I rush outside into the hallway while answering. “Scarlett!”
“Hey, Val! I’m sorry I missed your million calls and messages, I forgot to take my phone off silent after driving. Where’s yours? What happened?”
I try making my way back to the waiting room, but I stop dead in my tracks and slide down the wall by the elevator bank. I don’t say anything.
“Val?”
Scarlett is the only person in the universe who can use that nickname. Many others have tried, but it always feels wrong. It’s like someone is trying to show how close we are when they haven’t put the time in. I obviously don’t have more history with anyone than Scarlett, and when we were kids she had a hard time saying Valentino, so she started calling me Valley and eventually trimmed it to Val.
“I’m here,” I say weakly, like an ax murderer did manage to get me. “You’re not driving, are you?”
“Of course not. What’s going on? You sound off.”
“I’m going to FaceTime you.”
“What’s happening? Tell me.”
“Just answer, okay?”
I click the video camera icon, and it rings once before Scarlett’s face appears. There’s pure concern in her eyes, like when she opened her first college admission letter and discovered she was rejected. She really struggled and didn’t believe she’d have a future until I suggested we move to New York. But I don’t know how to walk her through how to live after I die. I can’t even tell her what’s happening, I’m stammering over every word. But I don’t need words with Scarlett. Just like so many other difficult trials in my life—most recently, when Mom and Dad didn’t react well to my coming out—all I have to do is look my sister in the eye and cry and let all the tears speak for me. Except there’s no way for my death to dawn on her face since I shouldn’t even know it’s happening.
“I signed up for Death-Cast, and they called me.”
She’s quiet and so still that I think the call has frozen out in this hallway.
“No,” Scarlett finally says.
I don’t know the full sequence of the stages of grief, but I know the first is denial.
“Stop crying, Val, this is so not a thing,” Scarlett says. Unfortunately, her poker face is worse than ever. “These Death-Cast operators are total newbies. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
“I—I spoke with Joaquin. Joaquin Rosa.”
I manage to get those words out because we can’t play pretend. If Joaquin Rosa is screwing up End Day calls, then that whole operation needs to be shut down this moment. But maybe Scarlett will have another argument that I can’t counter. Something to give me hope.
“Well, did Mr. Death-Cast tell you how he thinks you’re going to die? Because if not, then we shouldn’t put too much weight on his little educated guess. It might be an uneducated guess! We have no idea how Death-Cast even works. This is why we didn’t sign up.”
Scarlett tries staying strong, but she cracks. Something else we have in common is we’re both ugly criers. I would be mortified if anyone photographed me while I was this red in the face and wiping snot whereas Scarlett might rip out someone’s eyes. Even now when it’s just us, she’s hiding behind her hand, and I can make out the moon in the background.
“Val, this doesn’t make sense. You’re fine! Why is this happening?”
I shake my head.
“Did you tell Mom and Dad?”
“No. I’m not ready for another talk about how I’m going to hell.”
“They better not be self-righteous about this or we’ll never talk to them again.” That promise is alive and well in Scarlett’s eyes for a whole second before she realizes I can’t honor it with her. Or that I can, but not in the way she’s intending. The next wave of tears flood down her face. “Val, I need to catch my flight. I’ll be there by the morning.”