The First to Die at the End, page 3
I walk deeper into the Square—is that what New Yorkers call it? I need to learn fast—and pass someone in an Iron Man costume as he talks to someone mostly dressed up as Elmo, the massive head on the ground as if decapitated as the woman smokes a cigarette. I love this city with my whole heart already. I can’t help but sneak a picture of that for Scarlett too, in case that’s a one-time sighting.
I keep going and stumble onto some teen on a stage. At first I’m expecting him to sing a song into his mic, but instead he’s speaking with this haunting sadness about the brain aneurysms in the family and the dread of dying from one himself. It’s heavier than I expected on a party that’s been billed as a celebration of life, but then I find the sign that reads Tell Your Death-Cast Story, and everything makes sense. That stage is for people talking about how this service will change their lives.
It can’t hurt to listen in on why people are willing to believe Death-Cast.
There aren’t any more seats on these red glass bleachers, but I don’t mind finding a place to stand. There’s a spot next to this beautiful Black girl with incredible style and this cute white boy whose curls are creeping out from under his baseball cap. The boy looks like he’s having a hard time keeping it together, wiping the tears from his cheek.
He must have a huge heart.
Orion
11:17 p.m.
These Death-Cast origin stories are breaking my heart.
(Even more.)
But I can’t stop listening, not even as I feel like I’m being ripped apart: a woman’s fiancé died in a limo accident on the way to their wedding; a child drowned in a bathtub after her big brother got locked out of the home while taking out the trash; a girl’s best friend got knifed to death on her birthday, forever staining that day; an older man’s wife and child died during a complicated pregnancy, and while Death-Cast can’t predict the fate of fetuses, the man still could have braced himself for this tremendous hole in his heart; and then there was a girl who got orphaned like me when she lost her parents in a tornado.
“We have time for one more story,” the Death-Cast rep says. She looks to be in her early twenties with a young teacher vibe, like she’s about to call on a student for the last presentation of the day. She reaches into the glass bowl, ready to fish out a name.
It’s got to be mine.
It has to be, this is the only time I’m ever going to be able to tell my story and—
“Lincoln,” the Death-Cast rep calls.
A boy comes down from the red glass benches, really carefully, as if he’s scared he might trip and fall and die before he can share his story.
Before it goes unheard like mine.
Lincoln makes it safely to the microphone and tells us about his cancer diagnosis, pointing to his mother and sister in the audience and how Death-Cast will allow them the opportunity to stop resisting the inevitable if that’s truly what’s in store for him.
I don’t have it as bad as him, but I get what it’s like to want to tap out of the fight.
Then his story is over. The Death-Cast rep thanks the crowd for their time, and a security guard escorts her away. And everyone goes about their lives—their really difficult, complicated lives.
“I’m sorry,” Dalma says.
“For what?”
“That your name didn’t get called.”
I never outright said how badly I wanted this, but my best friend gets me.
“It’s all good,” I lie.
I look at the digital hourglasses on the jumbotrons, watching sand, aka tiny black blocks, fill the bottom. Until a tall guy—I bet he’s my age; I’ve got a good eye for this—passes by and breaks my focus. And I mean really breaks my focus because dude is beautiful; I can’t help but watch him as he takes a seat at the far corner of the glass bench, looking up at the hourglasses as if they’re stars.
I want to know his story as much as I wanted to tell mine.
My heart is going for it; it’s wild how being attracted to someone can feel so exciting and dangerous, like he can be everything good and bad for me.
I can’t tell the color of his eyes, but man, I want to know.
He’s pale, but he could also be pretty white-passing like me.
I think we’re the same height if you ignore his dark floppy hair or the classic Timbs giving him a mini boost.
He’s undeniably muscular with his broad shoulders, thick neck, the kind of arms that guarantee him the win in any arm-wrestling match, and pecs that must be suffocating inside his fitted black V-neck.
“Earth to Orion,” Dalma says, snapping her fingers. “What are you— Oh.”
“Yeah. I bet he’s a model.”
“You swear everyone cute is a model.”
“And it’s a crime to society every time I’m wrong.”
I rip my gaze away from him even though I really, really, really, really, really want to keep staring. Fuck it, I’m weak. I don’t last a whole second before I’m sneaking another peek, half hoping he doesn’t catch me looking, half hoping he does. But for what—he might not even be into guys, though I’m always down for more friends, especially once Dalma begins clocking mad hours at Hunter College this fall, but I don’t know if I can orbit around someone this beautiful and not just fall in love, stay in love, and die in love.
Knowing my luck, he’s a straight tourist who I’ll never see again.
But maybe not. I’m not psychic; I can’t rule anything out.
“I should go say what’s up.”
“I’m loving this attitude, O-Bro, but are you thinking with your dick by any chance?”
“I think I’m thinking with my heart?”
“Not exactly a reliable source either.”
