The First Last Day (8 page)

Mateo answered right away. “Depends on what day you're talking about.”

“What day?” I was surprised he hadn't just answered
yes
.

“Yeah, like maybe if it was my birthday, and I was having a party, and I got some really cool presents. I wouldn't mind living that day over and over again.”

Kevin laughed and gave Mateo a fist bump. “Good answer.”

I ignored them and continued, “What if it was
this
day?”

Mateo shook his head. “No way. I mean it's an okay day, but nothing special.”

I gestured to Kevin. “What about you?”

He shook his head. “Even though today's been a pretty good day so far, there's a lot of stuff I'd miss.”

“Like what?”

“Like seeing my brother again.”

“What else?”

“Well, I've been hoping they'd make another Iron Man movie—I'd like to see that. And I'd really like to get some footage of a werewolf. And—”

“But what if living the same day over and over was preventing some kind of tragedy?”

“That could be cool,” Kevin said. “I saw this movie about a guy who keeps living the same train trip over and over so he can find the bomber on the train, but . . . I still think I'd probably want to keep time moving.” Kevin grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “What about you? You wouldn't want to live the same day over and over again, would you?”

I shook my head, avoiding Kevin's eyes. “No, I guess not.”

And for the first time since I'd used the magic paints, I realized I might have made a huge mistake.

I
couldn't shake the feeling that even though I was spending every day with Kevin, I was growing away from him—and everyone else, including Mom. So that afternoon, I decided to fake sickness and stay home instead of going to Atlantic City.

As soon as Mom was done planting her seeds, she sat on the couch with her laptop, and I curled up beside her.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“A little. But . . . I've been thinking about things.”

“Like what?”

“Dad taught me about Einstein, so I've been reading more about time and space.”

“That's an awfully serious thing to be thinking about, particularly during summer vacation.” Mom put her arm around me. “Tell me what you learned.”

“One thing I read was about how the Earth gains a few minutes every century. In the time of the dinosaurs, there were only twenty-three hours in a day. And millions of years from now, a day will be twenty-five hours.”

“Interesting,” Mom said. “I guess we won't be around to see that twenty-five-hour day, which is probably a good thing.”

“Why?”

“These days, I'm exhausted by eight o'clock at night. I can't imagine having to work an extra hour.” She smiled. “Especially if I were more than a million years old.”

“I guess you're right,” I said. “It would be great if we never had to get older, wouldn't it?”

Mom squeezed my shoulder. “As much as I'd love for you to stay my little girl forever, I don't think I'd like that.”

“But isn't this a great summer? Wouldn't you want it to last forever?”

Mom closed her laptop. “I do love being here at the shore with you and your father. And I do like the idea of never getting wrinkles or arthritis . . . but there are a few reasons why I wouldn't want to keep living this day over and over.”

“Like what?”

She picked up a stack of paper next to her on the couch. “I'd love to finish all this work on van Gogh, so I can finally publish my book.”

“But what if you didn't know that you'd never finish. Isn't doing the research fun enough?”

“Sure it is, but I'd love the satisfaction of seeing a finished book and having people enjoy it. Do you know that van Gogh created more than two thousand works of art and only sold one painting in his lifetime?”

“Wow! Two thousand! No wonder he was such a good artist—he got a lot of practice.”

“Can you imagine doing all that work and never knowing how the world appreciated it?” Mom said. “He never had any idea how many people would admire his work in museums all over the world.”

I nodded, thinking about how good my drawings were getting—and only Mom had seen them. “That
is
sad.”

Mom's eyes turned even more serious. “It's a shame he couldn't have known the future. Maybe he would have been happier. And maybe he wouldn't have taken his own life at such a young age. We'll never know.”

I thought about how van Gogh didn't know his future and how, if the time loop continued, I would never know mine. Would I be a famous artist, like van Gogh? Or an art history professor, like Mom? Then I thought of all the bad things that could happen in the future, and my head started to hurt.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked.

“Yes. But you're sure you wouldn't want this summer to last forever?”

“I don't have that choice. But even if I did, this morning when I woke up, I wasn't feeling too well.” Mom put her hand on her stomach. “I would hate for that to happen every day of my life.”

I hadn't really noticed, but after Mom mentioned it, I remembered she'd been in the bathroom for a long time. My own stomach tightened, and I wondered if
Mom was sick. I studied her face. Had she always had those dark circles under her eyes? How could I have been so selfish not to notice what was going on with my own mother?

As soon as she got up from the couch, I took over the laptop and typed in her symptoms:
stomach problems and tired eyes
. A list of possible illnesses popped up: everything from lactose intolerance to mononucleosis to things so terrible I didn't even want to think about them.

I knew it wasn't lactose intolerance. Mom would have been sick before summer—ice cream is one of her favorite desserts. Weight loss was another symptom, and earlier that day she'd complained her pants were getting tight.

I clicked on the next disease. If Mom had mononucleosis, she'd have other signs, like a fever or a sore throat.

I scrolled through the list. When I got to the end and read the symptoms on the last page, I gasped.

Mom was having a baby!

T
hat night, I stared at the painting and wondered how I could have been so selfish when I made my wish. I'd thought only of myself and about how much I wanted things to stay the same. But what about Mom? All summer long she'd been tired and sick, and I never even noticed.

And G-Mags: even though she said her dizzy spells were nothing, who knows how she was when we weren't there. Maybe she felt sick too, but didn't want to worry everyone.

I had to do something!

After retrieving the yellow box from my closet, I studied the words:
Paint your heart's desire
.

Maybe if I did another painting, I could undo the first one. I had more oil paint. But not another canvas. Would the paints work on paper?

