When

  Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Laurie

  Cover design by Tyler Nevins

  Cover photo of main girl © Aleshyn Andrei/Shutterstock

  Photos of background figures (from left to right): Ostill, Kamenetskiy Konstantin, Kamenetskiy Konstantin, Mimage Photography, Kamenetskiy Konstantin, Radu Razvan/Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-1147-7

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Brian

  May my own date come many years from now,

  exactly one day before yours.

 
  I’M NOT EXACTLY SURE WHEN I first started seeing the numbers. My earliest memories are filled with snatches of familiar and unfamiliar faces, each with a set of small black digits floating like shadows just above their foreheads. The clearest first memory I have of seeing them comes from a muggy summer morning when Dad was sitting across the table from me, already dressed for his mid-morning shift. I remember the blue of his shirt perfectly matching the color of his eyes. That morning the city traffic was loud, streaming in through windows fully open to allow for even the faintest breeze. I was probably three or four—four, I think—and he was showing me on a piece of paper how to draw numbers and what to call them.

  I already knew my shapes—circle, square, triangle—so I picked up on the lesson really fast, and I thought Dad was finally revealing the secret. The secret of why those odd little figures kept hovering right above everyone’s foreheads.

  He taught me one, two, and three; I was so excited. But the elusive number was nine. We went through so many others to get to it, and finally it had a name. I remember repeating it out loud—the last piece of the puzzle in place—and I pointed to him triumphantly and shouted, “Nine-two-three-two-circle-circle-four!”

  Then I laughed and laughed, and I remember thinking he’d be so proud of me for saying his numbers back to him. But when I’d settled down, I saw that he had the most puzzled look on his face. He was smiling with me, but also confused.

  The memory is bittersweet. I can still see his face so clearly in my mind, the blue of his eyes, the black of his hair, the crook to his nose, and those numbers permanently etched onto his forehead. Small black gravestones against a pale white landscape.

  It took us a couple of years to figure out what they meant. Actually, it took two years and one day too many.

  Ma was the first one to put it together. I remember it was a Tuesday, because in my first-grade class we had show-and-tell on Tuesdays. Jenny Beaumont (10-14-2074) had brought her collection of Beanie Babies for us to pass around the circle, and I’d fallen in love with a little chipmunk. I’d been holding it greedily when Mrs. Lucas (2-12-2041) had to leave the circle to answer the classroom phone and, almost before she’d turned to stare back at me with wide eyes, I’d known something bad was happening at home.

  She rushed me into my coat and told me to go with my Uncle Donny (9-30-2062), who was waiting for me in the principal’s office. I hurried down the hall to him, and the moment he saw me he scooped me up into his arms and ran to his car.

  He’d driven so fast down the streets, and I could feel the whole car vibrating with fear. We came through the door of the apartment to find Ma, pale and trembling as she sat on the edge of the couch and dialed Dad’s cell over and over and over. On the coffee table in front of her was a crayon sketch I’d made in kindergarten the year before of Ma, Dad, and me. I’d drawn in all of our numbers, and Ma had proudly tacked it up on the fridge, where it’d gotten buried under other artwork, coupons, and love notes from Dad.

  But that day, Ma had pulled the drawing down, circled the figure of my dad with a pencil, and while the TV broadcasted images of a standoff between a gang of drug dealers and the Brooklyn PD, she’d kept dialing and dialing and dialing.

  Donny sat down on the couch and pulled me into his arms, but all of his attention had been on that broadcast. I remember so vividly the images from a helicopter circling above a huge warehouse, the chopper sending shaky images of men that looked like ants crawling over the rooftop while small sparks of gunfire flashed repetitively from the muzzles of their weapons The news reporter kept saying there were multiple officers down, and even at six years old, I knew that scene meant terrible things for us.

  We learned later that Dad had left his cell in his patrol car. He’d gone into that warehouse to back up his buddies in blue, and he’d never come out. I’ve since been haunted by the feeling that Ma wasn’t the only one who’d put it together as she dialed and dialed and dialed. What if it’d finally clicked for Dad when he’d entered the building and that hail of gunfire had erupted all around him? And more important…why hadn’t it clicked for me in time to save him?

  That’s another question I can’t seem to answer.

  How come I can see the exact date that someone will die, but nothing else about the how, where, or even why? What good does it do to know the when, if you can’t know at least one of the other three?