“I’m getting a good vibe from him. He doesn’t seem like he’s taking in the city one last time before he lives out the rest of his days in an underground bunker, or about to go on a killing spree just because.”
“You have such a low bar for boys.”
“And you’re supposed to be my hype woman.”
“So true. If you’re really feeling this boy, then go carpe that diem.”
I begin turning but snap right back.
There’s been so many times over the years where I crush on someone around the city—Dave & Buster’s, Central Park, Barnes & Noble, the 5 train—but I never know how to jump from fantasy to reality. Then even when I knew someone personally, like a couple guys in high school, I couldn’t act on it because I wasn’t out to anyone besides Dalma until after graduation last month.
Even after coming out, I still don’t know my way in.
“What the hell am I supposed to say?” I ask.
“Speak from your heart,” Dalma says. “Not your dick.”
“Speak from my heart, not my dick; speak from my heart, not my dick,” I mutter like a mantra.
I don’t want to miss my chance to say hi to this guy, the probability of ever seeing him again in New York would be one in . . . I don’t know, some big-ass number that would take days to count to.
“I got this,” I say with zero confidence.
“Yeah you do,” Dalma says with zero believability.
I get a move on, thinking up questions to ask him with every step:
Where are you from?
Are you here with anyone?
You look like Clark Kent. Do you ever dress up as Superman?
Do you play on my team, aka are you into guys?
Oh, you’re straight? Do you have an identical twin who is into guys?
Then I’m suddenly standing over him. His eyes—an icy blue that make me suck in a sharp, cold breath—go wide. At first I’m expecting him to freak out, kind of like how I did this one time I stepped out of my local bodega and found some white dude in my face threatening to kick my ass if I didn’t hand over my cash and candy. (I went home without cash and candy.) But this guy doesn’t look scared of me. His heart-shaped lips actually part into a smile, and I’m lit up like a flaming match to paper.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I repeat, like he’s teaching me a new language.
“How’s it going?”
He’s not supposed to be leading the conversation, I approached him.
“It’s going good, I mean, as good as the end of the world can go,” I say. Then I realize this could be dead before it begins if I don’t make it clear that I don’t think the world is going to end at midnight. “Not that I think we’re all about to die. Some people have to die obviously, unfortunately, tragically . . . yeah, tragically . . . but I don’t think the whole planet is about to blow up in flames or drown or cave in or anything like that.” I try taking a deep breath, but I feel like my body is rejecting all air so I can take a whole second to shut the fuck up. For some mysterious reason this dude hasn’t run away. “Anyway, I came over here because you were staring at the hourglasses, and I was wondering if you were thinking about all this Death-Cast insanity too.”
He looks up at the jumbotron again, another minute down even though I feel like it took me a thousand years to get to the point.
“Definitely thinking about Death-Cast. And life.”
“Kind of the same thing now, right?”
“Kind of.” He stands, and his eyes find mine again. “I’m Valentino, by the way.”
Shit, that name fits. I don’t know what I mean by that, but I’m one hundred percent right, and I’ll swing at anyone who says otherwise. I mean, I would definitely lose that fight, since I’m zero for one million in fights, but I would fight, fight, fight that fight anyway.
“I’m Orion.”
“That’s so funny, you’re literally the fifth Orion I know.”
“Really?”
Valentino smiles. “Not really.”
Wow, I’m so damn dumb. “I’m too gullible, you can’t play me like that.”
“Ha-ha, I’m sorry! You’re the first Orion I know,” Valentino says. “I promise.”
Seriously, my name in his mouth is straight fire to my face, like extra sunburn. And being this close to him has got my insides tight, like all my cardiac veins are choking out my heart because it owes them money. But Valentino seems totally chill, I doubt I’m rattling him at all. One glance at his full, bottom lip reminds me that my own is chapped, so I grab my ChapStick to correct that. He watches me glide it across my lip, and he’s got to be thinking I’m prepping for a kiss, which I mean, I’m not, but also, I wouldn’t be mad at that at all.
Damn, maybe I am thinking with my dick.
I also keep making an ass out of myself.
I can’t be left alone with Valentino right now.
“Dalma!” I wave her over, and she comes to the rescue ASAP. “Dalma, this is Valentino.”
“Hi,” Dalma says, shaking his hand; I didn’t even get to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Valentino says. “Your boyfriend here—”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Dalma says. Deep breath, then: “No, no, no, no.”
I stare at her, slightly—nah, majorly insulted at how long she was living in those no-no-no’s. “Okay, calm down, I’m not trying to date you either.”
“He’s practically my younger brother,” Dalma says.
“Younger by two months,” I say.
“As if the world couldn’t have ended in the two months it took for you to be born.”
“You always say that, like you’re trying to have me killed off.”
I don’t get it, are we throwing down for Valentino? We’re eighteen, not eight, but I saw him first, said hi first, made an ass of myself first. I get to see where this is going first.
