Still Not Dead, page 17
“Taryn, my sister, the girl I love. Maybe give it a rest.”
“I wasn’t trying to win Millie’s heart!”
Paolo shakes his head, his eyes tearing up. “Forget it, man.” He descends the spiral staircase, and then we hear the front door downstairs open and close.
I turn back to Millie, who’s looking distraught and vulnerable, her hands still in her pockets. “Why did you say that?” I ask in disbelief.
“It’s how I feel.”
“I know, but—”
“You know?”
“No, I mean, I didn’t know until now, and I’m flattered, but why did you have to say that to Paolo?”
“He wanted to know the truth.”
“Right.” I wipe a layer of sweat off my forehead. It’s gotten incredibly hot in this apartment.
“I see you staring at me sometimes,” Millie says, her eyes glued to her Vans. “I thought you already knew how I felt.”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”
“That’s why I was biking around on the night of your deathdate. I went by your house to try and see you one last time, but then I saw your stepmom on the porch waiting for you, so I figured you might be at Paolo’s. I started biking to his house. And then you hit me with Danza.”
“Wow,” I say. All of this is news to me.
“I thought it was fate. Like, bringing us together. It’s dumb.”
“Yeah.” I’d be lying if I said Millie hadn’t grown on me a ton in the past weeks, and I’d also be lying if I said I hadn’t found her attractive and adorable on more than one occasion. But I know how Paolo feels about her. And I know how I feel about Veronica. “Millie, you’re fantastic, but—”
“Please don’t give me the same spiel I gave Paolo. You love who you love. It’s not your fault.”
“Right. Okay.”
Millie stares at the portrait of the two naked people, as if she’s newly intrigued by its artistic merit.
“I think I’m gonna go try and find him,” I say. “Do you wanna come?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the painting.
“All right. Um, you should probably leave when I do, though. Just, you know, because of my mom.”
Millie nods, still not looking at me.
I grab my sneakers from my room and put them on, and we both leave the apartment. I’m about to say something about how great Millie is and how, if circumstances were different, I might be into her. But then that feels like a dick move on at least four different levels.
So I just stand there on the sidewalk like an idiot before we head off in different directions.
I start my search at the somewhat redundantly named Brooklyn Deli and Sandwiches, just a block away. I think it’s where Paolo always goes for his egg sandwiches, so I’m hoping he’ll be here. But there’s only one customer inside besides me, a short, older lady with swoopy white hair.
“Thank you, dear,” she says to a mustachioed man at the deli counter as he hands her a wrapped-up sandwich.
“Of course, honey. Have a great weekend,” he says. I’m impressed by the apparent richness of their relationship.
“What can I get ya?” the mustachioed man says to me, all business now. He has two stud earrings in his left ear.
“Um…are you by any chance Reynaldo?”
“Yeah. Why?” Reynaldo is very intimidating.
“Oh, just ’cause my friend Paolo comes in here a lot, and I was—”
“Paolo!” A gigantic smile blossoms on Reynaldo’s face. “That’s my boy, right there. You must be his buddy Frank.”
“Yeah,” I say, stunned. Reynaldo extends a hand over the counter, and we shake. I’ve never met anyone as skilled as Paolo at making friends and garnering goodwill from people he barely knows.
“Yo, what can I make for you, Frank? Anything you want. It’s on me.”
He wants to give me a free sandwich? Because of how much he respects Paolo? Wow. It reminds me yet again how lucky I am to have Paolo as a friend. And also that he’s off walking the streets, feeling awful right now.
“Um, actually, I’m here looking for Paolo. He wasn’t just in here, was he?”
“Nah,” Reynaldo says. “Sorry. But come on, let me make you a sandwich. I’m rapid-fire, bro.”
I don’t turn him down. I know I’m terrible, but I’m really hungry, and I figure I’ll search much better on a full stomach. Seven minutes later, I’m devouring a bacon, egg, and Swiss as I walk the streets looking for Paolo, who was right: Reynaldo does have a light touch. This is a subtly crafted gem of a sandwich.