  Also, why am I seemingly the only person on earth who can see these numbers? Why did fate choose me for such a cruel gift?

  It’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times, and I’m still looking for the answer. I think there may not be one, because knowing when someone will die has never changed anything. I’ve never saved anybody or given them more time. I’m just the messenger.

  That’s what Ma says to me all the time when one of my clients doesn’t take the news so well. Knowing that there’s nothing I can do to help them get more time still doesn’t take the sting out of it, though.

  I started reading for strangers a few years ago after Ma lost her part-time job. I knew she was really worried about money, so I didn’t argue with her when she proposed charging people for telling them their deathdates. After a slow start, we now get about a dozen new customers a month.

  There’s a little room at the back of the house, where Ma likes to seat them. The room is dim and gloomy. I never go in there unless I’ve got a client.

  When I do a reading I have to focus on the forehead of the subject in question, and the numbers themselves are always the same: kinda small, less than a half an inch in size. They’re black and thin but perfectly etched, like you’d see printed in an obituary. They hover over the foreheads of everyone I see—even in a photograph or video, they’re visible to me. It’s why I don’t like going to the movies or watching a lot of TV. I know when every star in Hollywood will fall.

  Because the numbers themselves are small and thin, I need to be within four or five feet of a person to clearly see their numbers, but if someone wears a hat, or has bangs or very dark skin, I need to be even closer. Beyond five feet, the dates get fuzzy and start to look like wispy dots—u
nsightly smudges on otherwise unmarred faces. When I walk the halls of my high school those smudges are a constant reminder that death is a mere squint away.

  I try not to think about the people who don’t have a lot of years left. But it’s really hard. I’ll pass them in the halls at school, or see them around town, and I want to wince when they go by; their numbers flashing over and over again in my mind like strobe lights at a traffic accident, daring me to walk past them and forget what I’ve seen.

  It can be pretty hard to deal with, so, a few years ago I started a notebook where I’d write down all the deathdates for everyone I know or meet. I add about ten to fifteen names a month—all my clients get listed, and it helps me cope.

  When I first started seeing the numbers—these deathdates—they ran together as one long stream, but now my mind puts in the dashes.

  6-28-2021. That’s Ma’s. I grew up knowing I’d be twenty-three when she died. Twenty-three is too young to be an orphan.

  Still, it’s not like Ma takes care of herself. She smokes, she drinks, but mostly she doesn’t care. Not since Dad died.

  A year after we lost him and moved from Brooklyn an hour and forty minutes north to Poplar Hollow, I began telling everybody I met what their deathdate was. I was a little seven-year-old on a mission to save anybody I could. Not surprisingly, I didn’t save a soul. Instead, I got sent home with a note from my new second-grade teacher, Mrs. Gilbert (7-18-2006). She had cancer and died the following summer, but she didn’t care to know that it was coming, and a few of the kids’ parents had complained. After that, Ma told me never to tell anybody their numbers unless she said it was okay.

  My neighbor, Mrs. Duncan—her number’s coming up really soon. 2-28-2015. She doesn’t know it yet, either, but I’m tempted to tell her. She’s a sweet old lady who likes to redecorate her house every other month just for something to do and someone to talk to. I think she’d like to know that her time is almost up. I wouldn’t even charge her, which might not make Ma happy if she found out, but business has been pretty good lately, and Ma said she’s thinking of upping the price for a reading from fifty bucks to seventy-five.

  With Ma and me on our own with only the money from my dad’s wrongful-death settlement to pay the bills, most of what I bring in goes to cover extras like repairs to the house or food or booze for Ma.

  She’s been drinking a lot lately, which is why I’m hoping that business slows down. But that’s not likely. There are plenty of people out there who’re curious or desperate or they simply want to prepare. Lots of my clients come to me with a list and a stack of photos, and they’ll ask about everyone in their family except themselves.

  Others ask only about themselves. Most people want to know if they can change the date, if they can get more time. I tell them I don’t know. And that’s what kills me. It’d be easier if I knew that the dates couldn’t be changed, that they’re set in stone as solid as the gravestone they’ll be printed on. If I knew for sure that a deathdate couldn’t be changed, I think I’d feel less guilty about my dad.

  Then I look at my mom, and I see her leaving me in only six years, and a weight settles onto my chest that makes it hard to breathe.

  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 th
at 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.”