When (2 page)

So I wait and hope for a day when a client sits down in front of me, and I tell them their date, and then a miracle happens: I’ll see the date change. Simply by the act of revealing their
deathdate I’ll get to witness them getting more time. Then I’ll have solid proof that there’s hope for anyone whose date is too soon. And I’ll finally be more than just the
messenger.

FROM MY BEDROOM WINDOW
, I saw the mercedes pull up next to our house and realized we were about to have company. Not many
Mercedes found their way to our side of town.

“Maddie?” Ma called from downstairs. “I think we have a client.”

I closed my Algebra II textbook with a sigh and lay back on the bed where I’d been plodding through equations for the past hour. Mr. Chavez (8-9-2039) had given us a ton of homework and,
ironically, I really struggle with math.

“Maddie?” Ma called again. “Honey, are you up there?”

“Coming!”

I rolled off the bed and took a minute to pull my hair back and shrug out of my sweatshirt, trading it for a sweater.

When I got to the landing, Ma was at the bottom of the stairs waiting on me. “She’s in the back,” she said after I’d made my way down. Smoothing her hand over my ponytail
she added, “She seems like a nice lady. She said she only needs one date, so I think this one will be easy. Also, I’m keeping your dinner warm in the oven.”

I could smell the pizza from the kitchen. I am so sick of pizza I could scream. Ma rarely cooks anymore, so all we ever seem to have are Hot Pockets, microwave pizza, chicken nuggets, or
something else right out of the box. “I have to go to the store for some milk,” Ma said as I made my way toward the back of the house. “But I’ll wait until you’re
through.”

Ma never left me alone in the house with a client, which was good, but I knew she was itching to go to the store.
Milk
was Ma’s code word for
vodka
.

Ma’s drinking had stopped burning a hole in my stomach a couple of years ago when I realized I was powerless to stop her. Deep down it still really bothered me, but I tried not to let it
show.

When I walked into the back room, the first thing I noticed about the client was that she was really pretty, regal even, dressed in chocolate suede slacks and a cream silk blouse. A thick,
luxurious fur coat was draped over the back of her chair. I knew right away that she was from Parkwick. They’ve got big bucks in Parkwick.

I moved to the chair opposite her and sat down. “Hello, Maddie,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hi,” I replied, pulling at my sweater. I felt a little self-conscious in her elegant presence.

“How are you this evening?”

I blinked. No one ever bothered to ask how I am. “Uh…fine.”

The lady smiled again. “I’m Patricia Tibbolt,” she told me, offering me her hand. I shook it, surprised by her easy, relaxed manner. “I’m so sorry to call on you
during your dinner hour,” Mrs. Tibbolt continued, “but it was the only time I could get away from the hospital, and I barely managed to work up the courage to come see you
tonight.”

I focused on her for a second. 7-21-2068. That made me relax. If she asked about herself, she’d probably like the answer. “It’s okay,” I told her, referring to the dinner
hour. “We’re only having pizza again.”

Mrs. Tibbolt sat back and beamed her pretty smile at me. “I used to love pizza when I was your age. You must be fifteen or sixteen, right?”

“Sixteen,” I told her.

She continued to study me curiously. I noticed she had a whopper of a diamond on her left ring finger. I wondered if it was heavy. “You’re still so young to have such a gift and be
able to share it with people.”

I smirked. “Yeah, I’m a regular Santa Claus.”

Mrs. Tibbolt’s eyebrows shot up, and I opened my mouth to apologize—it’d come out a little snarky—but she laughed and winked at me. It was like we’d just shared a
secret. “Well, I don’t want to keep you too long,” she said next. “Your mother tells me that you need a picture to look at?”

I nodded and she took out her wallet. It was tan leather and looked soft as butter. Mrs. Tibbolt opened it and flipped to a row of pictures. She had three kids. After a slight hesitation, she
tapped the top picture and said, “This is my CeeCee. Please tell me how long she has.”

I squinted at the photo. The little girl in the picture was maybe five or six, and she was bald. Her face was all puffy, but she wore a band with a little pink bow on her head and she had the
hugest smile. The numbers floated up from right below her headband. “June seventeenth, twenty eighty-nine,” I said.

For a moment, Mrs. Tibbolt didn’t move or speak, but her eyes filled with tears. I was used to people getting emotional. I usually ignored it, but I liked this lady and I could feel a
small lump forming in my own throat. I moved a box of Kleenex toward her that Ma had set on the table. She took a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “My baby will really live that long?”
she asked me in a choked whisper.

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Her deathday isn’t until June seventeenth, twenty eighty-nine.”

Mrs. Tibbolt swallowed hard and wiped demurely at her cheeks. “Thank you, Maddie,” she said. “You’ve helped me more than you could possibly know. CeeCee has leukemia, and
she’s not doing so well right now. Her doctor wants her to participate in this experimental drug trial, but the side effects are awful, and I don’t want my little girl to go through
that if there’s no hope.” Mrs. Tibbolt paused to stare down at the photo, smoothing her finger over the image of her daughter. It was a moment before she could speak again. “As a
parent, you never want your children to suffer even though you can’t bear the thought of life without them. If there wasn’t a chance my baby would survive longer than the next six
months, I was going to say no to the drug trial. You’ve given me hope, and I can’t thank you enough.”

I smiled at her but suddenly felt shy, and I dropped my eyes to the table. My gaze landed on the billfold just as Mrs. Tibbolt was closing it up, and that’s when I saw something that made
my breath catch. I reached out to put a hand on her arm. “Wait,” I said, squinting at the pictures. There were two other kids there. One was a boy a bit older than me, maybe eighteen or
nineteen, with black hair, bright green eyes, and really good looking. The other was a kid a little younger than me—maybe thirteen or fourteen with lighter hair but the same eyes and the same
beautiful face. The older kid’s numbers were similar to his sister’s, 11-19-2075, but the middle son was a completely different story.

“Is he sick, too?” I asked, pointing to his picture.

Mrs. Tibbolt looked quizzically at me and swiveled the billfold around. “Tevon?” she asked. “No, honey. He’s perfectly well.”

My heart started to pound. I’d never seen numbers that soon on someone so young and healthy before. For a minute I didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t asked about her youngest
son, but how could I
not
tell her, when the kid’s deathdate was so close? I decided to tell her—maybe this time it would change things. Pointing to the picture again, I said,
“Mrs. Tibbolt, his deathday isn’t like your other kids’. It’s much sooner.”

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.