The Future of Us (7 page)

AFTER WE FINISH the dishes, my mom and Martin continue their demolition of the downstairs bathroom. They’re blasting Led Zeppelin and using a hammer and chisel to remove old tiles. I pour a glass of water, head upstairs, and lie on my bed.

I’m sorry that Josh saw Graham feeling me up, but I’m allowed to kiss whoever I want. And Graham and I are going out, so it’s not like Josh can call me a slut. Even so, I feel terrible about it. Especially after what happened last November.

It was the opening night of
Toy Story
. A bunch of us went to see it, taking up a whole row. I sat next to Josh, and during the scenes with Sid’s creepy toys, I buried my face in his shoulder. I’ve always loved Josh’s smell. It reminds me of tree forts and the lake. Most people went home after the movie, but Kellan, Tyson, Josh, and I went to the graveyard to visit Tyson’s mom. She died when he was a baby and, as long as I’ve known him, he’s stopped by to drop off flowers or just say hi. Kellan and Tyson took a walk while Josh and I went in search of Clarence and Millicent. They’re the names we once discovered on two gravestones that belonged to a married couple. Clarence and Millicent died on the same date when they were both in their nineties. We loved the idea that they never had to live a day without the other. That’s how we got the names for our Hamburger Helper couple, and also how I picked my password.

We were standing right next to Clarence and Millicent when Josh said, “I really like you, Emma.”

I smiled. “I really like you, too.”

“I’m glad,” he said, and then he stepped close like he was about to kiss me.

I stumbled back. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re . . .
Josh
.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I could see how much I hurt him.

But I meant it. For my whole life, Josh had been the one person I could always count on. If something happened between us and it didn’t work out, I knew I would lose him. But in trying to protect us, I ended up losing him anyway.

I close my eyes and, for the first time all day, let exhaustion overcome me.

A short while later, my mom startles me awake.

“Emma?” she calls from downstairs. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I say. I sit up and rub my eyes.

“Josh is here. I’m sending him up.”

BEFORE ENTERING EMMA’S ROOM, I take a deep breath to calm down, but my fingers are clenched. The last time I saw Emma, she was getting felt up. While I considered not coming over tonight, I need to see what she read about me. I want to prove this is a hoax, tell Emma to get over it, and then go back to acting like I don’t live next door to her.

Emma is sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her orange and black track uniform. Her hair is matted, and her cheek is creased like she just woke up. She smiles weakly, but she’s having trouble making eye contact.

Emma shakes her head. “I’m sorry if—”

“I don’t care,” I say, looking at her computer. “Let’s just forget it.”

“I’m sure it hurt, so I want you to know—”

“It didn’t hurt,” I say. “I was just surprised because I thought you were breaking up with him.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Emma says, “but I am going to break up with him soon.”

“Oh, I see. You just needed your tits grabbed one more time.”

Emma’s eyes flash with anger, and I know I’ve gone too far.

“You’re lucky I’m a nice person,” she says, “because I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I know why you said it, but—”

“
Why
did I say it?” I ask. I want her to tell me that I’m jealous of Graham so I can laugh in her face.

“Josh, if you want me to show you that website, then you really need to shut up.”

Emma stomps to her desk. It feels good to know I’m not the only one pissed off right now.

The brick wall screensaver is running. Emma jiggles the mouse. I can see her enter “[email protected],” then begin typing “M-i-l-l-i-c”

“Is your password seriously
Millicent
?” I ask.

Emma looks up at me. “How did you guess that?”

“I saw the first several letters and . . . do you want to hear something weird?”

Emma shrugs, but doesn’t say anything.

“On the school email accounts they gave us,” I say, “I chose
Clarence
for my password.”

“No way!” Emma says. “Our Hamburger Helper eating—”

“Ice-cream-truck driving—”

“Middle-aged married couple.”

“That’s them,” I say, and for the briefest moment we exchange a look as if we can both remember what it felt like to be best friends.

Emma hits Enter and the computer beeps and crackles as it dials up to AOL.

“Did you see Sydney today?” she asks, swinging her chair around.

“We have Peer Issues together.”

Emma smiles. “Did you say anything to her?”

“I didn’t need to. My stupid face did all the talking.”

Emma points a finger at me as if looking down the barrel of a gun. “But you didn’t think this was real.”

“I still don’t,” I say. “While being able to see my future—especially
that
future—would be unbelievably awesome, it’s also unbelievable.”

“
Welcome!
” the electronic voice says.

Emma turns back to her computer and continues typing. “It’s funny hearing you act skeptical. You used to believe in Bigfoot and UFOs. And remember the Goatman?”

“I never believed in the Goatman,” I say. “I just thought he was interesting.”

Emma double-clicks where it says “Facebook,” and a white box opens in the middle of the screen. She retypes her email address and password, but instead of pressing Enter, she looks at me.

“I always imagined time travel would be so big and life-changing,” she says. “Like
A Wrinkle in Time
or
Back to the Future
. But here, all most people care about are lame vacation photos and trivial things.”

I almost say:
Or marrying the hottest chick in school.

“So why do you think people write all this stuff about cupcakes or whatever?” I ask.

“It’s not everyone,” Emma says. “I talk about real issues, but only because I’m not afraid to admit when life sucks.” She laughs bitterly. “And my life sucks.”

