The First Last Day (12 page)

Megan beamed. “We should all hang out. Like tomorrow, maybe?”

“We're going home tomorrow,” I said.

Megan frowned. “Well, maybe next summer.” She handed me the yellow box. “You should keep those paints. They look used. Whoever lost them probably doesn't care.”

“You're right,” I said. “Sorry to bother to you.”

As I slogged through the sand back to my towel, I thought about how jealous I'd been of Megan. When, all along, she and her friend had been kind of jealous of me, too.

I wondered how many times I'd been wrong about other people's feelings. How many times I'd imagined they felt one way, but it was really the opposite. Like with Kevin. I'd almost convinced myself that our friendship would fizzle out, just like the others had. But maybe it was me that hadn't tried hard enough all those times.

Right then, I promised myself if I ever got out of the time loop, I'd send Abbey another text.

And I'd stop jumping to conclusions about people's feelings. At least I'd try to.

O
kay,” Kevin said as we stepped inside G-Mags's cottage. “We've ruled out Serena, Mr. Sidhu, and anyone on the beach. But we still have plenty of suspects in Atlantic City.”

“I really hope we find what we're looking for there.”

“What's this?” G-Mags came out of the kitchen with a concerned look. “Did you lose something?”

Kevin shook his head. “We were just trying to figure out who gave Haleigh a box of pai—”

“Painful moments!” I yelled, shooting Kevin a look of warning. “I thought I'd lost my backpack for a
minute, and I had some really painful moments thinking I'd lost it.”

“That's a relief,” G-Mags said. “Come now, there's nothing that fresh cannolis can't fix. Let's get started.” She headed back into the kitchen.

I turned to Kevin and whispered, “We can't tell her about the paints. If we do, then we'd have to tell her everything.”

“Oh, sorry. But are you sure we can't prevent her from having a stroke? I know you promised you tried really hard. But are you positive?”

“Yes. We both tried.”

Kevin rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I could remember.”

I kept expecting Kevin to know what I knew. But I had to remind myself he'd known about the time loop for only a few hours. “Trust me, the only thing we can do to prevent G-Mags from having a stroke every night is to find out where the paints came from.”

“I believe you. I guess if we can't prevent it, there's no reason to tell her what will happen tonight.”

“Right.”

“And if the time loop stops, she could be fine
tomorrow, once the doctors take care of her.” His face looked hopeful.

“That's right,” I said. But I knew we couldn't be sure.

As I helped G-Mags with the cannolis, the smell of vanilla, sweet and pungent at the same time, was almost overwhelming. I gripped the wooden spoon with both hands as I stirred.

Once we were done, Kevin and I decided to head to the thrift store before our trip to Atlantic City.

“What exactly are we looking for at this place?” Kevin said. “Do you think they have more paints like yours?”

“I don't know, but it's worth a try. Maybe if they do, I can find out if the instructions in another box will tell me how to reverse the magic.”

“Good plan,” Kevin said. He was quiet for a while, until we were way past where we usually walked. He gestured toward the Ferris wheel on the pier. “We never got around to riding it.”

“I feel like I've been riding it all summer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, going round and round, but not getting anywhere.”

“I didn't think about how it felt for you,” Kevin said over all the noise from the kids and the rides. “Has it been awful?”

The music from the Ferris wheel got softer as we headed west. “It was great in the beginning. I loved all the things we did that last day. But then it got kind of boring.”

We stopped to cross the street, and Kevin looked at me. “How many times have you relived today?”

The
WALK
sign appeared. “I lost count. Maybe fifty or sixty.”

“Wow. That's a lot of ragout and cannolis.”

“And don't forget the Italian ice, the saltwater taffy, and the taco place I could never talk you out of.”

Kevin smiled, but then gave me a puzzled look. “How come we didn't get fat?”

“I don't know. That's not how it works. But I'll tell you one thing: when I get back home, I might join my mom on her health food kick.”

We were both quiet until we got to the thrift shop. The two of us strolled past racks and racks of shirts, pants, sweaters, coats, and even costumes in all sizes and styles. Kevin stopped to pull out a Darth Vader suit.
“Whoa, this is vintage
Star Wars
. I've seen stuff like this on eBay for like fifty dollars.” He looked at the price. “Three ninety-nine! Obi-Wan Kenobi! That's a steal!”

I took the hanger from Kevin and examined the costume. “Why would someone give this away if they could sell it for fifty dollars?”

“Obviously, they had no idea they were in possession of one of the greatest costumes of all time.” He tucked the outfit under his arm. “Some people just don't know the value of things.”

Even though he wasn't talking about me, his words stung. I had no idea how great my life had been before the time loop. I gestured to the costume under Kevin's arm. “Aren't you going to put it back?”

“Are you kidding? I have to buy this.”

“You know, you probably won't get to keep it. Even if we stop the time loop, your August twenty-sixth might not be this one. It might be the day I did the painting.”

“It's okay. Even if I have it for only a little while, it'll be really cool.”

I followed him toward the back of the store. About twenty boxes full of books, record albums, and old toys sat in rows against a wall. We went through all of them,
rummaging around hundreds of Happy Meal figures, bags full of broken crayons and chalk, and stacks of half-used workbooks. I held a torn
Sleeping Beauty
coloring book in the air. “Why would anyone think people want this junk?”

Kevin held up a New Jersey Devils bobblehead with a spring that was already sprung. “Like my mom always says, ‘One man's rubbish is another man's riches.' ” He put the bobblehead aside and dug deep into the box. Then he looked up with a gleam in his eyes. “And what do we have here?” He yanked out a banged up yellow carton that read:
OIL PAINTS
.

I snatched it from his hands.

“Slow down,” Kevin said. “Let's investigate before we get too excited.”

I shoved the box toward him. “You open it. I'm too nervous.”

