Prodigy

Rufus

2:59 a.m.

Wish Death-Cast called before I ruined my life tonight.

If Death-Cast hit me up last night, they would've knocked me out of

that dream I was having where I was losing a marathon to some little kids

on tricycles. If Death-Cast hit me up one week ago, I wouldn't have been up

late reading all the notes Aimee wrote me when we were still a thing. If

Death-Cast called two weeks ago, they would've interrupted that argument

I was having with Malcolm and Tagoe about how Marvel heroes are better

than DC heroes (and maybe I would've asked the herald to weigh in). If

Death-Cast called one month ago, they would've killed the dead silence that

came with me not wanting to talk with anyone after Aimee left. But nah,

Death-Cast called tonight while I was pounding on Peck, which led to

Aimee dragging him to the duplex to confront me, which led to Peck

getting the cops involved and cutting my funeral short, which led to me

being one hundred percent alone right now.

None of that would've happened if Death-Cast called one day sooner.

I hear police sirens and keep pedaling. I hope something else is

happening.

I give it a few more minutes before I take a break, stopping between a

McDonald's and a gas station. It's mad bright, maybe kneeling over here is

stupid, but staying in plain sight might be a good hiding spot. I don't know,

I'm not James Bond, I don't have some guidebook on how to hide from the

bad guys.

Shit, I'm the bad guy.

I can't keep moving, though. My heart is racing, my legs are on fire, and

I gotta catch my breath.

I sit on the curb outside the gas station. It smells like piss and cheap

beer. There's graffiti of two silhouettes on the wall with the air pumps for

bike tires. The silhouettes are both shaped like the dude on the men's

bathroom sign. In orange spray paint it says: The Last Friend App.

I keep getting dicked out of proper goodbyes. No final hug with my

family, no final hug with the Plutos. It's not even the goodbyes, man, it's

not getting to thank everyone for all they did for me. The loyalty Malcolm

showed me time and time again. The entertainment Tagoe delivered with

his B-movie scripts, like Canary Clown and the Carnival of Doom and

Snake Taxi—though Substitute Doctor was just so bad, even for a bad

movie. Francis's character impressions had me dying so hard I'd beg him to

shut up because my rib cage hurt. The afternoon Jenn Lori taught me to

play solitaire so I could keep myself moving, but also have alone time. The

really great chat I had with Francis when we were the last two awake, about

how instead of complimenting an attractive anyone on their looks my

pickup lines should be more personal because "anyone can have pretty

eyes, but only the right kind of person can hum the alphabet and make it

your new favorite beat." The way Aimee always kept it real, even just now

when she set me free by telling me she wasn't in love with me.

I could've really gone for one last Pluto Solar System group hug. I can't

go back now. Maybe I shouldn't have run. The charges probably went up

for running, but I didn't have time to think.

I gotta make this up to the Plutos. They spoke nothing but truth during

their eulogies. I've messed up a bit lately, but I'm good. Malcolm and

Tagoe wouldn't have been my boys if I weren't, and Aimee wouldn't have

been my girl if I were scum.

They can't be with me, but that doesn't mean I have to be alone.

I really don't wanna be alone.

I pick myself up and walk over to the wall with the graffiti and some

oil-stained poster for something called Make-A-Moment. I stare at the Last

Friend silhouettes on the wall. Ever since my family died, I would've bet

anything I was gonna die alone. Maybe I will, but just because I was left

behind doesn't mean I shouldn't have a Last Friend. I know there's a good

Rufus in me, the Rufus I used to be, and maybe a Last Friend can drag him

out of me.

Apps really aren't my thing, but neither is beating in people's faces, so

I'm already out of my element today. I enter the app store and I download

Last Friend. The download is mad fast; probably a bitch on my data, but

who cares.

I register as a Decker, set up my profile, upload an old photo off my

Instagram, and I'm good to go.

Nothing like receiving seven messages in my first five minutes to make

me feel a little less lonely—even though one guy is throwing some bullshit

about having the cure to death in his pants and yo, I'll take death instead.