behavior, but I was doing it anyway because it
made me feel alive on my Not-End Days. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears when I got into the car of the man who sold me
the gun. I get into Alano’s car now, knowing this won’t be as risky. He drives a white BMW that’s black on the inside. It’s
so damn luxurious, unlike my family’s shitty Toyota Camry. There’s that faint new-car smell in here. Our Toyota reeked of
cigarette smoke covered up in air freshener, which is how Mom and Rolando were able to get it at a good deal.
“Seat belt, please,” Alano says. I glare. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
“Until it’s time to watch me die.”
“Until then.”
I put on my fucking seat belt.
This car has got everything from tinted windows to seat warmers to cameras to subwoofer speakers, but it has zero character
and tells me nothing about Alano. Say what you want about our busted Toyota, but there’s no denying we’ve made it ours: hanging
from our rearview mirror is a wooden ornament of the coquí—a frog that’s super loved in Puerto Rico—a seat cushion on the
driver’s seat because Rolando kept complaining that his ass hurt, and we used to have an Oscar statue bobblehead that my mom
bought to inspire me, but I asked her to take it down, and she replaced it with a President Page bobblehead. See? Character.
“You should vibe-up your car,” I say. “Get an air freshener or plush dice for your rearview mirror. Just something.”
Alano switches on the ignition, the engine running smoother than our car. “Apart from it being illegal in California because
it can obstruct your view when driving, my family’s security has always prevented it. They don’t want our cars easily identifiable.
I originally wanted a red car for my eighteenth birthday, but my parents bought a white one because most cars are white, so
I have a better chance of blending in if I’m being pursued. I got over it. I only drive this car when we’re in Los Angeles
anyway.”
I don’t envy the security threats Alano faces, but I do envy his gifts. For my eighteenth birthday Rolando got me a monogrammed wallet for all the money I don’t have and Mom gave me a new camera and ring light for all the self-tape auditions that go nowhere. I try not to think about how much Alano’s car costs to just sit in some garage while my family has a shitty car that could break down any day now when Mom needs it for work—and her new baby.
It’s still wild that Mom is pregnant. I’m trying to not wonder about that too much, like if the baby will take after Mom’s
looks this time since I took after Dad. If Mom will honor my loss by using my name for the baby’s middle name or something.
And if she’ll add more character to the car with a BABY ON BOARD sign.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t realize Alano is already driving. “Wait, we never figured out where we’re going,” I say.
If I were along for the ride with any other stranger, I would probably be concerned that I’m about to get murdered, but it’s
not time for Alano to kill me yet.
“I just want to get you far away from the Hollywood Sign before you can become the next Peg Entwistle,” Alano says, putting
the mountain in the rearview mirror.
“The next who?”
He bites his bottom lip. “Oh. I figured you knew who she was. Never mind.”
“Who is she?”
“It’s probably better if we don’t talk about her.”
“Fine, I’ll just look her up,” I say, grabbing my phone.
“Don’t...” Alano sighs.
“Who is she?” I ask one last time.
“The Hollywood Sign Girl. Peg Entwistle. She was this successful Broadway actress who moved to Los Angeles in 1932 to try to transition from stage to screen. She didn’t have any real luck. She waited around all summer for an opportunity, but the phone never rang. Then she gave up in September. She climbed the Hollywood Sign and jumped to her death.”
That story feels made up, I’m tempted to google it anyway, but why would Alano lie about this? If anything, I see why he thought
I knew about Peg Entwistle already. I’ve also dreamt about becoming a Hollywood star. I’ve also waited around for calls that
never came (in more ways than one). And most chillingly, I was about to meet her same fate. I can imagine the headline if
I died: “ Dario, the Hollywood Sign Boy.”
“How old was she?” I ask. If he says nineteen, I’m going back to that Hollywood Sign and jumping because that would actually
be fate written in the stars.
“Twenty-four.”
That doesn’t make me wanna live anymore. “See, it doesn’t get better. I don’t have five more years in me.”
We stop at a red light. This is my chance to break my promise.
“I’m not asking for five years. I’m asking for two hours,” Alano says.
“Like that’s gonna change anything.”
“Living through one more day could be what changes everything,” Alano says.
The red traffic light glowing on his face switches to green, but he doesn’t drive. There are no cars ahead blocking us or
any behind honking. I don’t know if Alano would care if there were.
“There’s a Hollywood legend that the day after Peg Entwistle killed herself, a letter arrived in the mail offering her the lead role in a movie about a woman driven to suicide. There’s no evidence, but it could be true. We’ll never know.”
“So what, Orion is gonna call tomorrow and tell me the producers had a change of heart?”
“Only one way to find out,” Alano says. He drives forward.
This Hollywood legend sounds like some bullshit Alano has made up to keep me alive, but I look it up on my phone, and it’s
true, everything else about Peg Entwistle too, down to the timeline.
“How do you know all of this?” I ask.
“I like learning about the world. I watch a ton of documentaries, but I mostly read. Usually a book or two a week.”
“Then why haven’t you read Golden Heart , is it too long or something?”
“No, I’m a really fast reader. I’m just more into nonfiction. But maybe you and I can have our own Golden Heart book club?”
I get what he’s hinting at. “Yeah, I’m game. Let’s see if you’re a fast enough reader to read a nine-hundred-page book before
I die in two hours.”
“If that’s how you want to spend our time together, I would honor it. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get to
know you through your favorite book.”
I’m seriously considering my hallucination theory about borderline personality disorder again because there’s no way someone like this actually exists in the world. There’s a real chance I’m still up on that Hollywood Sign, imagining all of this.