But I don’t think I’m going to find Paolo. And I don’t think he wants to be found.
Oh man. His funeral is in five days. What if he goes back to New Jersey and I can’t see him again until then, the day before he dies? Or what if I can’t even make it to his funeral because there’re too many DIA agents lurking around?
What if just now—that brutal, heartrending moment—was the last time I’m ever going to see Paolo?
No.
I refuse to let that be the case. I will be at his funeral. And I will figure out a way to pass him the virus. Maybe I couldn’t save Haley Whitney, but I will absogoddamnlutely be saving Paolo Diaz.
I work myself into an impassioned huff, and I keep walking, not sure if I’m even searching for Paolo anymore. I pass women with strollers, kids with scooters, old people with walkers. I keep walking.
At a certain point, I realize that all the people passing me are conversing in Spanish. As I look around to get a better sense of where I am, I notice I’m standing right next to a celebration home. The R. G. Martinez Celebration Home, to be specific, as its red-and-black sign gaudily proclaims.
There are two men in suits standing in front, smoking cigarettes and speaking rapidly about something. I’ve been taking Spanish since middle school, so you’d think I’d know exactly what they’re saying. I don’t. The only words I can pick out are hungry and sad and beautiful.
I’m pretty sure there’s a funeral going on inside as we speak.
I slide past the hungry, sad, beautiful men, open the white door, and enter.
On any other day, I’d be incredibly self-conscious that I’m not dressed well enough for this event; I’m wearing cargo shorts and a green T-shirt that says, JUST BE YOURSELF…AS LONG AS YOU’RE NOT ANNOYING. But today I don’t care.
I step into a small foyer area and immediately encounter a huge painting of Jesus. His hands are spread out, welcoming. His smile is knowing.
There’s a tall woman in a black dress standing next to the painting, her eyes closed as she speaks into a small cross held close to her face.
I try to sneak by her, but she looks up, angry and disoriented to have been jarred out of her prayer session. She takes in me and my wardrobe and gives me some serious stink eye.
“Hi,” I say.
She shakes her head at me. I creak open the door beneath a sign that says CHAPEL/CAPILLA and peek inside. There is indeed a funeral going on, and it’s a much smaller one than Haley Whitney’s: probably about seventy-five people spread out amongst a hundred or so folding chairs.
There’s a teenage girl standing up at the lectern, crying as she speaks in Spanish.
Bingo.
I didn’t even have to try. A teen funeral just fell into my lap.
This is fate.
(Like when you crashed into Millie’s bike with your car? That kind of fate? a voice in my head asks.)
This whole time I’ve been trusting my mother, believing her words about what the virus can or cannot do. Yes, she and I both survived because of it, and apparently so did a few mice, but I haven’t actually seen proof that I’m actually this Important Vessel or whatever it is they have me pegged as.
Well, screw that. I’m tired of putting my trust in others.
I need to know for myself.
And then maybe I’ll be one step closer to saving Paolo.
I let the chapel door slowly close as I step backward, and then I barrel past Tall Praying Woman onto the street. I look left and right, and find what I’m looking for two doors down.
I stride into the bodega, head straight to the refrigerated beverages section, and grab a bottle of Poland Spring. I pay for it at the counter, exchanging nice smiles with the dark-haired man who takes my money.
I also buy a couple of Peanut Chews from a plastic jar on the counter. For later.
Bells on the door ring out as I leave the bodega in my wake. I’m already feeling the satisfying crack of the plastic seal as I open up the bottle and raise it to my lips. I never stop moving, swigging water into my mouth and sloshing it around as I glide into the small celebration home foyer, then spitting it back into the bottle as I head through the chapel door.
