When

by Victoria Laurie

  Mrs. Tibbolt’s eyes widened, but she kept her tone level. “Oh? How much sooner?”

  “It’s next week.”

  She gasped. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said to me. “No. That’s not possible. Tevon is fine. He’s perfectly healthy.”

  I stared at the picture to make sure. Biting my lip, I looked up at her again. “I’m not wrong.”

  She paled and leaned in. “How?”

  And there it was. That question I can’t answer. I shook my head, feeling the weight of my dad’s death settle onto my shoulders. At the same time, Mrs. Tibbolt’s eyes narrowed.

  I glanced again at Tevon’s picture. His numbers remained stubbornly fixed. I knew I had to try to convince her. “I don’t know how. An accident maybe? I’m not sure. But something bad is going to happen to him, and if you don’t do something, he’ll die next week.” It was my uncertainty and the vagueness of my answer that she keyed in on. She misread me for a liar. I saw it in her expression as she began to shake her head, and her gaze fell away from me as she closed up her wallet.

  Desperate to have her believe me I said, “I can tell you the date—”

  “Stop!” she commanded, cutting me off. With her mouth pressed into a thin line, she stood, picked up her designer purse, and pushed her billfold into it. “You and your mom must think you’re pretty clever,” she said, staring at me like she expected a full confession. When I didn’t say anything she added, “Oh, I knew this was a hoax!”

  I felt my stomach burn. “It’s no hoax.”

  “Really? Weren’t you about to tell me that my son has come under some sort of deadly curse and for an additional fee you’d be happy to remove it?”

  I stared at her. She glared back at me with contempt. Then, I watched her eyes drift up to a spot above my right shoulder. Ma had put a sign there with big bold letters. ABSOLUTELY NO REFUNDS!

  Mrs. Tibbolt made a dismissive, puffing sound. “Enjoy your pizza, Maddie.” Then she yanked her coat off the chair, causing it to fall over. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, she stalked out of the room without a backward glance.

  I sat there for a good ten minutes staring at the tabletop. It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Finally, Ma poked her head in. “Your dinner’s on the table.” Then she looked at the overturned chair. “She didn’t take it so well, huh?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Ma said, coming over to squeeze my shoulder. “You have to remember that you’re just the messenger. You’re not responsible for the date or the way your clients take the news. And how that woman reacted in here is only her first reaction. Give her some time to get over her shock, and she’ll come to terms with it.”

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to tell Ma what’d happened, because it might lead to an argument. So I simply muttered an “I know, Ma,” and followed her out of the room to dinner, but I did little more than pick at my pizza.

  After dinner I headed out to meet Stubby, my best friend. Stubby’s real name is Arnold Schroder (8-16-2094), but he’s gone by the nickname he was given by some bullies on the playground in elementary school for as long as I can remember. It’s not flattering, but he says it’s better than Arnold.

  Stubs and I have been hanging out together ever since third grade when, after Mrs. Gilbert died, none of the other kids wanted anything to do with me. Back then Stubby was a chubby little eight-year-old with bright white-blond hair and a permanent goofy smile. He wore a red cape to school and told everybody that he wanted to grow up to be Superman. He never lost the chubbiness, but the cape is long retired. Socially, he’s super awkward, but inside that pudgy chest beats the heart of a superhero for sure.

  He’d texted earlier to meet him at the diner midway between our two houses. Stubs and I live about a half mile apart in a suburb filled with majestic poplar, maple, and oak trees. They line the streets so that some days you can barely see the sun. As I rode my bike to the diner, the wind picked up, sending the leaves above me clapping. It sounded like riding under a canopy of applause. Orange, yellow, and red leaves rained onto my hair and shoulders as I pedaled. They coated the street and caught in my spokes, where they clapped some more.

  The diner where Stubby and I meet isn’t big—not much more than a couple of booths and a short counter—but it’s cheap and we like to hang out there on Sunday nights because Rita (3-20-2022), the older waitress who works that shift, doesn’t glare at us when we take up a back booth and don’t tip her more than a buck fifty for a couple of Cokes and chocolate cream pies.

