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.