He released the flap and stuck his hand inside. He pulled out a tube of black paint and a small, folded piece of paper.

I took the box back and shook it. There were more paints inside. I turned it over in my sweaty palms and held my breath to see if it read:
Paint your heart's desire
.

It didn't. Still hopeful, I grabbed the folded page from Kevin.

“What does it say?” he asked. “Anything about magic?”

My fingers tingled as I read.

But when I got to the end, I crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.

Kevin picked it up as I collapsed onto a nearby chair with a torn seat cushion. “What's wrong? What is it?”

“They're just directions on how to use oil paints—stuff I already know.” I kicked one of the boxes. “I'll never find out how these dumb paints work!”

“I'm sorry,” Kevin said. “It was a long shot, anyway.” He looked at the mess of junk. “We better get back home so we can go to Atlantic City.”

He paid for his Darth Vader costume, and we headed out the door. “I wish I could show this to Michael. He'd think it was so cool.”

“You know,” I said. “I really hope I get to meet Michael someday.”

“Me too,” Kevin said, picking up his pace. “We definitely need to find those directions.”

M
y heart pounded as I waited for the man in the black suit with the briefcase to take his seat behind me. There were only a few suspects left.

Kevin picked up the straw and blew the paper my way. I deliberately missed and let it fall to the floor.

We looked at the menus and started our usual conversation. Once we started talking about art and my sketches, the man began eavesdropping. I could tell because of the look on Kevin's face. I'd observed pretty much every expression he could possibly have during
the time loop. And I knew what they all meant.

When two parallel lines appeared between his eyebrows, he was sad.

When the dimple in his left cheek deepened, he was happy.

And when his eyebrows raised just enough to meet the hair that was always falling forward, I knew something weird had happened.

As Kevin and I talked more about my sketches and Michael's job as a graphic artist, I realized the man always started listening to our conversation when we began talking about drawing and illustrating. He was obviously interested in art. Maybe the paints were his at one time, and he wanted to pass them along to someone he knew would appreciate them. Maybe even welcome their magic.

Why hadn't I figured that out sooner? It had to be him!

When the man leaned down to pick up the paper, I snuck a look to the floor to see if he seemed suspicious. I held my breath as I watched to see if he went near my backpack.

No. But I knew that didn't mean anything. He would have already given me the paints.

He could still be our guy.

I reached down to get a pencil from my backpack and then scribbled on a napkin for Kevin:
I think he's the one. Let's eat fast so we can tail him when he leaves.

Kevin took the pencil from me and wrote:
Tail him? I think you've been watching too many detective shows.

I wrote back:
Ha ha. Just eat fast!

The second after I took my last crunch of taco, the man's chair scraped behind me.

Kevin and I threw enough money to cover the bill and tip onto the table and followed him out the door.

“He could be dangerous,” Kevin whispered. “Let's get to him before he goes down a dark hallway or someplace where there's no one to hear us scream.”

“Scream?” My mouth went dry. Still, I had to know. I raced toward the man, who was taller than he'd looked when he was sitting in the restaurant, and tapped his back.

He twirled and gave me a look of surprise. “You're the girl who was sitting behind me—the artist,” he said with a British accent.

I straightened up and answered, “Yes. Why were you listening to us?”

Kevin came up beside me. “Yeah,” he said. “What's the deal?”

The man gave a puzzled look. “Did we make a deal? I'm not aware.”

“Don't act dumb,” Kevin said. “You were eavesdropping on our conversation the whole time.”

“Oh dear. Was it that obvious? Did I seem a bit dodgy?”

“Dodgy?” Kevin said.

“Ah, how do you say it in the States . . . sketchy? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. But as an art dealer, I'm always interested when I see a young person who wants to become an artist. There are so few people left these days who care about art and painting.”

“Painting?” I said.

“Yes. You know, all anyone is interested in today is the so-called art they make on their computers—or photographs they take with their cell phones.” He shook his head. “Awful stuff. It's tragic, really.”

As he spoke, I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the yellow box. “Then maybe you could tell me if you've seen paints like these before.” My hands shook as I held the box out to him.

The man examined it without saying anything.

I watched his reaction, adding, “I found them back in the restaurant. I thought they might be yours.”

He gave a half smile. He was the one! I knew it!

I was all ready with my next question when he exclaimed, “How sweet of you! Not many people would have chased after me to return them.”

My knees shook with anticipation. “Please, please tell me about their magic.”

The man's forehead wrinkled. “Magic?”

“Yes, you must know about it if they belong to you.”

“Oh. No. You misunderstood me. They're not
my
paints. I was just impressed that you took the time to look for the owner.”

My arms dropped to my sides as I let out a huge sigh of disappointment.

“So sorry I couldn't help you now,” the man said, taking his wallet from his pocket. He pulled out a card. “But one day when you're a great artist, give me a call, and I'll help you sell your paintings.”

I took the card and read:
Alexander McElwain, Art Dealer.
When I looked up, he had a big smile on his face. “Good luck to you,” he said before walking away.

I turned to Kevin. “He wasn't that creepy after all, was he?”

Kevin shook his head. “I guess not.”

I shoved the paints back into my bag. “What now?”

Kevin pointed to Marty's Magic Shop and raised his eyebrows. “It's showtime!”

M
arty pulled the scarf from my backpack, and I felt my face flush like it did the first day I was there. This time it was more nerves than embarrassment. I had to get Marty away from the crowd so he'd admit he put the yellow box in my backpack.

We were running out of suspects, and I was starting to think Kevin had been right about Marty. After all the “oohs” and “aahs,” he gave his usual sales pitch. As soon as he finished, I tapped him on the shoulder. There was a strange gleam in his eyes when he turned
to me and asked, “You interested in buying something?”