“Is that how you want to spend our time together?” Alano asks after I don’t answer him.
If I was trying to live, maybe I’d start a book club with Alano, but I’m not. “No, I just... I’ve spent more time thinking
about how to die than what I would do before dying.”
“Then how should we start this possible End Day of yours?” Alano lifts a finger, silencing me before I can answer. “You can’t
suggest anything that will ensure it definitely becomes your End Day.”
“Damn.”
I’ve always thought about performing, but I did that for my dream role, and it got me nowhere. And I hung out with my mom
and stepdad. That’s all I got. I try drawing inspiration from what my Last Friends did on their End Days. I’m not religious,
so I’m not going to church or any other houses of worship like when I accompanied my first Last Friend, Amos, to his childhood
synagogue. I had a lot of fun with my third Last Friend, Darwin, at this 8-bit arcade in Hollywood where we got priority playing
because of his End-D8te-bit pass, but I’m not in the mood for video games.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I have an idea. Do you want to know or be surprised?”
“I don’t care.”
Alano types in a location on his car’s touchscreen. When he looks at the rearview mirror, I secretly hope he’ll do a U-turn and take me back to the Hollywood Sign, but he keeps driving straight.
I’m spiraling again about Peg Entwistle and read about her on my phone to find more parallels between us that will keep my
eye on the prize. That’s when I see a transcript of her suicide note:
I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain.
P.E.
I’ve lived so long feeling dead inside, but never when someone is speaking about their struggles with life. I’m fighting back
tears after reading Peg’s note, confident that no matter what Alano has got planned for us, I will trust Peg’s pain and save
myself from my own.
1:14 a.m.
Yeah, Alano is out of his goddamn mind if he thinks bringing me to Hollywood Boulevard is gonna save me. “I know we’re strangers,
but you should know me better than this.”
Alano parks the car. “Hear me out.”
“Why would I come to Hollywood on my End Day?”
“To be fair, I met you on top of the Hollywood Sign.”
“To kill myself! Did you bring me here to kill myself?”
“No. I brought you here for inspiration.”
“Okay, cool, I’ll look out for a different way to kill myself.”
Alano gestures to take a deep breath with him. I don’t. His exhale is loud, frustrated. “Maybe it was stupid to bring you here, but your pain runs really deep, and I don’t want to waste time dancing around it. I’m reading this psychology book What to Know About Those Dying Inside . In the first chapter, Dr. Glasgow shares this beautiful visual about treating negative thoughts as weeds that need to be
raked from the ground and planting positive seeds in their place. There are always going to be weeds in your garden as long
as the root remains, but you can grow and nurture flowers too.” He takes another breath, this one for himself, breathing it
out more evenly. “I’m not trying to dig you a deeper grave, . I’m trying to give you a helping hand out of yours.”
I look out the tinted windows, imagining Hollywood Boulevard as my wasteland of weeds, dead flowers, browned plants like the
one in my bedroom. Trying to turn that into a garden feels exhausting, like I could spend the rest of my life yanking weeds,
sweating and sunburnt and straight-up sad, and still never salvage this field. But Alano isn’t asking me to do a lifetime
of cleaning up. He’s just hyping me up to make space for one fucking flower.
I unbuckle my seat belt and step out onto the curb—out into Hollywood.
Alano is cautiously smiling as he joins me. “We’re doing this?”
“What exactly are we doing?”
“The more light you give a closed flower, the faster it opens.”
I glare at him. “I will walk back into that car.”
Alano laughs. “I’d like to know more about you and your acting journey.”
“For someone who doesn’t wanna waste time, you should’ve just said that.”
He laughs again. I’m not even trying to be funny, I’m just keeping it real.
I can’t believe Alano is putting up with me. How hard he’s working to not have to honor his promise. I gotta get it together
and do my part in this arrangement, even if my opening up is just a performance. That’s why I crafted Happy in the first
place.
“I moved here last summer. We thought it would be a fresh start,” I say, light and airy, like I’m already potting plants in
my garden, but really those weeds are scratching and squeezing my heart. “But Grim Missed Calls ruined my life again.”
“I’m sorry,” Alano says.
I can’t accept his apology—it’s not his fault, it’s his dad’s if anyone’s. “I’m sure that show sucked for your family too.”
Alano is quiet. I’m sure he’s about to give me nothing, like his family affairs are too private or something, but he opens
up. “My father wasn’t concerned about people turning on Death-Cast. The company has had a clean record since the first End
Day. Still, he met with the filmmakers in the hopes of shutting down the project to protect the families whose wounds would
be unnecessarily reopened.” At the crosswalk, I see the guilt on Alano’s face. “Families like yours.”
“My mom and stepdad hoped my episode would remind the world I was innocent. It just put a bad spotlight on me again, like I was a risk. No manager or agent wanted to rep me. Acting studios rejected me. I was desperate to act in something to prove that no one would actually care if I was attached to something. I sent in self-tapes for anything. Student films, commercials, even a Sharknado sequel.”
Alano cringes. “Yikes. Do you really want a Sharknado movie on your IMDb page?”
“I don’t want my last credit to be myself in a documentary about how I killed my dad.”
The deeper we walk into Hollywood, the harder it is to be here. I haven’t been in this area since last year, though I almost
got dragged here recently by a Last Friend, Marina, to Madame Tussauds of all fucking places before she changed her mind.
