Alone
Mateo
2:02 a.m.
I don't know how many Last Friend accounts are active in the world, but
there are currently forty-two online in New York City alone, and staring
down these users feels a lot like being in my high school auditorium on the
first day of classes. There's all this pressure, and I don't know where to start
—until I receive a message.
There's a bright blue envelope in my inbox, and it glows in pulses,
waiting to be clicked open. There's no subject line, just some basic
information: Wendy Mae Greene. 19 years old. Female. Manhattan, New
York (2 miles away). I click her profile. She isn't a Decker, just a girl who's
up late looking to console one. In her bio she's a self-described "bookworm
obsessed with all things Scorpius Hawthorne," and this common link is
probably why she's reaching out. She also likes walking around, too,
"especially in late May when the weather is perfect." I won't be around for
late May, Wendy Mae. I wonder how long she's had this profile and if
anyone's told her that speaking about the future like that might offend some
Deckers, how it might be mistaken as showing off how much life she still
has left to live. I move past it and click her photo. She seems nice—light
skinned, brown eyes, brown hair, a nose piercing, and a big smile. I open
the message.
Wendy Mae G. (2:02 a.m.): hi mateo. u have great taste in bks. bet ur
wishing u had a death cloaking spell, huh??
I'm sure she means well, but between her bio and this message, she's
hammering me with nails instead of giving me the pat on the back I was
hoping for. I won't be rude, though.
Mateo T. (2:03 a.m.): Hey, Wendy Mae. Thanks, you have great taste
in books too.
Wendy Mae G. (2:03 a.m.): scorpius hawthorne 4 life . . . how r u
doing?
Mateo T. (2:03 a.m.): Not great. I don't want to leave my room, but I
know I have to get out of here.
Wendy Mae G. (2:03 a.m.): what was the call like? were you scared?
Mateo T. (2:04 a.m.): I freaked out a little bit—a lot of bit, actually.
Wendy Mae G. (2:04 a.m.): lol. ur funny. n really cute. ur mom n dad
must be losing their heads 2 rite?
Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): I don't mean to be rude, but I have to go now.
Have a nice night, Wendy Mae.
Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): wat did i say? y do u dead guys always
stop talking 2 me?
Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): It's no big deal, really. It's hard for my parents to
lose their heads when my mom is out of the picture and my dad is in a
coma.
Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): how was i supposed 2 kno that?
Mateo T. (2:05 a.m.): It's in my profile.
Wendy Mae G. (2:05 a.m.): fine, watevr. do u have an open house
then? i'm supposed to lose my virginity to my bf but i want to practice
first and maybe u can help me out.
I click out while she's typing another message and block her for good
measure. I get her insecurities, I guess, and I feel bad for her and her
boyfriend if she manages to cheat on him, but I'm not some miracle worker.
I receive some more messages, these with subject lines:
Subject: 420?
Kevin and Kelly. 21 years old. Male.
Bronx, New York (4 miles away).
Decker? No.
Subject: My condolences, Mateo (great name)
Philly Buiser. 24 years old. Male.
Manhattan, New York (3 miles away).
Decker? No.
Subject: u selling a couch? good condition?
J. Marc. 26 years old. Male.
Manhattan, New York (1 mile away).
Decker? No.
Subject: Dying sucks, huh?
Elle R. 20 years old. Female.
Manhattan, New York (3 miles away).
Decker? Yes.
I ignore Kevin and Kelly's message; not interested in pot. I delete J.
Marc's message because I'm not selling the couch Dad will need again for
his weekend naps. I'm going to answer Philly's message—because it came
first.
Philly B. (2:06 a.m.): Hey, Mateo. How's it going?
Mateo T. (2:08 a.m.): Hey, Philly. Is it too lame to say I'm hanging in
there?
Philly B. (2:08 a.m.): Nah, I'm sure it's rough. Not looking forward to
the day Death-Cast calls me. Are you sick or something? Pretty young
to be dying.
Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): I'm healthy, yeah. I'm terrified of how it's going
to happen, but I'm nervous I'll somehow disappoint myself if I don't get
out there. I definitely don't want to stink up the apartment by dying in
here.
Philly B. (2:09 a.m.): I can help with that, Mateo.
Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): Help with what?
Philly B. (2:09 a.m.): Making sure you don't die.
Mateo T. (2:09 a.m.): That's not a thing anyone can promise.
Philly B. (2:10 a.m.): I can. You seem like a cool guy who doesn't
deserve to die so you should come over to my apartment. It'll have to be
a secret, though, but I have the cure to death in my pants.
I block Philly and open up Elle's message. Maybe the third time will be
the charm.