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I think she’s catching on.
I place the envelope of cash on the kitchen counter when she leaves the room.
Even as I grab the trash bag out of the bin, I know I won’t be able to return. I step out into the hallway and throw the bag down the chute. If I go back in, I’ll never leave. And if I don’t leave, I’ll die in that apartment, possibly in front of Penny, and that’s not how I want to be remembered—Rufus’s approach is really smart and thoughtful.
I pull out my phone and block Lidia’s number so she can’t call or text me to come back.
I feel nauseous and a little dizzy, slowly making my way back downstairs, hoping Lidia understands, and hating myself so much I race down the stairs faster and faster. . . .
RUFUS
6:48 a.m.
Who put down ten dollars I’d find myself on Instagram on my End Day? Because you’re now ten dollars richer.
The Plutos still haven’t responded to a single text or phone call. I’m not freaking out too hard because they’re not Deckers, but damn, could someone at least let me know if the cops are still on my ass or not? My money’s on everyone being passed out. I’d nap too if you put a bed in front of me. A chair with armrests would work as well. Definitely not this lobby bench that could seat two people max. I’m not about to rest fetus-position style, that’s not me.
I’m scrolling through Instagram, expecting to find a new post from Malcolm’s account (@manthony012), but there’s been nothing since nine hours ago when he uploaded that unfiltered photo of a Coca-Cola bottle with his name on it. He’s Team Pepsi in the world war of Pepsi versus Coke, but he was so happy seeing his name in that bodega fridge that he couldn’t resist. The caffeine only got him more hype before the fight.
I shouldn’t call that thing with Peck a fight. Peck couldn’t even get a swing on me with the way I pinned him.
I’m texting Aimee an apology, even though I only half-mean it because her little shit boyfriend unleashed the cops on me at my own damn funeral, when Mateo comes running down the stairs at a dangerous speed. He’s bulleting to the front door and I catch up with him. His eyes are red and he’s breathing hard, like he’s fighting back a serious cry.
“You good?” He’s not, that was stupid to ask.
“No.” Mateo pushes the lobby door open. “Let’s go before Lidia chases me down.”
I’m eager to get a move on too, believe me, but his silent mode isn’t gonna fly with me. I wheel my bike alongside him. “Come on, get whatever it is off your chest. Don’t carry this around all day.”
“I don’t have all day!” Mateo shouts, like someone finally pissed off he’s dying at eighteen. Turns out there’s some fire in him. He stops at the curb and sits down, straight reckless, probably waiting for a car to knock him out of his misery.
Down goes my bike’s kickstand, up goes Mateo as I slide my arms under his and pick him up. We move away from the curb and lean against the wall and he’s shaking, like he really doesn’t wanna be out here, and when he slides down to the ground, I go with him. Mateo takes off his glasses and rests his forehead on his knees.
“Look, I’m not gonna hit you with some impassioned speech. I don’t have one in me and that’s not what I’m about.” I gotta do better than that. “But I know that frustration you’re feeling, dude. You have options, thankfully. If you wanna go back to your dad or best friend, I’m not stopping you. If you wanna ditch me, I’m not chasing you. It’s your last day, live it however the hell you want. If you want help living it
, I got you.”
Mateo lifts his head and squints at me. “Sounded pretty impassioned to me.”
“Yeah. My bad.” I like him better with his glasses, but no-glasses is a good look on him, too. “What do you wanna do?” If he ditches, I’ll respect it, and I’ll figure out my next move. I gotta see what’s what with the Plutos, but I can’t sneak back there, I don’t know if there are eyes on the place.
“I want to keep moving forward,” Mateo says.
“Good call.”
He puts his glasses back on, and, I don’t know, if you wanna put together some analogy on how he’s seeing the world with new eyes or something, be my guest. I’m just relieved I’m not taking this day on alone.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Mateo says. “I still think not saying goodbye is the right move, but it’s something I’ll regret all day.”
“I didn’t get to say my piece to my friends either,” I say.
“What happened at your funeral?”
All my talk about honesty and getting stuff off your chest, and I’m not being straight with him. “It got interrupted. I haven’t been able to reach my friends again since then. I’m hoping they’ll hit me up before . . .” I crack my knuckles as cars go by. “I want them to know I’m okay. No mystery over if I’m dead yet or not. But I can’t keep texting them until whatever happens finally goes down.”
“Set up a CountDowners profile,” Mateo suggests. “I’ve followed enough stories online and I can help you navigate it.”
I bet he can. Going by that logic, I’ve watched enough porn to make me a sex god. “Nah, that stuff isn’t me. I never even got on board with Tumblr or Twitter. Just Instagram. The photography stuff is still pretty new, just a few months. Instagram is dope.”