I take a seat in the back. A couple of heads snap toward me—one of which belongs to Tall Praying Woman, who’s made her way to her seat—but most remain focused on the teenage girl at the lectern. She’s finishing up her self-eulogy, which, of course, I can’t fully understand. She seems less sad now and more hopeful. I figure I’ll wait until she wraps up. Even if I am going to save her life, that doesn’t mean I should interrupt what she believes to be her final words.
My heart is rat-a-tatting at a rapid pace.
The teenage girl takes a moment and stares out at some people in the front row, then says some words up to the ceiling, then says words to everyone. This is the end of her speech.
I grab on to the seat in front of me and brace myself, ready to pop up and make some magic.
But as the girl leaves the podium, she’s intercepted by a large man, who gives her a huge hug and three kisses on her cheek and then walks up to the podium.
Wait a second. Someone else is speaking after the self-eulogy? That doesn’t make sense. Whose funeral is this anyway?
Oh.
The large man carries himself with dignity and grace, and as he looks out at the room of people, it’s instantly obvious that the funeral is for him. The teenage girl must be his daughter.
I slide back into my seat.
This is a curveball, but, honestly, it changes nothing. The only advantage of passing the virus to a teenager was that I could more easily blend into the crowd. Clearly I let go of that when I waltzed in here in my summer wear. And why shouldn’t this man survive? I already know he’s got at least one kid who’s going to miss the hell out of him.
I’m doing this. For Paolo. And for my mom, who’ll see that I didn’t mess it up this time.
The man begins his self-eulogy with a line that gets a huge laugh. Something in me pings, and I know, even though he’s just starting to speak, I have to act now. Before I understand what’s happening, I’ve ridden the laugh up onto my feet.
“Hey there,” I say from the back of the chapel. “Hola.”
The man stares at me, along with everyone else in the room.
“Lo siento,” I say, “but I, uh, come bearing a gift for you, sir. Um…in order to live. To, uh…vivir! Tú vives si bebes esta agua.” I am so proud of myself right now for digging that sentence up out of my brain.
“I’ll live if I drink your water?” the man says. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh. You speak English.” Whatever, I’m still proud of myself. “Yes, that’s totally what I’m saying.”
“You are aware this is my funeral, right?” He speaks with a poise and calm I instantly admire.
“Yes, absolutely. And I’m truly sorry I’m underdressed.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir.”
“Does anyone here know you?” He looks out to the audience. “¿Alguien sabe este chico?” People vigorously shake their heads.
“No, sir,” I say. “No one does. But—”
“Do we have to call the police to escort you out of here?”
Okay, time for a new tactic.
“I know this seems crazy, like a stupid prank or something, but I swear: if you drink this water in my hand, you will live through your deathdate.”
The man says something in Spanish to people in the front row. The only word I understand is policía.
“¡Por favor!” I say. “Don’t call the police yet. Please.” Come on, Powers of Persuasion, don’t fail me now. “Look, I think it will work because it did for me. I lived through my deathdate.”
The man makes a hold-on gesture to his front-row posse, and they do. “By drinking that water?” he asks.
“No, well, for me it was different.” I can’t tell this man that I’m a carrier and so I spit in the water and now he has to drink it. That has to be the absolute worst way to convince him. “I mean, it was a different bottle of water. But, yes. I survived by drinking it. There’s something mixed in the water that erases your deathdate.”
“Get out of here!” an old woman shouts. “This boy has been sent by the devil! Leave, Devil Boy!”
A chorus of voices rises up in support of the old woman, including the voice of Tall Woman, who I’m realizing might be the soon-to-be-dead man’s sister; they have the same eyes.
“I promise I have not been sent by the devil!” I raise my voice to be heard over the din. “I know this sounds insane, but, seriously, what do you have to lose? If you don’t drink the water, then you’ll definitely die, right?” The voices simmer down. “What’s the worst that could happen if you do?”
The room falls silent as the man looks down at his thick hands. I like him. This is a life I can really get behind saving.
