We swipe our way in to the platform. This could be our last ride for all we know.
Mateo points back at the booth. “Is it crazy to think the MTA won’t need any station staffers in a few years because machines—maybe even robots—will take over their jobs? It’s sort of happening already if you think about . . .”
The roar of the approaching train drowns Mateo out a little at the end there, but it’s fine, I get what he’s saying. The real victory here is catching a train instantly. Now we can safely rule out falling onto the exposed tracks, getting stuck while rats run by us, and straight chopped up and flattened by the train—damn, Mateo’s grimness is already rubbing off on me.
Before the doors even open, I see one of those train takeovers going down, the ones where college kids host parties on trains to celebrate not getting the alert Mateo and I got. I guess dorm parties got old, so they’re wilding out on the subway instead—and we’re joining them, dammit. “Let’s go,” I tell Mateo when the doors open. “Hurry.” I rush and wheel my bike in, asking someone to make room for us, and when I turn to make sure my back tire isn’t keeping Mateo from getting in, I see he’s not behind me at all.
Mateo is standing outside the car, shaking his head, and at the last second before the doors close he darts into the empty car ahead of mine, one that has sleeping passengers and isn’t blasting a remixed version of “Celebration.” （It’s a classic anthem, but let’s retire it already.）
Look, I don’t know why Mateo bitched out, but it’s not gonna ruin my vibe. It’s a party car—I wasn’t asking him to go bungee jumping or skydiving. It’s far from daredevil territory.
“We Built This City” comes on, and a girl with two handheld stereos hops onto the bench seat to dance. Some dude is hitting on her, but her eyes are closed and she’s just straight-up lost in her moment. In the corner some dude with a hood over his face is knocked out; either he’s had a really good time or there’s a dead Decker on this train.
Not funny.
I lean my bike against an empty bench seat—yeah, I’m that guy whose bike gets in everyone’s way, but I’m also dying, so cut me some slack—and step over the sleeping guy’s feet to peek into the next car. Mateo is staring into my car like some kid who’s been grounded and forced to watch his friends play from his bedroom window. I gesture for him to come over, but he shakes his head and stares down at the floor, never looking up at me again.
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn and it’s this gorgeous hazel-eyed black girl with an extra can of beer in her hand. “Want one?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I shouldn’t be getting buzzed.
“More for me. I’m Callie.”
I miss that a little. “Kelly?”
She leans in to me, her breasts against my chest and her lips against my ear. “Callie!”
“Hey, Callie, I’m Rufus,” I say back into her ear since she’s already here. “What are you—”
“My stop is next,” Callie interrupts. “Want to get off with me? You’re cute and seem like a nice guy.”
She’s definitely my type, which means she’s also Tagoe’s type. （Malcolm’s type is any girl who likes him back.） But since there isn’t much I can offer her, besides what she’s obviously suggesting, I gotta pass. Having sex with a college girl has gotta be on mad people’s bucket lists—young people, married-dude people, boys, girls, you get it.
“I can’t,” I say. I gotta have Mateo’s back, and I also have Aimee on the brain. I’m not trying to cheat that with something fake like this.
“Sure you can!”
“I really can’t, and it sucks,” I say. “I’m taking my friend to the hospital to see his dad.”
“Forget you then.” Callie turns her back on me, and she’s talking to another guy within a minute, which is good on her since he actually follows her out of the train when we come to her stop. Maybe Callie and that guy will grow old together and tell their kids how they met at a subway party. But I bet you anything they’ll just have sex tonight and he’ll call her “Kelly” in the morning.
I take photos of the energy in the car: the guy who’s managed to get the attention of the beautiful girl. Twins dancing together. The crushed beer cans and water bottles. And the freaking life of it all. I put my phone in my pocket, grab my bike, and wheel it through the doors between the cars—the ones the overhead announcements are constantly reminding us are for emergencies only. End Day or not, that announcement can suck it. The tunnel’s air is chill, and the train’s wheels screeching and screaming on the rails is a sound I won’t miss. I enter the next car, but Mateo keeps staring at the floor.