At the top of the screen, it says “Emma Nelson Jones.” Her picture is small, but I can tell it’s different from the one that was here yesterday. Emma clicks the photo and it enlarges. Now Ms. Jones is standing in front of a white stucco wall, her hands clasped by her waist. She’s wearing a yellow sweater and a gold necklace with the letter
E
.

“That’s odd,” Emma says. “Yesterday, it said I made macaroni and cheese. I wonder why it . . .” Emma turns to me, her eyes wide. “I bet the mac and cheese at dinner tonight turned me off to it . . . even in the future.”

I try to suppress a smirk. She’s taking this too far.

I look back at the monitor. “If work is stressing you out, that means you have a job. Weren’t you unemployed yesterday? This is a cause for celebration!”

“You’re right.” Emma touches her finger to the screen and scans down. “It’s
all
different. None of this was here yesterday.”

“I was teasing,” I say. “It’s a prank, Emma.”

“No, now you’re wrong,” she says. “If it was a prank, nothing would’ve changed between yesterday and today. But everything I did differently today sent little ripples of change into the future. Being in a bad mood this morning, because of
this
, changed the way I interacted with people when I got to school. And that, fifteen years down the line—”

I laugh. “Ripples of change?”

“It’s something Kellan told me.”

“You told
Kellan
?”

“Of course not,” Emma says. “I just asked her about time travel from a physics perspective.”

“So something you did today kept you from losing your job in the future. It also made you cook lasagna instead of mac and cheese. Got it.” I wave my hand toward the screen. “Then maybe you’re not married to what’s-his-face anymore either.”

Emma looks at the screen and reads:

“Unfortunately,” she says, “those ripples didn’t develop into a typhoon.”

“Hurricane Emma. That could do some damage.”

“I know you’re trying to pretend there’s no difference between this and the Goatman,” Emma says, “but didn’t you say you made a stupid face at Sydney Mills today?”

“So?” I ask.

Emma raises one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t have made any face at all if I hadn’t told you about your future. I wonder what damage Hurricane Joshua inflicted.”

Emma points the arrow at a group of pictures labeled “Friends.” “Now I’m at four hundred and six friends. Cool! I guess I’ve made a lot of new friends at my job.”

I crouch down beside her. “Am I in there?”

Emma smiles smugly. “I thought you weren’t a believer.”

“I’m just having fun.”

Emma moves the arrow over “Friends (406)” and clicks it. Anew page appears with more tiny pictures and names. I resist the urge to ask Emma to hurry up and find me. I don’t want to seem like I think it’s even a possibility that I’ll marry Sydney Mills. Because it’s not.

The list is organized alphabetically by first name. When she gets to the
J
s, she slows down. And there it is.

My heart beats faster. I don’t know what to say. In the very off-chance that this is real, I don’t know how to feel about what I’m going to see.

Emma moves the arrow over my name. “Josh, here you are,” she says dramatically, “fifteen years in the future.”

A new page slowly appears. The small picture contains a cluster of colorful balloons. At the very bottom of the photo is the face of a man with reddish hair and glasses. I don’t need to ask if that’s supposed to be me. Beside the photo, it says his birthday is April 5. He went to the University of Washington, and works somewhere called Electra Design.

“What’s a blog?” I ask.

“No idea,” Emma says. “But I wonder why your vacation changed. It has to be more than that face you made at Sydney. Maybe it’s because you knew you were going to Waikiki, but you really wanted to go to Acapulco, so when you and Sydney began planning the vacation you made sure to change it.”

I flinch. “What the hell happens to Pluto?”

Emma shrugs. “
That
, I’m guessing, wasn’t our fault.”

I rock back on my sneakers. “How can you tell who my . . . you know . . . wife is?”

Emma points to the top of the screen.

“But how do you know that’s supposed to be Sydney Mills?” I ask.

Emma looks straight at me. “You need to stop saying things like ‘supposed to be.’ It’s annoying.”

“Fine. How can you tell that person
is
Sydney Mills?”

Emma clicks on “Sydney Templeton.”

The webpage is slowly replaced by another one. This time, the photo is of a family with three kids sitting on a lawn. The oldest son has red hair. The girls look like identical twin sisters with the same brown hair as their ridiculously beautiful mom.

I back up to Emma’s papasan chair and sink into it.

“Are you still skeptical?” Emma asks.

“I’m just . . . I want to . . .” I want to be skeptical. I
need
to be skeptical. But this rush of impossible information is almost too much.

“Jordan Jones Junior,” Emma says. “I hate him just for that stupid name. Now I have a job, but it looks like Jordan spends everything I make. Listen . . . here I wrote, ‘Got my paycheck on Thursday and JJJ borrowed every last dollar to buy an iPad. Men and toys!’ I put quotes around ‘borrowed,’ so I’m guessing he’s not giving the money back.”

“What’s an iPad?” I ask.

“That’s not the point! Whatever it is, I gave my husband enough money to buy one.” She clicks around on the webpage. “We live in Florida, but he’s from Chico, California. Where’s Chico?”

“No idea,” I say. “How do you know where he’s from?”

“I clicked on his name. There’s not much here, but he seems like a real asshole.”