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Nomi

Until September 5th, the day the gray rolled in and choked Seattle’s sky with ash, Nomi had almost forgotten about the prophecy.

To be clear, Nomi was not the kind of kid who believed in prophecies. She didn’t suspect things. She didn’t have hunches. She believed in things that could be proven with evidence, cold and hard as fact.

And on that morning, September 5th, day of the gray, prophetic, et cetera, et cetera, she was thinking of facts.

Fact: She’d ridden the city bus to school alone that morning, which meant Arthur was either sleeping, or sick, or faking sick—­not that she cared, because she was definitively not friends with Arthur.

Fact: The route from her apartment to school contained four billboards. Two of them were for some kind of insurance. One was a phone number to speak to Jesus. And the last was a digital billboard outside an Amazon building. The exact word or phrase changed every few weeks, but it was always vague and didn’t seem to advertise anything in particular.

For the past two weeks, ever since seventh grade started, it had said breathe, which had felt, before today, like an unnecessary reminder, and now felt moderately tragic, considering the sky was filled with smoke.

Fact: Nomi got off the bus to find Violet, as usual, scrolling through her phone, as usual, sitting under the old oak tree, as usual, the same one they’d sat under since first grade. And then Nomi actually did cease to breathe, because Violet looked different—­and change always made Nomi’s heart skip a step.

Walking up to Violet, she searched for breath, searched for words. “Do you have a piano recital?” she finally asked, attempting to lighten her voice as she gestured to her best friend’s outfit.

Violet didn’t answer right away, but that was normal for her. Unlike Nomi, Violet always thought things through about six times before she spoke. It was what made them a good pair.

Violet’s lips quirked like she was trying not to laugh, and she slid her phone into her backpack. (Normally she would’ve slid it into her pocket, but she couldn’t, considering she’d swapped her everyday jeans for a pocketless pink skirt.) “It’s been over a year since I played piano. You know that.”

“But then . . . why . . .” Nomi could not say, Why do you look so different? so she said, “. . . the pink?”

“No reason.” Violet tucked a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear and smoothed her hand over her outfit, like she was reminding herself it was there. Pink striped skirt, pink shirt—­no, pink blouse—­pink headband, pink wedge heels. “Haven’t you ever changed something just because?”

Nomi had been best friends with Violet long enough to develop a sixth sense. She knew when Violet was about to catch a cold. She knew when Violet was annoyed with her little sister, Blue. And she always, always knew when Violet was lying.

Nomi gave Violet a look.

“I’m not lying,” Violet lied. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

And that was when Nomi remembered the prophecy.

She hadn’t thought about it in years, but now it blotted her mind like light on night-­soaked retinas. It was all she could think about.

She grabbed Violet’s wrist, concern over a new outfit blooming into something larger. “The book said this would happen.”

For a few seconds, the only expression on Violet’s face was confusion. Then her eyes widened. “Nomi. Absolutely not—­”

But Nomi wasn’t listening.

What were the chances Violet would trade in her jeans and Target T-shirts the exact same day the wildfires started? Statistically unlikely! Slim to none! Which meant it couldn’t be a coincidence.

The final prophecy was coming true. Nomi didn’t suspect it. She knew it.

Fact.



Nomi

Years ago, in the Museum of Lost and Found, Nomi, Violet, and Arthur had discovered a book that told the future.

Of course, they hadn’t known that it told the future. Not at first.

Arthur had said, Ugh, poetry. And Violet had said, An old diary. That’s nice.

But Nomi had been captivated. It was her favorite thing she’d ever seen in the museum.

One of Arthur’s dads, Anthony, had started the museum by collecting pieces of artwork abandoned on the street—­near trash cans, on stoops, in piles of recycling.

“It’s like ‘one person’s trash is another person’s treasure,’ ” Nomi’s mom had said, “but Anthony made it literal.”

Lots of people wanted their art to be treasured, as it turned out, because soon enough artists started leaving paintings, sculptures, and poems by the gallery doors, like blanketed babies by a firehouse. The museum grew until it took over the whole first floor of Arthur’s apartment, and it became one of the most popular galleries in downtown ­Seattle.

To be perfectly honest, Nomi had decided a long time ago that she didn’t get art, and though Arthur’s dads tried to explain it (Art is about becoming, Anthony always said), the museum gave Nomi the strangest, most uncomfortable feeling. Because the artists could be anybody. She could pass them on the street and have no idea, and that thought gave her a spindly-­tingling sensation.

But the book—­

It was Arthur who’d pulled it off the shelf. “Look what showed up last night,” he’d said. Back then, he was always showing them things, eager and nervous like he cared what they thought.

They were buzzing with energy. Anything would’ve excited Nomi, probably.

But the book was another level.

There was something about it. Maybe it was the old leather binding and the crinkly, browned paper that said, This is old, like, ancient. Maybe it was the way the scrawled entries were written in faded blue ink, or the way the handwriting was just barely legible, which made each line feel like a puzzle, or the way the little poems and phrases had the lilt and tilt of fantastical prophecies.

She knew it was silly, but as she read them, the hairs on her neck stood up. She wouldn’t call it magic—­she would never—­but there was something there that she couldn’t quite describe.

And then the little poems started coming true.

In pea–green pockets, promises of tomorrow.

Nomi found an old pop quiz in her green coat, and the next day their teacher surprised them with another one.

When leaves flutter, too high to climb, too far to fall.

Violet tried to help her dad clean the gutters in the fall, and then fell off the ladder, spraining her ankle.

A taste of something new, and something blue.

Arthur’s other dad, Brian, arrived at dinner one night with a brand-­new flavor of ice cream: blue bubble gum.

These might’ve seemed like coincidences if they hadn’t happened so often, with the prophecies coming true in order, one after the other, reliable and undeniable.

Before the book, Nomi’s life had been unpredictable. Her mom had gotten laid off, making money troubles even more troubling. Then they’d had to move to a smaller apartment. And then the pandemic had shut the world down.

After the book, though, the future became something she could plan for. It became safe. Trustworthy.

Until that final page.