Whenever my family has to drive through here I close my eyes. It hurts too much seeing all the billboards and theaters and
stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
We cross the street, and to our left, between Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea, is the Four Ladies of Hollywood sculpture,
which I visited with Mom and Rolando when we first moved here. I tell Alano all about how we started our Hollywood Walk of
Fame tour there because Mom wanted to see the bronze statue of Marilyn Monroe on the spire of the sculpture’s gazebo and Rolando
wanted a picture with Elvis Presley’s star. That picture was the first of a hundred because Mom and Rolando kept freaking
out whenever they saw stars for their favorite actors and actresses, as if they were there in flesh and not just names inscribed
into brass.
“I dreamt about how amazing it would be to have my own star,” I say, resisting the jealous urge to stomp on the stars of others. “Not even for me, but for my mom. She would be so damn proud, probably camp out on the streets to tell anyone passing by that the star they stepped on belongs to her son.” I’ve struggled with how much I’ve lived because that’s what my mom wants, but there are also times where I’ve lived because I wanna make my mom proud. “I’ll never get a star.”
Alano stops, pointing at a star with no name. “How about this one?”
“That’s a placeholder for someone else.”
“You could be that someone else, !”
“Yeah, I don’t think a committee is gonna throw a star my way for one scene as Larkin Cano when they still haven’t even given
Howie Maldonado a posthumous star for playing him in eight movies.”
“Not for Scorpius Hawthorne—not just that, at least. For the body of work you’ll create,” Alano says. I start protesting because he’s not understanding me, but he asks to hear him out, and I do this time instead of fighting. “You’re right that you just need someone to give you a chance and then you can prove everyone wrong. Look at Robert Downey Jr. He was arrested for possession of cocaine, heroin, and an unloaded .357-caliber Magnum. Do people talk about that or the fact that he’s Iron Man? How about Tim Allen? I grew up knowing him as Buzz Lightyear, not a drug trafficker. Don’t get me started on Hugh Thompson running for vice president when he has cried Death-Cast multiple times, even though he’s never been registered for the service. You’re always going to see the shadow of the first End Day, but I believe with time you’ll make everyone remember you for who you actually are.”
I wonder if Alano is still planning on taking over Death-Cast, but if not he would make a great life coach, maybe even a therapist.
He reminds me of my sessions with Raquel, where she’s really encouraging me to keep pushing through, but it’s even more meaningful
coming from Alano because he’s this stranger who isn’t being paid to talk out my shitty life with me. It also isn’t costing
my mom for once. If anything, it’s buying her more time with me.
“Okay, but Hugh Thompson isn’t some Hollywood star. He also doesn’t have one.”
“You’re right. I actually don’t know if the others have stars either,” Alano says sheepishly.
“Sounds like you should read up on that instead of spreading misinformation like Hugh.”
Alano’s sharp jaw drops. “Look it up on your phone.”
“Look it up on yours.”
“Mine is currently off so my parents and bodyguard can’t track me.”
I’m not risking him getting pulled away before it’s time to die, so I google the actors. “Okay, so Tim Allen has a star, but
Robert Downey Jr. doesn’t.”
“That feels as criminal as you not having one,” he says.
“Nope, don’t try to suck up, you’re not getting my write-in vote.”
“I’m just happy you’ll be alive this fall to not vote for me,” Alano says, his green eye winking.
I throw a smile his way, like I’ve practiced a million times as Happy , but part of it feels real too, and I really hate
that part because it’s hope, and hope is as dangerous as a nine-year-old with a gun. I remind myself that Alano believes the
real stars above predict fate, that they tell stories. But Alano is giving me abridged versions that leave out the messy parts.
Like how Robert Downey Jr. was in his forties when he became Iron Man, and I don’t even have twenty more hours in me, let
alone twenty years. Or how Hugh Thompson could build a political career lying about Death-Cast being wrong because of Death-Cast’s
real historic error. That’s the unabridged truth.
I keep walking on the stars knowing I’ll never get my own.
We approach El Capitan, one of Hollywood’s premier theaters that has a dazzling marquee promoting Black Widow , which came out last month after a slight delay caused by the coronavirus scare. I saw videos online of Scarlett Johansson
and Florence Pugh surprising moviegoers here at opening night. It made me jealous of everyone—how easy it was for the actors
to move in and out of a theater to applause, how lucky the attendees were that an ordinary viewing experience became extraordinary,
a gift for being here in Hollywood.
But nothing hurts more than what I missed out on twelve years ago. “The world premiere for Scorpius Hawthorne and the Immortal Deathlings was held here,” I say.
“Wow,” Alano says, taking in the theater like it’s some fun fact. “Did you have a good time?”
“I didn’t go. The studio invited us, but my role was too small for them to fly us out and put us up. We couldn’t afford the trip, so my mom had to pass.” This is a reminder that my life had its limits before my incident, that the only good thing that has ever happened to me was booking a movie that I couldn’t celebrate with all the other actors.
“That sucks. Did you get to see the movie in theaters?”
“I did....” I pause, feeling some flowers bloom in my mental wasteland. “My mom felt bad that we couldn’t go to the premiere,
so she planned one for me opening weekend. She invited my entire class. I don’t remember a lot, just that we all went to a
Saturday morning screening dressed up in wizard robes with clip-on ties to make it fancy. Oh, and my mom brought gift wrap
from the ninety-nine-cent store and rolled it out in front of the theater like a red carpet.” I stand under El Capitan’s marquee,
no longer feeling as bad about missing the movie premiere. “Wow, I haven’t thought about that in forever. It’s so funny how
memories get lost like that, right?”
