The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(5)

God bless those— I stop myself, still recalibrating everything in my head and heart.

Good luck to those who are basically going to be the Death-Cast test subjects.

As for me, I’ve been reborn and I have a lot of living to do.





Orion


10:34 p.m.

Even if the world was ending, that wouldn’t stop people from selling things.

The vendor tables in Times Square are usually too touristy for me to give a flying fuck, I have no use for magnets of the Empire State Building or taxicab key chains with my name. (Not that anyone ever puts any love into manufacturing things for the Orions of the world.) But even though it’s only been a month since Death-Cast first announced their program, the street vendors were on top of their shit with producing thematic souvenirs: a Smoke ’Em If You Got ’Em cigarette lighter; shot glasses with a skull sticker; sunglasses with red X’s painted on; and lots of apparel like shirts and hats. There’s a damn cute beanie I’m tempted to buy, but I’m already wearing my Yankees snapback that belonged to my dad, and this thing always lives on top of my curls whenever I’m out and about. I wouldn’t trade this hat for anything in the world. Okay, that’s a big stretch, I’d swap out this hat for a healthy heart in a millisecond, but you feel me.

“This isn’t even clever,” Dalma says, picking up a shirt that reads Death-Cast is dying to call you!

It’s so corny I want to set it on fire.

“Yeah, I’m not buying that one.”

Then a shirt does catch my eye. It’s white with Have a Happy End Day! written in a typewriter font across the chest. It’s kind of classy even if I don’t believe an End Day can be happy. What’s so great about dying? But I guess it’s more inspirational, and I can’t knock that. If nothing else, it’ll be a cool-ass souvenir and something to show off when people inevitably ask Where were you when Death-Cast went live?, kind of like how people ask Where were you on 9/11?

Hopefully nothing traumatic goes down tonight.

I don’t need any more grief in my life.

I buy the shirt, throwing it on top of the navy shirt I was already rocking to go with my skinny jeans. This look works too.

“You getting anything?” I ask Dalma.

“A headache,” Dalma says, back on her phone. “My mom won’t stop checking in.”

Our family—but really Dalma’s actual family—are visiting her stepfather Floyd’s parents in Dayton, Ohio, for the week, and it’s the first time they’ve left us alone to fend for ourselves. Her mom, Dayana, takes her responsibility as my legal guardian very literally, especially to honor my mother, aka her childhood best friend.

“She’s just trying to keep us alive,” I say. “At least she actually let us hang back.”

“A moment of silence for Dahlia,” Dalma says, closing her eyes.

We grieve her half sister’s vacation plans since she didn’t have a choice but to go visit her grandparents, who are getting so old they might be the first people Death-Cast calls. My lita and lito are out in Puerto Rico and we catch up on Skype whenever my cousins are around to set that up for them. I’ve only met them a couple times, but it means a lot to them whenever we chat, since I’m the spitting image of my dad, apart from my mom’s hazel eyes. I don’t correct my lito or lita when they call me Ernesto by mistake. That name fills hearts that have long been broken since my parents died.

Dalma deep sighs, killing the silence. “I feel much better now. Gracias.”

“De-fucking-nada.”

“Let’s send Mom a picture so she knows we’re alive.”

Dalma rotates with her new iPhone 4’s selfie cam, struggling to find the right lighting with all these glowing Broadway marquees. She stops when she finds the best angle, the digital hourglasses high in the background.

We squeeze together for the photo, smiling like we’re living it up on Death-Cast Eve. Then the fun part is looking it over, aka obsessing over every detail that I hate about myself. Dalma is gorgeous, an easy 10/10 with her brown eyes, silver mascara that matches her lipstick, glowing dark brown skin, and her black hair braided into a topknot. All I got going for me is that I tower over her at six feet, but otherwise I’m a mess. I love that my eyes are hazel, but I don’t get why the left one is always uneven, like it’s trying to go back to sleep. The brown curls creeping out from under my hat are clumping together and getting frizzy in this heat and it’s not cute. My nose and cheeks are still red from last week’s sunburn from chilling on our brownstone’s rooftop. I begin reaching for my ChapStick when I see how busted my bottom lip is looking. And no matter how many compliments I get on the daily about my sharp cheekbones, I stay swearing I look gaunt and near death, which, I guess, is fitting.

“You hate it,” Dalma says. It’s not even a question.

“It’s whatever. It’s just for us anyway,” I say.

“We can redo it if you want.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

We keep it moving, stopping like ten seconds later to watch this raffle where a Death-Cast rep is offering free subscriptions. If the line wasn’t so long, I’d hop on too, because their service isn’t cheap. A woman wins a free month, which is worth $275. You can pay as little as $20 for one day or $3,000 for the whole year. My medical bills are wild enough, but my guardians still invested in the annual charge anyway because my heart condition won’t exactly take a day off. It must be nice to not need to drop that much bank and only opt in when you’re planning on doing something super adventurous, like skydiving or rafting. (You’d probably skip jumping out of a plane or traveling down rapid waters if you find out you’re about to die.) Unfortunately, Death-Cast is yet another thing insurance doesn’t cover. Which I guess doesn’t matter if you’ve got thousands on thousands on thousands on thousands in your pocket.