I ripped two sheets from my sketchpad. On one page, I painted a calendar with numbers that went all the way to the end of the year. I figured that would get time moving again.

On the second sheet, I painted the word “G-Mags.” I held up the two pages, squeezed my eyes shut, and wished for G-Mags to be okay and for time to keep moving.

I hurried to bed and crossed all my fingers and toes, hoping my plan worked.

But when the doorbell rang a little while later, that hope dissolved like a wave hitting a sand castle.

A
lthough my plan with the paints hadn't worked, I was determined to figure out how to get time moving. As I headed toward Mr. Sidhu's store, the seagulls squawked and flapped around me with urgency. Was it because they were hungry for the breakfast scraps scattered along the boardwalk? Or did they have some special kind of bird ESP that made them aware of the time loop? I'd heard that animals could sometimes tell when a hurricane or tsunami was coming, way before humans had any idea. Were these seagulls psychic?

As I passed the early-morning crowd doing their tai chi exercises on the beach, the smell of waffles sailed by. My stomach growled. I'd gotten up extra early so I could quiz Mr. Sidhu before meeting Kevin for breakfast. Mr. Sidhu had read all kinds of books. Maybe he could help me figure out how to stop the time loop.

The bell above me jingled as I pulled the door open. As usual, Mr. Sidhu was reading the book with the spaceship on the cover. He looked up. “Good morning. You are early today? Yes?” I nodded as he added, “How may I help you?” His voice was as cheery as always. How would he feel if he knew he'd been flipping through the same pages in the same book for weeks and weeks?

I strolled up to the counter. “I know you've read a lot of science fiction, and I was wondering if you've ever read a story about a time loop.”

Mr. Sidhu put his book facedown on the counter. “I thought you liked mystery novels. Your friend is the fan of science fiction. No?”

“Well, yes, he is,” I said. “But he told me I would like a particular story he read—about a time loop. It sounded interesting. He couldn't remember the end, so I thought I'd read it and find out.”
More lies
.

“Much of science fiction is about time travel. What is the name of the story?”

“It's called ‘12:01 P.M.' ”

“Ah yes, that is a classic.”

“So, you know it? Can you tell me what happens at the end?”

“Do you really want to know? I do not want to spoil it for you.”

“Yes. Yes. I want to know!”

Mr. Sidhu's dark eyebrows came together. “Let me see. At the end of the story, the man has a heart attack, and he knows he is dying. He thinks the time loop will be over because of his death. But he is wrong. As soon as the clock hits one minute after one o'clock, it bounces back one hour. And the man is alive again.”

“So he's still in the time loop? That's a terrible ending!”

Mr. Sidhu smiled. “Well then, you will be happy to know the author wrote another story with the same character. It is called ‘12:02 P.M.' ”

“What happens in that story?”

Mr. Sidhu thought for a minute. “The man thinks he has figured out the solution to his problem. If he
throws himself out of a window, he will be able to get time moving again.”

“What?” I rocked back on my heels and almost fell. “He jumps out a window?”

“Yes. That is the end of the story.”

The backs of my legs tingled just thinking about it. But I didn't think leaping out a window had anything to do with the time loop I was in. “Do you know of any other stories that have to do with a time loop?” I asked. “Maybe that involve paints?”

Mr. Sidhu hesitated. “It is not exactly about a time loop. But I know of a famous book about a man who wishes on a painting of himself. After that, the portrait grows old, and the man stays young.”

“What happens at the end?”

“I believe the artist stabs the painting with a knife.”

“Then what happens?” I held my breath, waiting to hear the answer.

Mr. Sidhu frowned. “I am not sure I should tell you—it is a little gruesome.”

“Please, tell me. Tell me!”

“The portrait changes back to being the man when he was young again and—”

“The man? What happens to the man?”

“He withers away.”

“Withers?” I felt like there was a wad of saltwater taffy stuck in my throat.

Mr. Sidhu nodded and looked around. “I do not think I have a copy of that book.”

“That's okay,” I said, heading out to the boardwalk.

I checked my reflection in the glass door on the way out. I had to find out where those paints came from—before I ended up like that guy in the book.

A
fter leaving Mr. Sidhu's shop, I texted Kevin and told him I'd wait for him at Annie's. I had to get time moving again. And that meant I had to find the directions to the paints. But where were they? And how could I find them if I didn't know where the paints came from?

I flashed back to when I'd first seen the yellow box on the night of the first last day. It hadn't been in my backpack when I left the house that morning. That meant someone had to have given me the box at some point during that day.

But who?

And why?

I decided to make a list of people and places I'd seen that first day. I grabbed my pencil and sketchpad from my backpack and began writing frantically:

1. Met Kevin on boardwalk and went to Annie's for breakfast.

2. Looked at Serena's sketches.

3. Went to Mr. Sidhu's store with Kevin.

4. Ate Italian ice with Kevin on boardwalk.

5. Swam and sculpted stegosaurus with Kevin and Mateo on beach.

6. Waited while Kevin went to get cow suit.

7. Made cannolis with Kevin and G-Mags.

8. Went home to change.

9. Went to Atlantic City.

A. Observed gamblers.

B. Ate tacos.

C. Shopped for souvenirs.

D. Watched magic show.

E. Played mini golf.

10. Had dinner with Kevin's family.

I studied the list. Did I have enough information to solve this mystery by myself?

There was one person who could help me: Kevin. He paid attention to everything—especially when he was filming.

But did I dare tell him about the painting? What would I say?
Hey, guess what? I found a set of paints in my backpack, and when I used them it caused a monumental rift in the space-time continuum—just like those movies you love so much.