by Jay Asher
Profile Pictures 12 photos
My 30th Birthday 37 photos
High School Memories 8 photos
I point at the screen. “‘High School Memories.’ Let’s see what you find so important fifteen years from now. I bet they’re all of me.”
Emma laughs. “Only because I don’t have any of Cody yet.”
She clicks that photo album and we stare at the screen as the photos materialize.
The first is a close-up of Emma holding her driver’s license. That’s currently on one of her corkboards. Someone could’ve stolen it for a day and scanned it in the tech lab at school. The next photo shows Tyson and me using our skateboards as battle swords. That one’s taped in her locker. Then there’s Tyson, Kellan, Emma, and me buried up to our necks in the rainbow ball pit at GoodTimez Pizza. That’s also on her corkboard. Whoever is pulling this prank could have borrowed Emma’s photos and put them back without her noticing.
Emma touches her finger to the last photo, a shot of her butt in a light tan bikini. “What’s this?”
She clicks on the image and a larger version begins to appear in the center of the screen.
“Is that Crown Lake in the background?” I manage to keep my voice innocent, but I know exactly where that photo was taken. I snapped it a few weeks ago when we all drove to the lake before it officially opened for the season. I thought it’d be funny to have her develop the film and wonder who took it.
The caption below the picture says, “The good ole days.”
“I just bought that bikini a month ago,” Emma says.
“You know,” I mumble, “I think I accidentally took that picture. I was trying to move your camera out of the sand and I may have hit the button.”
“Josh.” Emma looks me straight in the eye. “This Facebook thing is not a joke. There’s no way anyone could be pranking us.”
“Someone could’ve stolen your pictures. I wouldn’t say there’s no way.”
She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a yellow disposable camera. “I haven’t developed the lake photos yet.”
15://Emma
SO IT ALL comes down to a yellow disposable camera left over from my mom’s wedding. If the lake photos are still inside, undeveloped, then Josh will have to admit that this Facebook thing is real.
We stare at the image on the screen, at the bathing suit bottom I recently bought at the Lake Forest Mall. And then, at the same moment, we shift our attention to the camera on my desk.
“Do you think we should—?” Josh begins.
“What time does Photomat close?”
“Ten,” Josh says. “It’s in the SkateRats plaza.”
It’s 8:53pm. Photomat guarantees one-hour prints.
“Let’s take your car,” he says.
“Too risky,” I say, gesturing downstairs. If my mom heard us leave she’d tell us it’s too late for a school night.
“Blade and skate?” he asks.
I nod, reaching for my orange Cheetahs fleece on the back of my chair. I’m still wearing my track uniform because I haven’t had the energy to change.
“I have to grab my board from the garage,” Josh says. The screen is still open to “High School Memories.” “Should we close this?”
“Definitely,” Josh says.
The way he says it, so clear and direct, gives me the chills. Josh is starting to believe this is real.
WE MAKE IT TO PHOTOMAT at ten after nine. The guy behind the counter has thin hair and tired eyes. I fill out my name and a fake phone number, then slide the film into an envelope.
“Can you develop this before closing?” I ask, rolling my skates back and forth.
The guy glances wearily at me. “We’ll see.”
I clomp out to the sidewalk. “I don’t think he gets the urgency of this.”
“He said he’d try,” Josh says.
“No, he said ‘we’ll see.’ ‘We’ll see’ means he’s leaving it up to the universe. And it’s not up to the universe. It’s up to him!”
Josh pushes off on his board, and I blade after him across the parking lot. We settle on a raised patch of grass under the rotating time-and-temperature clock. It’s dark over here and fireflies are flickering around the lawn. I loosen my blades and lay back on the grass, looking up at the sky.
“Remember when we used to play T-ball over there?” Josh asks.
I lift up onto my elbows and look at the stretch of Wagner Park across the street from the plaza. One year, my dad coached our Little League team. My half-sister, Rachel, is only five weeks old, but I wonder if he’ll coach her when she gets old enough to play.
I gesture toward a trim white house in the middle of a row of single-story homes. “That’s where Cody lives,” I say.
“I know,” Josh says.
“You do?”
“David used to hang out with Cody’s older brother. We went over there for pool parties. His brother, oddly enough, isn’t such a prick.”
“Cody’s not a prick!” I say. “You just don’t know him.”
“And you do?”
I decide not to tell Josh that for several months leading up to the prom I had a fantasy that Cody would approach me in the hall and ask me to be his date. He went with Meredith Adams, who wore a teeny silver dress. They came late and left early. I went with Graham, even though I was pretty much over the relationship by that point. We sat with his group of friends, mostly people I didn’t know. Kellan, Tamika, Ruby, and some other girls went together, sharing a limo and dancing barefoot in a big group the whole time. I joined them for a few songs, until Graham sauntered over and pulled me into a slow dance. Josh and Tyson didn’t even go. They went to Tyson’s house and drooled over Tony Hawk skating videos all night.