  As I entered the diner, I noticed Cathy Hutchinson (1-19-2082). She’s a sophomore who moved in across the street from me the year before. She was there with her boyfriend, Mike Mendez (8-24-2078), who’s a junior. They were making out pretty hot and heavy in a booth diagonal from where Stubs was sitting.

  He looked uncomfortable, and I could tell he was trying to avert his eyes while Mike groped Cathy. Stubs is a sweetie, raised by a single mom—and he’s sort of old-fashioned about how to treat a girl.

  I nodded to him and rolled my eyes as I passed Mike and Cathy. He hid a smile with his hand. “Hey,” he said when I approached. “I already ordered for us.”

  I sat down and glanced over my shoulder at the lovebirds. I turned back to Stubs and shook my head. “How long have they been here?”

  “Long enough to annoy Rita,” Stubs said, motioning with his chin to the older woman across the diner currently taking another customer’s order.

  I could only imagine the hard time Mike and Cathy had given the waitress. Mike’s got a mean streak in him, and Cathy’s not much better. I glanced behind me again, and this time I saw that Cathy had pushed Mike off her and was scowling in our direction.

  Cathy’s not my biggest fan. In the summer of 2013, she, Stubby, and I had hung out together after she first moved in across the street from me, but the minute school started and she found out from the other kids what I could do, she turned on me quick. In the span of an afternoon she went from being my sweet friend to a backstabbing bitch, and I never could figure out what I’d done personally to her to get her to hate me so much.

  I turned away from her back to Stubs, and as I did so I overheard Cathy sing, “Ding dong! The witch is dead.”

  Cathy likes to tell everybody I’m a witch. I’ve overheard her say that my mom and I are part of a coven, and that we cast spells on the people who come to see me. Stubby once confessed that he heard Cathy tell all the people at her lunch table that she’d seen a guy come out of my house bleeding from the ears. It was ridiculous.

  “Ding dong! The witch is dead,” Cathy sang again, and she and Mike both laughed.

  I bristled, but Stubby gave me a subtle shake of his head. “They’re leaving,” he whispered.

  I shifted my gaze to the large window behind Stubs, which gave a good reflection of the room behind me, and we both waited in silence until Mike and Cathy left the diner.

  A minute later Rita appeared at our table with our pies and drinks. After she left, Stubs said, “So, you had a rough time with a client?”

  I’d already texted him the basics, but I was eager to fill him in on the rest.

  Stubs sat mouth agape through most of my story. “Her kid’s really gonna die next week, Mads?”

  I nodded, picking at the pie with my fork. “I tried to get her to listen to me, but she thinks I’m a fake.”

  Stubby shook his head. “If people don’t think you can do what you do, then why do they go to see you?”

  “I have no clue,” I said moodily.

  “So, what’re you gonna do?” Stubs asked next.

  His question stumped me. “Do? What do you mean?”

  “Well, if this kid isn’t sick or anything, then shouldn’t we do something to try to save him?”

  I sighed. I hated knowing how close people were to losing a loved one, especially a young loved one. But I’d told Mrs. Tibbolt about her son’s deathdate, and it hadn’t changed anything. Those numbers had remaine
d stubbornly fixed. “Stubs, there’s nothing I can do. I tried everything to get her to listen to me, and I checked the photo a couple of times. Her kid’s date didn’t change.”

  Stubby was quiet for a moment and then he said, “Can the numbers change, Maddie?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that I’ve never seen them change. Not even once.”

  “So you think they’re fixed,” Stubs said.

  I pressed my lips together and stared hard at the table. “Maybe. I honestly can’t be sure. Sometimes I’ll Google a client whose date has passed, and I’ll find an obit with the exact date I predicted. Warning people has never bought them more time.”

  Stubby sighed, and rolled his skateboard back and forth under the table like he always did when he was deep in thought. I knew he was trying to think up a solution. He was one of the best problem solvers I’d ever met. Stubby truly believed there wasn’t anything in life or in the classroom that couldn’t be solved with a little thought, effort, and time.

