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“. . . This’ll be the day that I die. . . . This’ll be the day that I die. . . .”
The energy in the room changes. Not just my confidence despite how off-key I am, no, our words are actually connecting with the Deckers in the audience, sinking deep past their skin and into their souls, which are fading, like a firefly turning off, but still very present. Some Deckers sing along and I’m sure if they were allowed to have lighters in here, they’d whip them out; some are crying, others are smiling with closed eyes, hopefully lost in good memories.
For eight minutes Rufus and I sing about a thorny crown, whiskey and rye, a generation lost in space, Satan’s spell, a girl who sang the blues, the day the music died, and so much more. The song ends, I catch my breath, and I breathe in everyone’s roaring applause, I breathe in their love, and it energizes me to grab Rufus’s hand while he’s bowing. I drag him offstage, and once we’re behind the curtain, I look him in the eyes and he smiles like he knows what’s about to go down. And he’s not wrong.
I kiss the guy who brought me to life on the day we’re going to die.
“Finally!” Rufus says when I give him the chance to breathe, and now he kisses me. “What took you so long?”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I know there’s no time to waste, but I had to be sure you are who I thought you were. The best
thing about dying is your friendship.” I never thought I would find someone I could say words like this to. They’re so broad yet deeply personal, and it’s a private thing I want to share with everyone, and I think this is that feeling we all chase. “And even if I never got to kiss you, you gave me the life I always wanted.”
“You took care of me too,” Rufus says. “I’ve been so damn lost the past few months. Especially last night. I hated all the doubts and being so pissed off. But you gave me the best assist ever and helped me find myself again. You made me better, yo.”
I’m ready to kiss him again when his eyes move away from mine, beyond the stage and into the audience. He squeezes my arm.
Rufus’s smile is brighter. “The Plutos are here.”
HOWIE MALDONADO
5:23 p.m.
Death-Cast called Howie Maldonado at 2:37 a.m. to tell him he’s going to die today.
His 2.3 million Twitter followers are taking it the hardest.
For the greater part of the day, Howie stayed in his hotel room with a team of security guards outside his door, all armed; fame gave him this life, but it won’t keep him alive. The only people allowed inside his hotel room were his lawyers, who needed wills created, and his literary agent, who needed his next contract signed before Howie could kick it. Funny how a book he didn’t write has more of a future than he does. Howie answered phone calls from costars, his little cousin whose popularity in school is tied to Howie’s success, more lawyers, and his parents.
Howie’s parents live in Puerto Rico, where they moved back after Howie’s career took off. Howie desperately wanted them to remain in Los Angeles, where he lives now, offering to take care of every last bill and splurge, but his parents’ love for San Juan, where they first met, was too great. Howie can’t help but be bothered by the fact that his parents, while clearly devastated, are going to be fine without him. They’ve already grown used to living without him, to watching his life from afar—like fans.
Like strangers.
Howie is currently in a car with more strangers. Two women from Infinite Weekly for a final interview. He’s only doing this for the fans. Howie knows he could’ve lived another ten years and everything he shares about himself would’ve never been enough. They’re ravenous for “content,” as his publicists and managers say. Every haircut. Every new magazine cover. Every tweet, no matter how many typos.
Howie’s tweet last night was a picture of his dinner.
He’s already sent out one last tweet: Thank you for this life. Attached is a photo, taken by himself, smiling.
“Who are you on your way to see?” the older woman asks. Sandy, he believes. Yes, Sandy. Not Sally like his very first publicist. Sandy.
“Is this part of the interview?” Howie asks. Whenever he does these pieces, his answers require zero focus, so he normally hops on his phone and scrolls through Twitter and Instagram. But keeping up with the outpouring of love, including messages from the author of the Scorpius Hawthorne series, is ten times more impossible than usual.
“It could be,” Sandy says. She lifts the tape recorder. “Your call.”
Howie wishes his publicist were here with him to shut down this question herself, but he wrote her a big check, had it sent down to her hotel room, and encouraged her to stay far away from him, as if he were infected with a zombie virus.
“Pass,” Howie says. It’s no one’s business that he’s on his way to see his childhood best friend and first love, Lena, who’s flown in from Arkansas to see him one last time. The girl who could’ve been more than a friend if he didn’t live in the spotlight. The girl he’d once missed so much he’d write her name around the city, like on pay phones and coffee tables, never signing his name. The girl who loves the quiet life her husband gives her.
“Very well,” Sandy says. “What’s your proudest accomplishment?”
“My art,” Howie says, fighting back an eye roll. The other woman, Delilah, stares at him like she’s seeing past his bullshit. Howie would be intimidated if he wasn’t busy being distracted by her beautiful hair, which resembles the northern lights, and the fresh bandage on her forehead, which is covering up a Scorpius Hawthorne–like wound.
“Where do you think you would be without the Draconian Marsh role?” Sandy asks.
“Literally? Back in San Juan with my parents. Professionally . . . Who can say.”
“Better question,” Delilah speaks up. Sandy is pissed and Delilah speaks over her. “What do you regret?”