After a few minutes of watching fireflies, Josh positions a blade of grass between his thumbs and leans in to blow.
“Don’t!” I shriek. “You know that freaks me out.” Josh drops the grass and turns toward me. “I’m sorry about before,” he says quietly. “What I said about Graham grabbing your . . . you know. I was being a dick.”
“It’s okay,” I say, spinning a wheel on my rollerblade.
I lean back in the grass and look up at the sky. Venus is out, and a sliver of moon. As I stare up at the stars, I wonder what becomes of Pluto. Does it get hit by a meteor?
“We should get going,” Josh says, pointing at the clock. “Photomat closes in five minutes.”
“NELSON?” I ASK, pushing through the door.
The guy thumbs through the Ns and fishes out my envelope. When he hands us the packet, Josh’s earlobes turn pink. I give the guy a ten-dollar bill and he counts back my change.
We exit and move down a few shops until we’re directly beneath a street lamp. I tear open the packet. With my blades on, I’m almost as tall as Josh. For a second, his leg brushes against mine, but he quickly pulls it away.
The first few photos are of my mom and me in the kitchen. Josh touches the stack as if to say, faster, faster. But now I’m not sure I want to find out. If that really is my future, and I’m not happy, maybe it would be better not to know until I get there.
Josh grabs the photos from me. He flips to the next picture, and there we all are at the lake. Tyson throwing Kellan into the ice-cold water. A close-up of Josh crossing his eyes. Kellan and me with our arms flung around each other’s waists. And the bottom half of my new tan bikini with the lake stretched out in the distance.
The good ole days.
16://Josh
I’M GOING TO MARRY SYDNEY MILLS.
I’m going to marry Sydney Mills.
Sydney Mills is going to be my wife.
I stand in the hot shower for ten minutes. When it becomes obvious I’m not going to figure anything out by staring at the drain, I turn off the water and grab my green towel.
The porcelain sink feels cool against my palms. In the steamed bathroom mirror, I can see my scattershot red hair, thin arms, and the towel around my waist. Somehow, in fifteen ye
ars, I morph from this into the guy who marries Sydney Mills.
I take a step back, flex my biceps, and suck air into my chest. The hazy reflection helps me imagine stacking on some muscle. And it looks good!
I wink at myself. “Yeah, baby!”
A few more pushups and sit-ups every night and maybe I can become that guy even faster. I turn sideways and flex into the mirror, but from this angle there’s no denying I’m still a skinny kid with two years of high school left to go.
I slide open the bathroom window to let out some steam. Across the lawn, the lights are off in Emma’s room. She must have gone to bed early.
IT’S GETTING CLOSE to midnight. I glance around my bedroom, but I can’t see my phone. I walk downstairs, turn on the small light in the hallway, and dial my brother. It’s three hours earlier in Seattle, so I’m not worried about waking him up.
On the second ring, David answers. In the background, there’s a TV audience laughing.
“Hey, it’s Josh,” I say. “Are you busy?”
“I’m in college,” he says. “I’m eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and watching the final episode of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I guarantee, if David calls home tomorrow, he’ll tell our parents he was studying in the library all night.
“Mom and Dad watched that tonight,” I say. “Doesn’t it scare you to know you have the same sense of humor as them?”
“A little,” he says. “But it’s Will Smith! Have I ever told you that every time he starts rapping the theme song, it reminds me of the time you tried rapping in the junior high—”
“I remember,” I say, cutting him off. “But that’s not why I called.”
“Of course not,” he says. “So what’s going on, RedSauce?”
“There’s this girl,” I say.
I hear the TV shutting off. “Is she cute?”
“She’s gorgeous. Any guy in school would die to go out with her.”
“And she’s interested in you?” David asks. “That’s my brother!”
“No, she’s not interested . . . yet.” I take a breath. “It’s hard to explain, but I think she could be interested in me . . . eventually.”
“How do you know her?”
“I don’t. Not really. We have Peer Issues together, but she’s a year ahead of me.”
“Have you ever talked to her?”
“No.”
“Never?” he asks.
“No.”
“So she’s more like your fantasy girl,” he says. “That’s okay. You just need to break the ice.”
“That’s the part I suck at.”
“Whatever you do,” he says, “don’t walk up and ask her out. If you don’t have any sort of a relationship yet, that can seem creepy.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Hang back and play it cool,” he says. “When the right moment appears, the key is not to let it pass.”