“Right.” Alano looks up at the marquee too, like he also sees that my memory is better than what I’ve imagined. “It sounds
like your mother really loves you,” he says, his gaze returning to me as we keep walking down the block. “I take it she always
supported your dream of acting?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. Even when our acting class just had us messing around, pretending we were eggs being scrambled and stupid shit like that. My dad’s the one who didn’t take me seriously until I booked the movie. He was treating me like a kid who wanted to be a knight or dinosaur. My life would be so different if my mom didn’t take me to those weekend classes, the auditions, Brazil to film, all of that. Maybe I would be happier.”
It’s a sad thought, but it’s true. I could’ve grown out of my dream the same way kids grow up and stop pretending they have
T. rex arms. I could’ve settled for any job, like a cashier or busboy, just so I could get some money. Maybe colleagues would’ve
turned into friends. Maybe friends would’ve turned into more. My life could’ve looked so different.
“It’s not your mother’s fault for helping you follow your dream, ,” Alano says gently. “She’s just doing her job. It’s
beautiful how much she believes in you.”
He must think I’m some monster who blames my mom for everything. I don’t. I never blamed Mom for not leaving Dad, no matter
how many times she apologized for it. I never blamed Mom for how poor we were, because I’ve seen her many sacrifices to make
ends meet. But there is something I do blame her for. Something that I don’t know how to say without sounding even more monstrous.
It’s not until we walk over another block’s worth of stars, past a man trying to sell us weed, and a woman getting high, that
I spit it out. “Sometimes it’s hard to live for someone who loves me so much.”
Alano is quiet, and I’m expecting him to judge me because wow, how hard my life must be to have a mom who loves me. “I understand.”
“Really?”
“It took nine years of trying and twelve miscarriages before my parents had me. They’ve never said this, but sometimes I think my mother was willing to die trying and my father was willing to let her. I never understood how they could love each other so much but be willing to let death get in the way for someone who didn’t even exist.” Alano is shaking his head, like even he thinks his own existence was not worth those risks. “My parents call me their miracle. They would probably die from heartbreak if they ever found out I was almost their tragedy.”
I stop in my tracks, right on top of another placeholder star. “Your parents don’t know you tried killing yourself?”
“No. My attempt was so impulsive. It would’ve surprised them as much as it was surprising to me. I don’t know how I would
even start talking about that with my parents after knowing everything they went through to have me. So I don’t talk about
it with anyone ever...” Alano shrugs. “Until now.”
“No one knows?”
“No one except you, .”
“Not even a therapist?”
“I’m not in therapy right now, but I like to think I would trust them with my secret.”
“Don’t worry about your secrets, they’ll die with me.”
“I’d rather my secrets live with you. Your secrets can live with me too.” Alano’s gaze is intense. I wanna look away, but
I can’t, it’s like he’s hypnotizing me to tell him everything. “You can trust me,” he says in a whisper or shout, I don’t
know, I’m so sucked into how he’s looking at me that blood is rushing to my face.
“My mom threatened to kill herself,” I spit out. It immediately feels like the fist around my heart is opening up. “It was after I tried killing myself.”
“Which time?” Alano asks.
I forgot that I told Alano about my second suicide attempt while we were still high up on the Hollywood Sign. That was one
of my secrets, one I kept from my therapist too, but he’s getting to know the real me, and there’s something comforting about
someone knowing my truth before I die.
“It was after my first attempt.”
“Overdosing on your antidepressants,” he says, not a question. Alano listens.
“After my stomach got pumped, my mom was so relieved but also so upset. Not angry-upset, she was heartbroken-upset. She’s
always been a planner—Halloween costumes, that premiere party, shit like that—but she told me that she would not plan to live
in a world without me. I’ve kept that a secret, even at home. I don’t want my stepdad knowing he’s not enough for her and
I don’t have it in me to tell my mom how unfair that was.” I’m breathing so hard, panting, like I’m out of air, and my face
is wet with sweat and tears. “I love my mom so much, Alano, but I hate life even more.”
Alano’s two-color eyes are tearing up. I can’t watch him. I just look at his T-shirt with the skeleton smoking a cigarette,
thinking about how soon enough I’ll be nothing but bones. “It sounds like your mother can’t stand the idea of living without
you, but that is a lot of weight to carry... to drag around, really. What changed tonight that you’re ready to...?”
“Let her die too? She’s not gonna kill herself anymore.”
“Why not?”
“She’s pregnant,” I say. I’m still surprised this is something that’s true and not a lie I’m telling to get my way. “I found
out today.”
Alano looks confused.
“It’s not impossible for my mom to get pregnant apparently.”
“No, I understand that. A sixty-eight-year-old woman gave birth via IVF in April, and a woman who was rumored to be somewhere
between seventy-two and seventy-five had a natural birth last October, but...” Alano closes his eyes and squeezes his hands
into fists, like he’s about to fight himself for getting carried away with this absolutely random trivia. “I know all of that , but I’m confused why you think another child could ever replace you.”
I shrug. “My mom just needs to be someone’s mother.”
“She wants to be your mother for as long as possible.”
My mom probably has another thirty years in her, maybe forty if she’s lucky, but I don’t even know what thirty years feels
like, and I never wanna find out. “I gave her nineteen years. Maybe the new kid will give her more.” I’m struck with this
thought that my little sibling will one day grow up to be older than I ever was. How they’ll be able to look after Mom and
love her so much that she’ll forget about me.
“What if she loses the baby too?” Alano asks. “There are more risks for advanced-maternal-age pregnancies—”
“Stop!” I shout, shutting my eyes and covering my ears. I’m not trying to hear the reality I’ve tried so hard not thinking
about.
Alano’s hands wrap around mine, gently pulling them away from my ears. “I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re thinking this through.”
