New York Paz
New York July 29, 2020 Paz
3:35 p.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)
Death-Cast didn’t call because I’m not dying today, but Mom’s son, Pazito Dario, died.
I never thought Mom would feel like a stranger.
After leaving home last night, I ran a few blocks and crashed outside the tar pits. By the time Alano rolled up in his car
and found me, I was a wreck: foot hurt, head hurt, heart hurt. He held me as I cried for who knows how long before we had
to meet up with his family and Shield-Cast.
We got to the hangar where the Rosa family’s private jet was parked, but we weren’t cleared to depart until after 3:00 a.m.,
when we were sure that no one received their Death-Cast alert (Alano excluded, obviously). It was easy to keep busy as Alano
gave me a tour of the jet’s interior, which his mother designed.
“Welcome to The Safe Heaven ,” Alano had said. That’s what his parents named the jet since Alano was still scared of heights at the time.
I expected the jet to be on the smaller side with maybe fifteen seats, twenty tops, but the spacious main cabin alone can
sit sixty people in faux-leather chairs with Death-Cast hourglasses stitched on all headrests. There are twelve bedrooms on
board and the smallest one is bigger than mine at home. All the private bathrooms have showers, makeup stations, and the softest
bathrobes and slippers. Then we went upstairs—upstairs!—where there are two kitchens with private chefs, two dining rooms,
a wine cellar, a conference suite, a small home theater, and a video game room that’s been updated over the years as Alano
got older.
Something else I never thought I’d see on a plane was a painting—or many paintings. Alano’s parents wanted to pay tribute
to some of their favorite innovators: Antonio Meucci and Alexander Graham Bell for their advancements in telecommunications
that Death-Cast lives off of today; Ada Lovelace for writing the first algorithm to be processed by a machine; Max Planck,
a physicist known as the father of quantum theory; Albert Einstein for every damn thing he did; and the psychologist Herman
Feifel, who started the modern death movement that had everyone rethinking their mortality, only for Death-Cast to take that
convo to greater heights.
A couple hours into our flight, we stopped playing Mario Kart and Super Smash Bros. to get some rest, but I didn’t wanna go to sleep. Alano may have flown on this jet one hundred and thirty-four times (he’s been counting) since he was thirteen, but that was probably my only chance of living high like that. Sleeping would’ve been a waste when I could’ve spent the entire flight just playing video games or watching movies on a big screen or taking hot showers over forty thousand feet high, but when Alano invited me to sleep with him and Bucky even though I could’ve had my own room, I jumped into that bed with him.
“I don’t ever wanna leave,” I said to Alano.
“Me either,” Alano said. “The real world is down there.”
It really did feel like that as long as we were in this palace-in-the-sky private jet that we were living outside of time
and space, especially when we woke up and I looked out the window to watch the sun rise. That view made me second-guess if
heaven is real.
During breakfast with the Rosas, Naya was gently encouraging me to make things right with Mom because some problems are so
huge that they shouldn’t be left to an End Day. She was also super transparent that she would be checking in with Mom during
my visit whether we were talking or not because as a mother herself she hates being left in the dark about her son. I couldn’t
fight her and was even secretly glad that Mom would know I was okay.
Then, before landing, Alano and I hopped into a shower—our own showers, obviously and unfortunately—because we wanted to hit
the ground running while it was still light out, since his parents want him home before it gets too late, even with Dane protecting
him.
We helped rebandage each other’s wounds and buckled up, and I stared at New York during the entire descent. I remember putting the city behind me as we moved to LA, thinking my life was gonna change for the better. It only got worse, but I’m finally seeing some promising progress, like an actor struggling to sink into their character before everything clicks into place.
This glimpse into Alano’s life has been wild. Private jets, private security, private chefs, private drivers, but still not
as much privacy as Alano would like. I get why someone who used to be so scared of heights likes staying in the sky, especially
when we’re returning to the city where he was almost killed.
Where I killed Dad.
At LaGuardia, one car took Joaquin and Naya to the Death-Cast headquarters, another brought Bucky home with everyone’s luggage,
and a third dropped off me, Alano, and Dane in Manhattan for Alano’s fitting.
While Alano is in the dressing room with his stylists, I wander around Saint Laurent, playing a guessing game on how much
the clothes cost. I lose every time, missing the real price by hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars. I don’t know how
much this Death-Cast campaign is gonna pay, but I’m not dropping six hundred dollars on socks unless they give me super speed
or something. I’m picking up a pair of three-thousand-dollar sweatpants when I notice the security guard staring. Does he
think I’m trying to steal? Or does he recognize me as my dad’s killer?
Before I can fully spiral, Alano comes out of the dressing room.
“What do you think?” Alano asks. He’s still wearing his blue jeans and green T-shirt that brings out the forest in his eyes.
“Um. It’s super casual for a gala, but do you?”
Alano flexes his arm, and it takes a second before I realize he’s showing me black silk wrapped over his bandage and not his
fist-size muscle.
“I love it,” I say. I’m not talking about the silk.
“This wrap feels classier,” Alano says, unwrapping it and handing it back to the stylist. “Though not ideal for life-renewing
contracts.”
“Where’s the full look?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” he says with a wink.
I obviously don’t have gala-worthy clothes back home, since it’s not like I was ever on anyone’s invite list for anything
fancy, but Alano is gonna play stylist with his wardrobe when we get back to his place.
Once we get into the car, I ask where we’re off to next.
“The park,” Alano says. “There are some things I need to get off my chest.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s about me. I’ve been building the Paz Dario Encyclopedia,” Alano says, reaching across the back seat and grabbing
my hand. “It’s only fair you get the missing pages from my book.”