The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(10)

“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.”

Orion’s eyes light up as he turns to Dalma. “I told you!”

“Did you think I wasn’t one?” I ask her.

“You’re obviously handsome, but Orion says that about every cute guy.”

“I don’t know whether to feel special or not.”

“Feel special,” Orion cuts in. Then he’s blushing. “I mean, yeah, of course your face should be everywhere.”

“Thanks for believing in me and my face.”

“Anytime. Anything we would’ve seen you in?”

Only the really famous models have direct answers for this, and that’s certainly not me.

My first job was for these nameplate necklaces last year, and to make me even less recognizable, they had me sporting a Leo necklace. Then I was in a brochure for Prescott College, which is the only time anyone will see me on that campus because that tuition is too rich for my blood. Since then I’ve done a bunch of local ads where I’ve posed as a big brother, a baseball player, a driving student, and an employee to promote the Phoenix Bat Cave in Paradise Valley.

But soon enough, when someone asks if they’ve seen me in anything, I can point to this very corner of New York City.

“Not yet, but . . .” I gesture around at Times Square, imagining my face as high as these mega screens and billboards, and as low as the subway ads. “Tomorrow morning I start shooting for my first national campaign. It’s for this queer clothing line made by queer designers that puts out special items year-round instead of just for Pride month. It means a lot to me as a gay boy who couldn’t have gotten away with wearing any of these pieces growing up.” I see the smile creeping onto Orion’s face like he’s just as happy to have confirmation that I’m gay as I am to get it off my chest. As I always will, no matter who has a problem with it. “Hopefully that campaign pushes my life forward.”

Orion claps, which is pretty cute. “Congrats, Valentino! That’s so dope.”

“We can say we knew you when,” Dalma says.

“You absolutely can. What about you both? What are your dreams?”

I’ve stopped asking people where they go to school or what they do for work. I know how bad it was making me feel when people looked down on me for not going to college, or how modeling isn’t seen as a credible profession until you’re being paid millions to smile for the camera. That will be me one day, but I have to start somewhere.

“I’m a short story writer,” Orion says.

“That’s amazing! What kind of stuff?”

“Like genre? Mostly weird fantasy stuff. Some sci-fi. One fairy tale.”

“Will you let me read some of it one day?”

Dalma laughs. “Good luck!”

Orion is the shyest I’ve seen him. “Maybe one day. I kind of keep it close.”

I suspect there’s more to that story, but I don’t want to push him. “No worries, Orion. If you ever change your mind I’d love to read something you’ve written.” I turn to Dalma. “So between the three of us we have a model, writer, and . . .”

“I’m a programmer,” Dalma says.

I honestly would’ve thought she was a model too. This is why you don’t judge a book by its cover.