“¡Podría ser veneno, Miguel!” Tall Woman shouts. The man, who I now know to be Miguel, lifts one hand to quiet her.
Finally he looks up. “Why have you chosen me?” he asks.
There’s a billion things I could say here, but rather than doing a lightning-fast comprehensive analysis of which of those things has the odds of being most convincing, I’m just going with the truth.
“It’s kinda random, really. I was just passing by, and you seem like a nice man. But, the thing is, I need to know if this works. We think it will, but we’re not completely sure. And my best friend, Paolo, is supposed to die in six days, so I need to know before then.”
“How old is your best friend?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“So you thought you would just crash my funeral and use me as a guinea pig?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very—”
“Okay.”
The crowd gasps. It’s possible I do, too.
“Miguel, no! Please!” Tall Woman begs.
“Okay?” I ask.
“I want to get on with the ceremony, so, yes, okay. If me sipping that water will get you to leave.”
“It will,” I say, already moving down the aisle, the water bottle shaking in my hand.
Almost every face that greets me is suspicious and distrustful, and for the first time since I walked through that chapel door, I’m wondering if maybe this is the completely wrong thing. Maybe I’ve gone too far. I didn’t mention my name, did I?
Lost in thought as I am, I’m not paying close enough attention to my surroundings, and I trip over a loose tile. I’m flying forward, desperately trying to keep the open water bottle upright, when two arms catch my torso and lift me back to my feet, without letting even a drop of the water spill. It’s Miguel’s daughter. She’s surprisingly strong.
“Thank you,” I say, shaking.
She looks me straight in the eyes. “Please don’t hurt my father,” she says.
“Of course not,” I say.
I step up to the lectern next to Miguel. I hold out the bottle of water. He nods and takes it from me.
This virus pass is actually going to happen.
“I hope someone comes to your funeral one day and ruins it for you just like you have done here!” Tall Woman says.
You’re too late for that, sweetheart.
“Salud,” Miguel says, lifting the bottle. I watch warily, half expecting him to splash it in my face like Haley did. But he takes a huge chug.
“Salud,” I say.
It’s happened. If it is going to spread, that should do it.
Miguel’s face twists up as he forces the bottle back into my hand.
“Mierda,” he says. “You little shit, did you spit in that water?”
“Uh,” I say.
I don’t stop running until I’m at least twenty blocks away from the R. G. Martinez Celebration Home.
That did not end well.
I unwrap one of my Peanut Chews and pop it into my mouth. I catch my breath as I chew and try to get my bearings. A woman in her twenties walks by with a huge yellow dog, which growls at me.
I think I convinced Miguel and his family not to call the cops on me, but I can’t be completely sure, since I was running as I shouted, “Please don’t call the cops on me!”
As he ran after me, Miguel said I wasn’t the devil, just a disrespectful little punk. I honestly think he wanted to strangle me, Homer and Bart–style. But he didn’t, because I’m a pretty good runner and, as I’ve mentioned, Miguel is a large man.
I start walking again. I pass a series of outdoor restaurants, where people only slightly older than me are enjoying burgers and sunshine, talking and laughing loudly at each other.
I keep remembering the look in Miguel’s eyes the moment after he chugged, how sad and angry he was to have been duped in front of all his friends and family on the day before he’s going to die.
Well, that’s life, right? Sometimes it’s hard to do the right thing.
Which brings me to a bigger question: have I done the right thing? Ten minutes ago, my body flooded with adrenaline, my feet pounding the sidewalk, my answer would have been an unqualified yes. I felt triumphant.
But now I’m feeling extreme doubt. For one thing, I wasn’t under the radar at all. Putting aside the fact that I already stuck out as one of the few white people there, I was also the only person wearing a T-shirt and shorts. And the only one standing up and saying things in the middle of the self-eulogy. I think it’s safe to say many of the funeral attendees will remember me.
Which I don’t think my mom would be so into, no matter how excited she is that I’ve successfully passed on the virus.
