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“I’m safe from myself, I promise. I don’t want everything over. Please promise you won’t go dying before me. I can’t see that.”
“Only if you promise the same thing.”
“We can’t both promise this.”
“Then I’m not promising my promise,” Mateo says. “I don’t want you to see me die, but I can’t watch you die either.”
“That’s messed up. You’re really gonna go down as the Decker who didn’t promise to grant another Decker his dying wish?”
“Forcing myself to watch you die is not something I’ll promise you. You’re my Last Friend, and it would wreck me.”
“You don’t deserve to die, Mateo.”
“I don’t think anyone deserves to die.”
“Except serial killers, right?”
He doesn’t answer because he probably thinks I won’t like his answer. If anything, it only further proves my point: Mateo doesn’t deserve to die.
A handball bounces our way, and Mateo races past me to catch it. This guy chases after the ball, but Mateo gets to it first and tosses it to him.
“Thanks,” the guy says.
Homeboy is really pale, like he doesn’t leave his apartment nearly enough. What a shitty, stormy day to come out and play. I’m guessing he’s nineteen or twenty, but I’m not ruling out he’s our age.
“No problem,” Mateo says.
He’s turning away when he sees my bike. “Nice! Is that a Trek?”
“It is. Got it for off-road races. Do you ride one?”
“Mine got wrecked—brake cable got busted and the seat clamp was all screwy. I’m buying another one when I get a job that pays more than eight an hour,” he says.
“Take mine,” I say. I can do this. I walk to my bike, which carried me through a brutal race and everywhere else I wanted to go, and wheel it toward this guy. “It’s your lucky day, seriously. My friend isn’t about me riding this thing, so you can have it.”
“You serious?”
“You sure?” Mateo asks.
I nod. “It’s yours,” I tell the guy. “Have at it. I’m moving soon anyway and won’t be able to bring it.”
The dude throws the handball over to his friends, who’ve been shouting for him to come back and play. He sits on the bike and plays with the gears. “Wait. You didn’t jack this from someone, right?”
“Nope.”
“And it’s not broken? Is that why you’re leaving it behind?”
“It’s not broken. Look, do you want it or not?”
“We good, we good. Can I pay you something?”
I shake my head. “We good,” I say back.
Mateo gives the guy the helmet and he doesn’t put it on before riding back to his friends. I get my phone out and snap photos of him riding my bike, his back to me as he stands on the pedals, while his friends play handball. It’s a solid portrait of kids—a little older than me, but they’re kids, don’t fight me on that—too young to be worried about shit like Death-Cast alerts. They know their day is going to end like it usually does.
“Good move,” Mateo says.
“I got one last ride out of it. I’m set.” I take more photos: the ongoing handball match, the monkey bars where we played Gladiator, the long yellow slide, the swings. “Come.”