“I don’t wanna think it through,” I say, sliding my hands out of his. “I don’t wanna think about my mom having a miscarriage
and losing both her kids, okay? She won’t be strong like your mom was, she will absolutely take her own life, and I can’t
think about that.”
I also can’t help but think about it now.
When I spent those three days in the psych ward, I was haunted by Mom’s threat. My imagination was running wild, picturing
how she would kill herself if she actually made good on her promise. At first I thought she would imitate my suicide, in this
almost sick way of wanting to be close with me in death. Then I pictured her putting herself in danger, like rolling out of
the car while speeding down the highway, or setting herself on fire. But I don’t think it would ever be that fast. I bet Mom
would stop taking care of herself—refuse to eat, only drink alcohol, leave Rolando—and eventually her body would get the point
and die. That slow, miserable death is how my life feels, and I really don’t wish that on my mom.
“Don’t you want to meet the new kid?” Alano asks, snapping me out of my spiral.
In the same way I don’t wanna live long enough to see who gets cast as Death, I’m better off not knowing more about the child replacing me. But I can’t help it. I fight back tears as I think about holding the new kid, making stupid faces so they laugh, teaching them bad words, and everything I can do to protect this kid’s life from being derailed like mine.
“I’ll never let myself die if I gotta be that kid’s big brother,” I say.
Alano slowly nods. “You’re helping me understand my parents better, . It’s really amazing how much we’re capable of loving
someone who doesn’t even exist yet. So much so that you want to die now because you know you’ll put their life over your own.”
I can’t bring myself to lie out loud or even to myself, because Alano is dead right. “I love this kid enough to not ruin their
life. They’ll be better off with me gone.”
“If that’s how you really feel, then we should make sure they know you loved them,” Alano says, dropping that cryptic cliffhanger
before we continue down the block.
This walk down memory lane turned into a guilt trip real fast.
1:45 a.m.
“Have you ever been to the World Travel Arena?” Alano asks.
He still hasn’t told me where we’re going, but this is his third attempt at making conversation since our talk about the new
kid. He first asked me about my favorite non–Scorpius Hawthorne movie, but I didn’t answer. He told me he’s a fan of everything
Christopher Nolan does, but especially Memento , which I think is the movie that’s told backward—I don’t know; I haven’t seen it. Then he pivoted to asking me if I’ve ever traveled anywhere outside of New York or Los Angeles or Brazil, which I haven’t. Now here he goes again, segueing into a conversation about those arenas that are basically high-tech versions of Disney’s Epcot theme park.
“I went once,” I say. I don’t wanna get into it. “You?”
“I’ve been a few times with my parents for Death-Cast media tours, and I think it’s great in a pinch for Deckers, but it isn’t
an intimate introduction to any foreign city. That would be like someone visiting Times Square or Hollywood and going home
thinking they saw New York or Los Angeles when really they just had a tourist’s experience. What did you think?”
“It wasn’t my favorite day ever,” I say.
“What happened? Did you... Oh. I’m an idiot. I assumed you went for fun. Most non-dying people do these days, outweighing
Deckers by eighty-four percent according to the division manager. Did you go with a Decker?”
I’d planned on taking this pathetic secret to the grave, but who gives a shit. “I went with a Last Friend,” I confess.
“That’s really admirable of you.”
“Not really. I was just so lonely that I was counting on those Deckers being so desperate for a friend too that they would
hang out with a killer.”
“You’re not a killer, and they knew that. How many Deckers?”
“Six.”
“Wow.”
“Is that a lot?”
“It’s subjective, obviously. Time magazine published this fascinating profile on Living Last Friends for the app’s upcoming five-year anniversary. There were
all these stats on how often Living Last Friends assist Deckers. Most Livings do it once, if ever. Your buddy Orion Pagan
has never used the app even though his love story inspired it, but the app’s record holder, Teo Torrez, has served as a Living
Last Friend over one hundred and thirty times in honor of his son, who lived his best End Day thanks to his Last Friend.”
“Did you say—”
“One hundred and thirty times? I did.”
“Okay, so that’s a lot! Six is nothing.”
“Six is a lot for someone who struggles with his life.”
I don’t deserve this credit, I’m not noble. “I was lonely.”
“You don’t have to be anymore. You’ll always have me.”
“Always isn’t a long time.”
“Then I’ll be your Last Friend until the end,” Alano promises.
I never even thought about signing up for a Last Friend because I’ve had such rough experiences on that fucking app, especially
my sixth so-called friend. I believe Alano will be better than the Deckers I befriended, but I’ve been wrong about a lot before.
“What happened during your visit to the Travel Arena?” Alano asks.
“I went with this girl, Robin...” I feel bad that I don’t remember her last name. “She died in Paris—the arena’s Paris,
obviously.”
“Were you there?”
That’s a sore spot. “No. We’d been hanging out for a few hours, and I was keeping her spirits up, but around two or three
in the afternoon she got nervous, suspecting that maybe I was gonna kill her after all. She asked me to leave, and I did.
I found out online that she died a few minutes later. There was some malfunction or something on the arena’s Seine River simulation
and—”
“And she got sucked into an unsecured part of the pool, right?” Alano finishes. “Robin Christensen.”
“Wait, how do you know all of that? Did you know her?”
“I read about her in an article. Maybe the same one as you.”
I couldn’t remember Robin’s last name even though we spent five hours together, but Alano could off one article. “You like
reading about death?”
“I like reading about real life,” Alano says. “Especially the lives that ended because of Death-Cast affiliates. My family
pays attention to all of those, as well as anyone affected by Death-Cast.”