  At last he said, “If there’s even a small chance that the date can change, Mads, don’t you think we should try to save that kid?”

  “How?” I asked.

  Stubby pulled out his smartphone and began to tap at it. After a minute his face lit up, and he showed me the screen. It was a directory listing for a Patricia Tibbolt. I noticed she did live in Parkwick. “Call her,” Stubs said, and when I hesitated he added, “You gotta try, Mads. It’s her kid.”

  Before I could even agree, Stubby had gone back to tapping at the screen, and then he was shoving the phone at me, urging me to take it. I saw that he’d dialed the Tibbolt’s, and then I heard her voice echoing out from the phone. “Hello?” she said. “Hello?”

  Reluctantly, I took the phone. “Mrs. Tibbolt?” I asked, my voice shaking.

  “Who’s this?”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s Maddie Fynn.” When she didn’t respond I added, “You came to see me today.”

  “I know who you are,” she said, her voice like ice.

  I looked at Stubby as if to beg him to let me hang up, but he nodded and waved his hand to encourage me. “Listen,” I said. “I…it’s…I want you to know I’m not a fake. Your son—”

  “Stop!” she hissed, cutting me off. “Just stop it. If you call here again, I will notify the police. Leave me and my son alone! Do you hear me? Do you?”

  Her rising anger tumbled out of the phone, and by the way that Stubby was now looking at me, I knew he’d heard what she’d said. Beginning to panic, I tapped the END button and cut off the call.

  By mentioning the police, Mrs. Tibbolt had awakened my greatest fear. Three years before, Ma was arrested for her second DUI. I’d been thirteen at the time, and I freaked out when Ma didn’t come home and I couldn’t get ahold of Uncle Donny. I’d called 911, and before I knew it, Child Protective Services was on our front porch. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Donny, Ma would’ve ended up in jail and I would’ve ended up in foster care.

  Since then, Ma’s become super anxious about anybody getting too curious about what goes on at our house. She doesn’t go outside if she can avoid it, and she never waves to the neighbors. Ma won’t even answer the door for sweet Mrs. Duncan, who used to bring over cookies and baked goods all the time.

  Stubs eyed me with such sympathy that it was hard not to look away. He knew exactly what I was thinking. At last he reached out and nudged my arm. “Hey,” he said. “You did what you could, Mads. And who knows, maybe Mrs. Tibbolt will think about what you said and, just to be on the safe side, next week she’ll keep her kid home from school, or take him to the doctor and get him checked out, and his date will change.”

  “You think?” I asked hopefully.

  Stubby nodded. “It’s what my mom would do.”

  I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a bit, even though I doubted Mrs. Tibbolt could prevent Tevon’s death. Still, I clung to the small ray of hope that Stubs had given me. “Thanks,” I told him.

  He nodded, but I noticed as I began to nibble at my pie that his gaze became distant and that skateboard started rolling under the table again.

  Later, after I got back home, I found three new bottles of cheap vodka on the counter, and another one half empty. Ma was on the couch, droopy-eyed and slurring. She’d also been crying. When I helped her to her feet, something dropped from her lap and fluttered to the floor.

  I knew what it was the second I saw the flash of green construction paper. It was the drawing I’d made in kindergarten—the one of me, Ma, and Dad with our numbers drawn over our foreheads. I bit my lip; the sting of seeing Ma with it opened up old wounds. It was well worn and tearstained, but all these years later Ma refused to throw it away. She’d traced her fingers over Dad’s numbers so many times that she’d nearly worn a hole in the paper.

  After she’d snatched the paper off the floor, Ma tried to tuck it into her shirt. “I can make it up to bed myself, Maddie,” she slurred, her face turned away from me.

  I swallowed hard. “Okay,” I said finally, letting go.

  I watched her wobble up the stairs without saying a word. I couldn’t move against the guilt or the shame of the moment.

  Before he died, my grandpa Fynn had asked me to look after Ma. Her drinking had become noticeable by then. He’d told me she was trying to cope with the loss of my dad. “Even though it wasn’t her fault, she still blames herself,” he’d said.