Thankfully he doesn’t seem completely turned off of us.
“You definitely have the practically sibling bickering down,” Valentino says, not a beat of judgment in his voice. “I’m the same with my twin.”
Holy shit, there are two of him.
I mean, I got to wonder at this point if I’ve already died and moved on to the afterlife where there are two Valentinos. Maybe Dalma and I don’t have to compete at all—we both get to bring a Valentino home and live happy lives.
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Twin bro or sis?”
“Sister,” Valentino says, which means the fight for his heart is still on.
“Where’s she at?”
“Scarlett is back home in Arizona.”
Back home. So he doesn’t live here.
This is why I need to stop getting ahead of myself.
As a writer, I’m always telling stories before I even know what they’re about, getting carried away and turning words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters, chapters into love stories. Maybe winging it like that works for novels, but for life, your imagination can set you up for a heartbreaking ending.
“That sucks that she’s missing out on this party,” I say, trying not to get too bummed out. I really got to stop investing so fast.
“She’s actually photographing the party in Phoenix. Then she’s flying in tomorrow morning for more New York adventures.”
“How long are you visiting for?”
“I actually just moved here,” Valentino says, looking around again at Times Square.
His words get my heart racing.
So does his smile again.
Valentino has this happy glow while looking around the city as a newly minted New Yorker. Who knows how long he’s been waiting to make this happen. It could be a month, a year, a decade, his whole life. Were things bad back in Arizona? Did Valentino and Scarlett need a change? What’s good with their parents—or guardians? Are they also moving here? I have so many questions, and it might take a minute to get some answers, but I know I got time now too.
“Welcome to NYC,” Dalma says. “So you’re alone tonight?”
“I am. I arrived a couple hours ago and came right back out for the party.”
“You can chill with us if you want,” I offer.
“Some company would be nice. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Hell no. It’s not like you know anyone else in the city.”
“I’m actually very popular. My landlord is pretty much my best friend.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” I say, which is just so damn bold.
“He’s actually the worst, but I’ll have to have you over soon anyway,” Valentino says with that damn smile.
All right, all right, all right—if this isn’t a thing, then I’m giving up on ever making the first move again. I’m going to need a guy to swear on my parents’ grave that he loves me, and I won’t even tell him that those plots are empty so that he doesn’t get funny and lie.
But because Valentino’s got me weak, I wouldn’t need all that.
His smile alone has got me cashing in.
Valentino
11:32 p.m.
It’s my first night and I’m making friends already.
Friends with beautiful names. Beautiful faces too.
I stare at Orion, whose cheekbones are worthy of every magazine cover and his hazel eyes, which I suspect have seen too much for someone so young. I realize I’m staring too long when he begins blushing. I’m pretty confident that Orion is gay. I guess he could be bisexual, but at the very least I’m sure he likes other boys too. It’s obviously not a bad thing that I can tell. I’m jealous that he seems so open and has been probably given the chance to do so. I should find a way to make it clear that I’m into boys too.
“What’s got you hyped about New York so far?” Orion asks.
I could spend the rest of the night answering that question. “I really want to do everything. Just live like a tourist so I don’t take any day for granted.”
“That’s really smart,” Dalma says. “I love this city, but I’m over so much of it.”
“Like what?”
“Subway showtimes. The first few are amazing, but then you get over it and stay focused on whatever you were doing before the dancers arrived.”
“And praying you don’t get kicked in the face,” Orion adds.
“I hope I don’t stop finding it magical” is all I say.
Orion must see some of the excitement vanishing from my eyes. “Don’t let us kill your buzz, we’re both born and raised here. You’re going to be all in, all the time.”
“That’s the plan.”
“What’s epic about New York is that you’re never going to be able to do it all.”
“That’s epic?”
“Hell yeah. It means there’s always something to do. Some new neighborhood to explore, knowing every street will tell its own story. I’m happy to be your tour guide if you want.”
I smile, excited for Orion’s own stories as he takes me around the city. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Thanks so much.”
“You got it.”
A big group of people in lime-green shirts and headbands pass by. They look like they’ve time-traveled from a St. Paddy’s Day celebration, but I know better. They’re extraterrestrial believers who are certain UFOs will surface at midnight and beam them up; we have a lot of those back in Arizona. These believers are mostly harmless—bad eggs in every group, of course—but they’re all in for reality checks really soon when they’re still grounded here tomorrow with nine-to-fives to work and taxes bleeding them dry.
I’m about to take a picture for Scarlett when Dalma asks me a question.
“Are you switching schools for the fall?”
“I’m actually putting college on the back burner. I’m pursuing my dreams instead.”
“Which are . . . ?” Orion asks.
I still get a little nervous sharing what I do because people can be judgmental, and if that’s true for Orion and Dalma, it’s better to know now before I get too invested. I can’t be around people who won’t let me be me anymore. “I’m a model.”