“Like the first End Day,” I say, weighed down by the trauma that I swing my backpack off my shoulder and reach inside. Alano
comes at me so quickly that I think he’s about to tackle me, but he just grabs my arm.
“Don’t do it,” Alano pleads.
“Don’t do what?”
“Shoot yourself.”
I almost—almost!—laugh in his face. “That’s not what I’m doing,” I say, shrugging him off and pulling out my cigarette and lighter.
Alano exhales in relief. I’m just about to inhale the lit cigarette for my own relief when he smacks it out of my hand.
“Okay, are you trying to get me to reach for the gun?”
Despite the death threat, Alano laughs. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“A cigarette won’t kill me tonight.”
“It could in a few years.”
“You’re only keeping me alive for another couple hours.”
“I have an ulterior motive to keep you alive a lot longer,” he says, taking the cigarette carton and throwing it in the trash.
I point at the smoking skeleton on his shirt. “For someone who doesn’t want me smoking, you’re sure as shit teasing me.”
Alano looks down at himself. “Kop van een skelet met brandende sigaret,” he says, continuing down the street, like he doesn’t
realize he’s just spoken to me in another language.
“Cop-van-and-what-what-what-cigarette?”
“It’s Dutch for ‘ Skull of a Skeleton with a Burning Cigarette .’ Van Gogh painted this while studying at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, but he dropped out—”
“You speak Dutch?” I interrupt, more interested in that than Van Gogh’s life story.
“Een beetje,” Alano says, and then sheepishly translates. “A little. I study languages before we visit countries for business
and pleasure.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“I’m fluent enough in French, German, Portuguese, Italian, Thai, Russian, Chinese, and ASL. I’ve also been studying Japanese, Farsi, and Dutch.”
I thought he would list three languages, maybe four. “That’s it?”
“And English and Spanish, obviously, because of my parents. I’m guessing you do too.”
“No, I’m a bad Puerto Rican. My mom and stepdad know Spanish, but I only speak English.”
“If you need a tutor, I know a good one.” Alano raises his hand.
Is this what it’s like to not have a brain that messes with your emotions and ruins your life? It leaves space to learn languages
and facts about Van Gogh, Peg Entwistle, and Deckers you’ve never met? It makes me wanna hit a one-eighty and grab my cigarettes
out of the trash.
“So why the shirt?” I ask, still craving that smoke down my lungs.
“No one really knows why Van Gogh painted it, but scholars consider it to be a vanitas.”
“Vanitas? Is that more Dutch or one of the other languages you speak?”
“It’s Latin, which I don’t speak.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” Alano echoes, like he might actually take up a dead language. “A vanitas is a still-life artwork that uses symbolic objects of death. Usually skulls, sometimes wilted flowers. It’s meant to remind the viewer of their mortality. It’s a lot like memento mori, which means ‘remember you must die’ in Latin. My father almost named the company after that sentiment, but he wanted something original.”
I don’t really care about the Death-Cast fun fact, but after learning the meaning behind the smoking skeleton I really do
feel like I’m staring into a mirror. “You don’t think it’s weird that you’re trying to get me to live while wearing a shirt
that’s reminding me I have to die?”
“I’m not psychic, . I didn’t get dressed knowing I would be spending the night with a suicidal boy. I put it on tonight
as my own reminder that I need to live while I can. But if it bothers you that much...”
Alano stops and takes off his shirt, half-naked in the streets while turning his shirt inside out. I stare at his body the
entire time—his sculpted shoulders, the growing patch of hair between his flat but defined pecs, the bandage wrapped around
his abdomen, and that famous V-line that trails down his jeans. I don’t even care about the dried bloodstain on his bandage.
I’ve seen worse on myself, but his body is just... better. I wanna die, but my heart is still pumping and it’s pumping
a lot of blood right now. It’s like he’s a lighter and I’m a cigarette. The fire starts at my head and is burning all the
way down to my—
“Were you just trying to get me to take off my shirt?” Alano asks, smiling as he catches me staring at him. He slings the
shirt over his shoulder. “Whatever makes you happy.”
“Your body isn’t an antidepressant.”
“But does it help?”
I hate how Hollywood always forgives bad acting just because someone’s hot. I’ve sometimes wondered if Hollywood would forgive
me for killing my dad if I was hotter. It’s depressed me then and depresses me now. “It doesn’t help, if anything it makes
me feel worse because I don’t look that way.”
“I’m sorry.” Alano puts his shirt back on, inside out so I can’t see the smoking skeleton.
Once my blood cools I ask, “How are you feeling? After the attack.”
“Holding up. It’s a miracle my stitches didn’t tear open during all the climbing and running. Maybe they will when I fight
you over how you’re beautiful as you are.”
Okay, he’s definitely deflecting, but he’s doing a bad job because a compliment isn’t gonna save my life any more than his
body will. “There’s not gonna be another time, you have less than two hours with me.”
“Well, maybe our next destination will change your mind. We’re almost there.”
Alano gives up on the flirting, as welcome as that would’ve been earlier in my life. Maybe even another life, where I don’t
have borderline personality disorder making me doubt my own feelings. I can’t have anything good, I can’t be happy. My mind
is this minefield and there’s nowhere safe for me to go without detonating more depression. That’s why as thoughtful and beautiful
as Alano is, the next time he takes off that shirt will be because it’s been splattered with my blood.
We go down a street, and Alano finally stops. “Here we are.”
We’re outside a small shop that looks old with its wooden exterior and awning striped with brown and yellow. The window display
has shelves of clocks paired with colorful gift boxes that are all wrapped with beige bows. There’s an OPEN 24/7 sign on the red door and a bigger sign above that reads:
PRESENT-TIME GIFT SHOP
NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT... FOR A PRESENT!