  I understood fully what Gramps was trying to tell me, but I knew different. I’d seen the truth in her eyes every time I caught her with that stick-figure drawing.

  Ma didn’t blame herself for Dad’s death. She blamed me. She drank, not because she felt guilty about surviving or being unable to prevent Dad’s murder, but because she didn’t want to be the kind of mother who blamed her kid for it.

  And, truthfully, how could she not blame me? It’s my “gift.” Shouldn’t I have known all along what the numbers meant? Shouldn’t I have warned my dad?

  I think that’s the real reason she wanted me to read for clients. It’s my penance. So I never say no to a reading. I look those strangers in the eye—because I have no choice but to look them in the eye—and deliver them their mortality. And after every reading, Ma hits the bottle hard because I know she understands how difficult it is for me. And yet she’s never told me I could stop. She simply continues to pretend that I’m doing a good thing, and I continue to pretend that it doesn’t bother me. The truth is, it’s killing us both.

  It was a while before I headed upstairs and into my room. After closing the door, I went to my desk and pulled out my notebook of dates and opened it. I couldn’t explain why writing them down had always comforted me, but it did. Maybe it was simply the act of getting them out of my head and onto paper that helped me deal, or maybe it was the sense of structure and order it lent to the otherwise random quality of death. Whatever it was, it allowed me to cope.

  Turning to a fresh page, I reached for a pen and wrote out Mrs. Tibbolt’s name, recorded her deathdate, and added her three kids. It wasn’t hard to remember them—all I had to do was close my eyes and recall her face and the photos. The numbers always came up in my mind’s eye as easily as recalling their hair color or Tevon’s lopsided grin.

  Once I’d recorded the names, I stared hard at Tevon’s deathdate and thought about Mrs. Tibbolt’s harsh words to me on the phone and felt a shudder of foreboding travel up my spine. I hoped she didn’t call the police on me and Ma, and I hoped even more that she watched out for her son a week from now.

  Still, it all felt so futile. I couldn’t save Tevon any more than I could bring back my dad. I couldn’t save anyone.

  To take myself out of the melancholy, I flipped to a well-worn page in the middle of the notebook. Midway down was the name Aiden. No last name—I didn’t know it—but seeing his name written there with such care made me feel closer to him.

  Aiden was a boy I’d first glimpsed my freshmen year as I was sitting in the stands at a football game. There’
d been no good seats on our team’s side, so Stubby and I had gone over to the rival team’s bleachers and found a good spot in the front row. Aiden had walked right past me on his way to the concession stand, and I’d felt all the breath leave my body. I couldn’t believe someone so beautiful had been near enough to touch.

  I’d never spoken to him, and I’d only see him a handful of times each year when his high school played against mine, but each time I felt inexplicably drawn to him. It was as if I knew him. As if I’d always known him.

  I went to his page in my notebook often. It made me feel better. I liked to tell myself that someday I’d work up the courage to talk to him. “Maybe this year,” I whispered.

  With a sigh I shut the notebook, tucking it away in the drawer of my nightstand before getting ready for bed. As I drifted off to sleep I made peace with myself about Mrs. Tibbolt and her son, telling myself that I’d tried my best with her. There was nothing more I could do.

  A WEEK AND A HALF LATER, I was in sixth period American Lit when someone knocked on the classroom door. We all looked up just as our principal came in.

  Principal Harris (4-21-2042) is a short man who walks around like he owns the place. He also has a penchant for using big words so nobody can ever figure out what he’s trying to say. “Sarah?” he said when my teacher Mrs. Wilson (6-30-2056) looked up.

  “Yes, Principal Harris?”

  “I will need to see Madelyn Fynn in my office posthaste.” His voice sounded grave.

  Twenty-three pairs of eyes swiveled around to look at me, and my heartbeat ticked up. Stubby looked as alarmed as I felt.

  From the seat in front of me, Eric Anderson (7-25-2017) said, “Yo, Murdering Maddie, what’d you do?”

  I felt my mouth go dry. What had I done?

  “Mr. Anderson. Another word from you, and you’ll join us,” warned Harris.