by Jay Asher
Ruby didn’t say Emma was with Graham. If she told me that, I never would’ve gone up there.
Instead, I casually walked to the baseball fields, looking around. And then I saw Emma in the dugout. She was resting her head in Graham’s lap. His face was slung low like he was talking to her, and I fooled myself into thinking she was finally dumping him.
But then Emma sat up and started kissing him, and Graham’s hand shot up her shirt.
What the hell was that? Is that how she rejects a guy? Because it’s not how she rejected me.
Before I had a chance to turn around, Emma saw me. For a brief second, we looked right at each other. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was feeling disgust and revulsion.
I’m sprinting back across the field, wanting to kick something or scream or beat the hell out of Graham.
“Did you find her?” Ruby asks as I pass the track.
“She’s not there!” I shout.
Out of breath, I make it back to the parking lot. Tyson is sitting on a concrete block, admiring my latest skateboard sketch of Marvin the Martian.
“Is Emma giving us a ride home?” he asks.
“No. Let’s just go,” I say.
Tyson holds out a hand and I pull him up. “Can you draw something like this on my board?” he asks. “Maybe Yosemite Sam?”
I grab one of the concrete blocks and begin dragging it toward the metal rods. “Can you help me with this?”
Tyson lifts the other end of the block. We position the concrete over the rods and shimmy it down to the asphalt.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Tyson says. “And maybe one day you’ll be in a position to answer it.”
“Just help me put this other one back, okay?”
We carry opposite ends of the next concrete block and stagger over to the metal rods, then lower it down.
“My question is,” Tyson says as he claps the dust from his hands, “and I want you to find out the answer for me: are Sydney’s tits real, or did her parents buy them for her? I’ll appreciate them either way. I just want to know.”
If the block hadn’t already been on the ground, I would’ve dropped it on Tyson’s foot.
13://Emma
AS I’M DRIVING HOME, I blast the new Dave Matthews album. My car doesn’t have a CD player, so I bought the cassette tape when it came out last month. But even with Dave singing “Crash Into Me,” I can’t drown out what just happened on the baseball field. Josh saw Graham feeling me up. And Graham didn’t even get it. He ran his palm over his scalp and said, “It’s not like he’s never seen two people kiss before.”
I pushed him off me and ran to the locker room to get my backpack and clothes, then out to the parking lot to search for Josh and Tyson.
But they were gone.
When I pull into my driveway, I glance toward Josh’s house. Even if he’s home, there’s no way I’m knocking on his door. I know we said we’d look at my computer after track, but now everything is screwed up.
I set my saxophone case in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and head to the kitchen to splash water on my face. My mom left a Post-it note next to the sink telling me to preheat the oven and put in the casserole dish of macaroni and cheese. When I turn the dial on the oven, I spot another Post-it on the counter in my mom’s handwriting. “[email protected].” I guess that’s the email address she wants. The password she picked is “EmmaMarie.”
I slide the macaroni pan into the oven and head upstairs. After I sign on, I add my mom as MrsMartinNichols. Then I check to see if she can get onto the Facebook website from her account, but there’s no sign of it in her Favorite Places.
Relieved, I sign out and collapse back in my chair. Our secret is safe. But I still don’t know what this thing is, or how I’m going to figure it out if Josh doesn’t come over.
Which he’s never going to do.
I sink into my papasan chair to do homework. I can smell the food cooking downstairs. My mom and Martin arrive home. A few minutes later, she calls me down for dinner.
I’ve always considered mac and cheese the ultimate comfort food. It looks like I still do fifteen years from now. But today the noodles clump in my throat. Maybe it’s because they’re whole wheat, as my mom proudly explains to Martin. Or maybe it’s because nothing could comfort me right now.
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.”
14://Josh
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 s
o 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.
Emma Nelson Jones
Last night’s lasagna heated up great, but work is
stressing me out.
2 hours ago · Like · Comment
“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:
Married to Jordan Jones, Jr.
“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. A new 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 Js, she slows down. And there it is.
Josh Templeton
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.
Josh Templeton
The family just returned from Acapulco.
Breathtaking! I’ve posted photos on my blog.
May 15 at 4:36pm · Like · Comment
“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.”
Josh Templeton
Helped my son put together a model of the solar
system today.
May 8 at 10:26pm · Like · Comment
Terry Fernandez We did that last year. Made
me feel nostalgic for Pluto. That was always my
favorite planet.
May 9 at 8:07am · Like
Josh Templeton Poor Pluto! :-(
May 9 at 9:13am · Like
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.
Married to Sydney Templeton
“But how do you know that’s supposed to be Syd
ney 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.”
“You don’t even know him and you’re calling him an asshole?”
“Some things you can just tell,” Emma says.
I feel ridiculous for even entertaining the idea that this could be real, but there’s no way that wasn’t Sydney Mills and me in that photo. They were older versions of us, but the resemblance was unreal.
“Check this out!” Emma says.
I push myself out of her chair.
“These pictures were attached to my website,” Emma says, pointing to the screen. “It looks like each one leads to more photos, kind of like albums.”