“You’re getting me a present?” I ask.
“You don’t know about Present-Time?”
“Nope.”
“They’re fairly new. The first one launched in Chicago last September.”
“This place looks old.”
“The founder wanted the shops to feel inviting and cozy for Deckers.”
“I don’t get it, how is this a shop for Deckers?”
“It’s your End Day, ,” Alano says, winking as he opens the front door. A gentle bell rings. “Why don’t you go inside and
see for yourself?”
If we’re gonna act like it’s my End Day, I need to play the role of Decker . I walk into the shop, which is warmly lit with lamps and smells like cardboard boxes. I’ve never seen so many clocks in my life: wall clocks, pendulum clocks, grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, digital clocks, and even sundials. They also have a glass cabinet of watches with dozens of unique bands. There’s no one behind the counter, but there is a middle-aged woman speaking with an elderly man on the sales floor.
“I’ll be with you shortly,” the woman calls out to us.
“Okay,” I say to her before turning to Alano. “I still don’t get how this is a shop for Deckers.”
“What do you think they’re selling?” Alano asks.
“I’m gonna guess clocks.”
“They’re selling time.” Alano flips a bronze hourglass and watches the red sand fall. “Deckers never have enough time to do
everything they need on their End Days, not even the rare few who get the miracle of a midnight call and an 11:59 p.m. time
of death. There isn’t even always the chance to have meaningful goodbyes. Present-Time acts as a one-stop shop for Deckers
who want to leave something special behind for loved ones but can’t afford to spend their precious time shopping at different
stores or waiting in line at the post office to send a gift across the country. They can engrave any of their timepieces and
even upload recordings into some of their objects.” Alano turns away from the hourglass and toward me. “I brought you here
so you could leave a message for the new kid.”
“Like what?”
“Anything you want. Big brother wisdom. It could even be a simple ‘I love you.’?”
Maybe I’ll warn the new kid to never shoot anyone.
I browse the shelves, not feeling a real pull to anything until I spot this cuckoo clock that’s painted orange, red, and yellow and carved like fire. I press a button and a porcelain phoenix shoots out of the tiny doors, screeching at me. It’s a cute—slightly heart-jumping—idea for Deckers, especially those who believe in reincarnation, but I don’t have any messages of rebirth for the new kid. Maybe I can recommend the Scorpius Hawthorne series since there’s a cool ghost phoenix that haunts the Milagro Castle in the second book. That’s stupid, is that really the message I want to leave from the afterlife? Go read a fantasy series that everyone will be reading until the end of time? And hey, while I’m at it, I should recommend watching the movies so they can see their dead big brother.
No, I gotta keep looking.
“What about these?” Alano asks, waving me over and showing me three grandfather clocks: the first is traditional with its
wood paneling; the second has a steampunk vibe with its metal and exposed gears; and the third is whimsical with its green
and gold tones and curvy shape, like it belongs in Wonderland. “You got a favorite? Maybe you can leave it behind for your
family.”
“No,” I say.
“That’s okay. They thankfully have more options.”
“No, I don’t wanna leave one behind for my family.” How haunting would that be for my mom to have an hourly chime, reminding
her that I’m not only gone but that I also took my own life?
“Do you want to get them something else?”
“I already left my mom a note,” I say, turning away.
“A suicide note?” Alano asks, tailing me down the aisle. “You should leave behind something more beautiful for her to remember you by.”
I’m quiet for so long that I would swear time has frozen if it weren’t for the pendulum clocks doing their thing. “What if
I want my mom to forget me and move on?”
Alano’s hand lands on my shoulder from behind, stopping me. “Your mother could live to be a hundred and never forget you,”
he says in my ear before turning me around to face him.
I love Mom enough that I stop fighting Alano on this. I search the shop, trying to find something for everyone in my family.
I go to the watch cabinet to see if anything jumps out at me. They have a shelf with character watches—Snoopy, Mickey Mouse,
Homer Simpson, Scorpius Hawthorne (but no Larkin Cano), and Mario among many more—and I’m about to turn away when I see an
analog Pac-Man watch with a retro silicone strap.
“My stepdad calls me -Man all the time,” I tell Alano while grabbing the watch. If Rolando was the one dying I would love
for him to gift me this watch with a recording of him calling me -Man to hold on to forever.
I keep it moving, finding a fifteen-minute hourglass with black and white sand. “This reminds me of Othello,” I say.
“The Shakespeare play?”
“The board game. I’ve played it with my mom since I was a kid. Now the new kid can.”
“That’s really sweet,” Alano says.
Finding something for Mom is the hardest, even though she would be happy to have anything from me, like a custom clock with my face or an alarm clock where my voice wishes her good morning every day, just to give her the strength to go on. A nearby table has a memory clock on display where you can type in as many beloved memories as you want, which will cycle through every few minutes, but unless Alano convinces me to live much longer, I don’t have the time to write down every highlight I’ve shared with Mom. Then I remember Mom likes simple things that get the job done. Simple car, simple shoes. I choose a simple gold locket with a clock on its ornate case and space inside for one picture.
“My mom will love this,” I say, thinking about how she’ll wear it to her grave.
“It’s beautiful. You’re a good son,” Alano says.
A good son would keep living for his mom, but at least I’m giving her something better to hold close to her heart that’s not
my suicide note.
I carry everything over to the gift station where there’s all the colorful wrapping paper and beige ribbons from the window
along with cards and these little white boxes that look like the smoke detectors at home.
