The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(3)

Frankie pauses while going up the first flight of stairs. “Where’s the other one?”

“The other one?”

“Your twin.”

“Oh, she’s flying in tomorrow morning.”

Frankie continues ascending. “Make sure if any other big boxes arrive you handle them in a timely fashion. Carrying all your deliveries up these stairs was bad on my back.”

“I’m so sorry.” I had to ship some things early, like an air mattress, blankets, towels, pots, and pans. Though I’m guessing the biggest culprit for his back pain were the five boxes of clothes and shoes and accessories, which are just as essential as making sure I have somewhere to sleep until my proper mattress can arrive on Tuesday. “Is the elevator broken?”

“It’s been broken since my father ran this place,” Frankie says.

I see. I’m not sure how legal it is to advertise the building having an elevator if it’s purely decorative, but I’m going to make the most of it. All those years spent in my family’s small home gym have prepared me for this life. I haul the suitcases, knowing they’re about fifty pounds each, since I had to weigh them at the airport. Frankie makes no offer to assist, which is okay. By the third flight up I’m remembering that my new apartment is on the sixth floor. Sweat is building on my lower back, and I’m positive I can skip leg day during all future workouts. I’m out of breath at the top, but—actually, no buts. This is all part of the initiation of the city. Nothing makes me feel like a real New Yorker than being able to say that I live in a sixth-floor walk-up on the Upper East Side.

There’s no ceremony when I’m led to apartment 6G. No welcome to the building, no congratulations on my first home away from home. Frankie simply opens the door, and I follow him inside, leaving my suitcases in the narrow entry hallway. The bathroom is to my immediate left, and while I know I’m going to spend hours in there every week doing my extensive face routines, I’m interested in exploring the space where I’ll be doing most of my living. The wooden floor creaks under my boots as I step into the studio. My delivered boxes are up against the left wall where I’m planning on putting my bed. There are two windows facing the street and a third above the kitchen sink that offers the view into another neighbor’s apartment. That’s not a problem. I’ll buy curtains this week.

However, the biggest problem is how small this apartment is. Scarlett and I are using the money our parents reserved for college to pursue our dreams—modeling and photography—and we’re hoping to stretch it as long as possible, hence the studio.

“The photos online made it seem bigger,” I say.

“I took those pictures,” Frankie says.

“They were really pretty. Are you sure you uploaded the right photos for this listing? We were expecting more space.”

Frankie stares. “You had the option to visit before leasing.”

“I didn’t live here yet. I only just arrived.”

“That’s not my problem. You and your sister shared a womb. You’ll figure it out.”

Here’s hoping this studio apartment expands to fit our needs like our mother’s uterus.

Luckily for Frankie, I’m not confrontational. I can’t say the same for Scarlett, but that’s a lesson he’ll learn once she arrives. On the bright side, it’s only my first night in New York and an iconic feud with my landlord is already beginning. This is a yearlong lease, and I’m sure by the end of it I’ll have so many stories to share with all my new friends about this time in my life.

There’s a knock on the door, and a young boy walks in. I’m bad at guessing ages. Is he five but really tall for his age or ten but really short? There’s something familiar about him, but I honestly can’t place why.

He’s wearing pajamas and waves. “Are you our new neighbor?” he asks with a smile.

“I am. My name is Valentino.”

“I’m Paz.”

“Cool name, Paz.”

“It’s short for Pazito, but only my mom calls me that. I like your name too.”

This is the most welcomed I’ve felt tonight.

Before I can thank him, I notice Frankie glaring at Paz.

“Why are you out of bed?” Frankie asks.

“I’m scared because of Death-Cast.”

Frankie rubs his eyes. “Death-Cast is not real. Go to sleep.”

Paz starts tearing up. “Okay, Daddy.” He drags his feet toward the door, looking over his shoulder as if he’s waiting for his father to change his mind. Nothing. He goes down the hallway without another word.

I really want to stop Paz and comfort him about Death-Cast, but I suspect I shouldn’t try to undermine Frankie in front of him. I’m sure another opportunity will arise.

“Nice kid,” I say.

Frankie doesn’t acknowledge Paz again. He only places two sets of keys on the kitchen counter. “Big key is for your apartment, medium for downstairs, small for mail. I’m directly down the hall, but don’t knock before nine or after five.”

“Understood. Thanks so—”

Frankie leaves, closing the door behind him.

“—much, Frankie,” I say to no one.

The studio doesn’t seem any bigger without Frankie, but it’s not as cold thankfully.