prediction regarding the when and how of her mortality—asked, "Can you
do
that?" with a slight hope that maybe her question would bring the psychic back to his senses. "Oh," he would say, "what's the matter with me? I forgot: That's not allowed. Let me predict something else." Then she wouldn't have to say, "I'm not sure I want to hear this," and have the others laugh at her.
The psychic took another long drag on his cigarette and asked, "Can I do that? Is
that
your question, then?"
What a creep.
"No," Marissa said, "that was
not
my question." Despite the anticipation of coming, despite the long drive to get here and the disappointment when it had appeared they wouldn't be able to find an affordable fortuneteller, despite Cara and Rodney and Daphne and JoLyn going first, she had not had a question in mind, and the death thing had been the psychic's suggestion. Still, it was an unsettling topic. She wanted to answer: "I only want to know when I'm going to die if it's going to be at least twenty years from now. Otherwise, tell me if I'm going to get accepted at one of the colleges where I applied." That was pretty close to the question Daphne had asked, and everyone had called it lame, but Marissa didn't think she was up to hearing something like: A serial killer will get you within a week.
Still, she supposed the psychic already considered himself generous for not automatically answering and charging her for that dumb "Can you do that?" question and would not give any unpaid-for hints.
"So"—the psychic held the foul cigarette pinched between his fingers and inhaled as though his lungs were in his toes—"I will tell you when and how you will die."
Marissa took a steadying breath.
"It will be just over fifty-six years from now, four months short of your seventy-fourth birthday."
Marissa stored those figures in her head to work out when she had a couple moments to herself—to see if he'd guessed her age correctly, since he had not asked. It would be easier to trust a psychic who had not only the ability to zero in on a person's age but also demonstrated good math skills. In any case, fifty-six years from now was a much better number than, say, next week.
"You will die," the psychic continued, "in a plane crash, while traveling from Rochester, New York, to Buffalo."
"Okay," Marissa said, slowly. She had never been on a plane, her grandparents all living within driving distance, and her parents believing in local vacationing. She figured if she hadn't flown anywhere in her seventeen years so far, she shouldn't miss skipping it later on. Besides that, she couldn't think of any reason she'd want to go to Buffalo. If this changed later in her life, Buffalo was only about an hour's drive away from Rochester. What kind of idiot would pay for a plane and spend more time going through airport security than it would take to drive where she wanted to go? She could readily arrange her life to exclude planes—and, in fact, Buffalo.
The psychic said, "I am not finished." He paused to take another toe-curling inhalation of his cigarette. "Your plane will crash in a sod farm in Batavia, New York, due to mechanical failure, sometime between 8:15 and 8:25 A.M. , killing all aboard."
JoLyn poked Marissa and observed, "I can't imagine you being up early enough to catch an eight o'clock plane."
Easy for her to scoff: Marissa fully intended to add Batavia to her list of things to avoid once she hit her seventies, just in case the psychic meant that the plane would crash
on
her rather than with her
in
it.
"So," Rodney said, "all Marissa has to do is avoid getting on a plane when she's seventy-three, and she'll miss her appointment with death and live forever. Sweet deal."
That was pretty close to Marissa's reasoning, but the psychic was wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
Daphne told Rodney, "Living till you're seventy-three
is
living forever."
"I wish I'd asked when
I
was going to die," Cara grumbled. She'd asked if she'd marry
do
that?" with a slight hope that maybe her question would bring the psychic back to his senses. "Oh," he would say, "what's the matter with me? I forgot: That's not allowed. Let me predict something else." Then she wouldn't have to say, "I'm not sure I want to hear this," and have the others laugh at her.
The psychic took another long drag on his cigarette and asked, "Can I do that? Is
that
your question, then?"
What a creep.
"No," Marissa said, "that was
not
my question." Despite the anticipation of coming, despite the long drive to get here and the disappointment when it had appeared they wouldn't be able to find an affordable fortuneteller, despite Cara and Rodney and Daphne and JoLyn going first, she had not had a question in mind, and the death thing had been the psychic's suggestion. Still, it was an unsettling topic. She wanted to answer: "I only want to know when I'm going to die if it's going to be at least twenty years from now. Otherwise, tell me if I'm going to get accepted at one of the colleges where I applied." That was pretty close to the question Daphne had asked, and everyone had called it lame, but Marissa didn't think she was up to hearing something like: A serial killer will get you within a week.
Still, she supposed the psychic already considered himself generous for not automatically answering and charging her for that dumb "Can you do that?" question and would not give any unpaid-for hints.
"So"—the psychic held the foul cigarette pinched between his fingers and inhaled as though his lungs were in his toes—"I will tell you when and how you will die."
Marissa took a steadying breath.
"It will be just over fifty-six years from now, four months short of your seventy-fourth birthday."
Marissa stored those figures in her head to work out when she had a couple moments to herself—to see if he'd guessed her age correctly, since he had not asked. It would be easier to trust a psychic who had not only the ability to zero in on a person's age but also demonstrated good math skills. In any case, fifty-six years from now was a much better number than, say, next week.
"You will die," the psychic continued, "in a plane crash, while traveling from Rochester, New York, to Buffalo."
"Okay," Marissa said, slowly. She had never been on a plane, her grandparents all living within driving distance, and her parents believing in local vacationing. She figured if she hadn't flown anywhere in her seventeen years so far, she shouldn't miss skipping it later on. Besides that, she couldn't think of any reason she'd want to go to Buffalo. If this changed later in her life, Buffalo was only about an hour's drive away from Rochester. What kind of idiot would pay for a plane and spend more time going through airport security than it would take to drive where she wanted to go? She could readily arrange her life to exclude planes—and, in fact, Buffalo.
The psychic said, "I am not finished." He paused to take another toe-curling inhalation of his cigarette. "Your plane will crash in a sod farm in Batavia, New York, due to mechanical failure, sometime between 8:15 and 8:25 A.M. , killing all aboard."
JoLyn poked Marissa and observed, "I can't imagine you being up early enough to catch an eight o'clock plane."
Easy for her to scoff: Marissa fully intended to add Batavia to her list of things to avoid once she hit her seventies, just in case the psychic meant that the plane would crash
on
her rather than with her
in
it.
"So," Rodney said, "all Marissa has to do is avoid getting on a plane when she's seventy-three, and she'll miss her appointment with death and live forever. Sweet deal."
That was pretty close to Marissa's reasoning, but the psychic was wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
Daphne told Rodney, "Living till you're seventy-three
is
living forever."
"I wish I'd asked when
I
was going to die," Cara grumbled. She'd asked if she'd marry
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