“One more minute,” the employee calls out to me as she finishes ringing up the elderly man at the counter. She tries returning
his credit card, but he’s not paying attention.
The man with a Knicks cap over his bald head clings to this pink box. “Is it too late?”
“I assure you this will arrive to your son by the morning. I simply have to wait until three before clearing a driver to make the trip to San Francisco.”
“No, not the package.” This man is tall, even while hunched over. He seems to be folding in on himself even more. “Is it too
late to make things right?”
“If there was ever a time to try, it’s now.”
The man releases the box and takes his credit card, putting it back in his pouch. “Thank you, Margie.”
“Honored to help,” Margie says. “I’m sorry you’ll be lost, Richard.”
The Decker—Richard—is sniffling as he exits the shop. Whatever happened between him and his son, he sounded so haunted.
I can’t help but wonder if there’s anything Dad could’ve said to me in his final hours to make up for the trauma he inflicted
on us. An apology? How he accepts me for who I am? A quick recording saying how much he loves me? I can’t remember the last
time Dad said he loved me, but how can I ever believe him anyway, since he told Mom he loved her and still treated her so
horribly?
Maybe there are some things in this world that can’t ever be made right, not even in a long lifetime, and definitely not on
an End Day.
“How can I help you?” Margie asks, coming over to the gift station.
“Just this,” I say, setting down the watch, hourglass, and pendant.
“Do you mind my asking if you’re a Decker?”
“I am,” I lie.
“I’m sorry you’ll be lost.”
I’ve dreamt of hearing those words said to me for so long, a sign that I would finally be dead soon. I could cry from happiness
and sadness all at once.
“And you?” Margie asks Alano before squinting. She gasps loudly once she recognizes him. “Alano Rosa? Oh no, honey, are you
dying?”
Alano shakes his head. “No, ma’am,” he says even though he has no idea. “I’m here supporting my Last Friend.”
“That’s wonderfully generous. I was worried about you after seeing that Death Guard incident on the news. You be safe.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
Pretty hard not to take it personally as Margie gets more worked up over Alano potentially dying when she knows—believes—I
actually am. Just because I’m not the famous son of a famous man doesn’t make me worthless. But Alano doesn’t think I’m worthless.
Having been a Last Friend six times, I know that these friendships don’t always work out, and it’s a really shitty feeling
knowing that someone chose you to hang out with in their final hours and the chemistry is all off and you’ve wasted their
precious time. But Alano isn’t wasting my time—he’s literally helping me buy some.
“You’ve selected some beautiful pieces here today,” Margie says, remembering me. She eyes Mom’s future pendant. “Good on you
for getting here early. This is our last in stock. If you’d arrived around six or seven when most Deckers have grieved themselves
enough to stop in, I fear it may have been gone already.”
“His mother will love it,” Alano says when I stay quiet.
Margie slaps her chest, like her heart is broken. “Aw, you poor thing. If you’d like to record a message for her, I can have
it uploaded into the pendant so she hears your voice every time she opens it. Think of it like those recordable greeting cards,
which we have too if you prefer,” she says, turning around to her card section.
“The pendant is good, thanks,” I say.
“Fill this out for me, sweetie,” Margie requests, handing me a form.
The Present-Time Gift Shop form asks for my personal information, the name I want engraved on the presents (“ito” for Mom’s
pendant, “-Man” for Rolando’s watch, “” for the new kid’s hourglass), and the address for the recipients (everything
is going to my house, which Mom hopefully doesn’t find haunted when I’m dead). Then I’m given one of those white boxes, which
is actually a voice recorder for me to use now and for Present-Time staff to later transfer into each object.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Margie says, making her way to the front of the store.
“Same,” Alano says, going to the corner with the grandfather clocks.
I’m left alone with the objects and voice recorders. My chest is tightening, and I want a cigarette so bad to relax, but I’ve gotta get through this. I start with the new kid, that’ll be easiest. “Hey, it’s your big brother, . Play Othello with Mom. Let her win whenever she’s sad. She deserves to smile. I love you,” I say, unable to picture this stranger-sibling, but believing I love them anyway. I set the first recorder down by the hourglass.
I’m working up the strength for Mom’s message, so I do Rolando’s next. “Hey, Rolando, it’s -Man. Keep Mom alive and make
her happy. If you don’t, I’ll haunt you like those Pac-Man ghosts. I love you.” I set the second recorder down by the watch,
knowing that Rolando will get a kick out of me haunting him even though he doesn’t believe in ghosts.
Now it’s time for Mom’s message, but instead of picking up the recorder, I grab the pendant, thinking about which picture
I can use to make it special and what I can say to give Mom the will to keep living. She loves this picture of me as a kid
where I was in a blue blazer and white shorts, but maybe she wants to see me as I am now, as old as I’m ever gonna be. Maybe
in my recording I should apologize for not being strong enough, or just tell her I love her over and over until the recorder
cuts me off. Then I realize that no matter what I choose, this is the one present I’ll never see Mom open.
I pick up the recorder, planning on just speaking from the heart—or I was before the sound of glass shattering sends my heart
racing so fast it’s like I’m running into Death’s arms. The security alarm blares as Margie screams, but nothing stops a man
with a skull mask from entering the shop with a steel bat. I duck behind the counter, wondering if this is how I’m about to
die; I can only hope one swing to the head takes me out.
“TIME IS RUNNING OUT!” the man shouts. “DEATH TO DEATH-CAST!”
I’m bracing to die, but I look across the shop to find Alano fearing for his life.
This Death Guarder is gonna kill Alano.