That’s always been my problem. I let moments pass, and then I kick myself endlessly.
I twist the phone cord around my finger. “What if it feels like the perfect moment is happening, but I’m misreading things?”
“You mean like what happened with Emma?” David asks. “No, definitely don’t let that happen again.”
tuesday
17://Emma
I ARRIVE AT SCHOOL early and head to the newspaper office. Kellan’s editorials are due on Tuesdays and she always reviews last-minute changes with Tamika West, who’s the editor in chief. When I enter, Kellan and Tamika are marking up papers spread out on a long table.
“Hey, Emma,” Tamika says.
Kellan looks up. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” This morning, I blew my hair straight and even put on makeup, which I rarely do for school. But I just needed the ego boost today.
“You look fried,” Kellan says.
“I’m fine . . . just a little tired.”
“Can you hang on for a second?” Kellan asks. “We’re almost done.”
I settle into a stained armchair at the corner of the office. It’s a cluttered room, with newspaper clippings, gum wrappers, and flattened soda cans everywhere. For several weeks after Tyson broke up with her, we ate lunch at that long table.
I listen as Kellan and Tamika discuss Kellan’s editorial. I read an early draft of it. It’s about a school policy prohibiting girls from wearing shirts that reveal their midriffs, and whether that violates their First Amendment rights. It makes me think about Graham lusting after my belly button in the dugout yesterday. On my way here, I slipped a note through the vents in his locker, saying I wouldn’t see him until band. That way he won’t hunt me down for a make out session before class. Eventually we need to have the breakup talk, just not this morning.
Kellan picks up her backpack. “Ready?”
We walk into the hallway, and people are starting to arrive at their lockers. I have no idea what I’ll say to Josh if I run into him. It was dark when we returned home from Photomat and said good night. But now, under the bright florescent lights of school, my emotions are too exposed.
“Did you hear about Rick’s bonfire on Friday night?” Kellan asks as we walk up the stairs. “Tamika told me about it. It’s at the end of Senior Skip Day, but the party isn’t just for seniors. It’s on the beach behind his house, and he’s inviting anyone who wants to come.”
Rick Rolland is a senior who plays football and throws parties and always has a beautiful girlfriend. He actually went out with Sydney Mills last year, but word is that he cheated on her with a ninth grader.
“Rick lives on the lake?” I ask, thinking about Josh and Sydney’s future house.
“Yeah. Want to go?”
“I guess,” I say, though it’s hard planning for the end of the week when all I can think about is fifteen years in the future. As we head down the foreign language corridor, I turn to Kellan. “Do you think it’s too late to sign up for that college biology course?”
Kellan claps her hands together. “You changed your mind?”
“I think so,” I say.
I woke up this morning feeling sad for myself. But telling people I’m taking a college class while still in high school sounds worthy of respect. Also, I liked biology this year, especially the units on genetics and DNA.
“It’ll be much harder than high school bio, but you’ll do great,” Kellan says. “And you’ve already got the grades, so you’ll definitely get in.”
“I hope so,” I say.
Kellan links arms with me and squeals. “This is our first step on the way to med school!”
“We’re going to med school now?”
“We can even live together. And do our residency at the same hospital!”
When she says this, I realize that I can try looking up Kellan on Facebook. Maybe I’ll even see if she actually does go to med school. It’s such a powerful thought that Facebook isn’t limited to Josh and me. I might be able to look up anyone and see what their future holds.
18://Josh
TYSON AND I HAVE GYM third period. If we played a sport, we wouldn’t need to take gym, but the sacrifice is worth it. With the time it takes to change and walk to the volleyball courts, class only lasts thirty minutes.
I wipe my towel beneath each arm, and then toss it back in my locker. In the next row, someone’s beeper goes off.
Tyson’s towel is wrapped tight around his waist. He reaches beneath it to pull off his gym shorts. “I tried getting my dad to buy me a beeper for my birthday,” he says, “but he thinks only doctors and drug dealers need them.”
I sniff my armpits and reach into my locker for deodorant. “Why do you want one?”
“So people can reach me if they need to,” he says.
“Are you really that in demand?” I ask. “I know you’re not a drug dealer, so are you secretly a doctor?”
Kyle Simpson saunters around the corner, naked as usual. He holds up his little black beeper and presses a button to make the seven digits glow. “My girlfriend’s
paging me,” he tells us. “Anyone got a quarter for the pay phone?”
Kyle’s girlfriend goes to the college, and we all know what it means when she beeps him during gym. He’ll be cutting fourth period and won’t return until the end of lunch.
Kyle is one of Emma’s exes. They dated for a while last year, and she used to talk about how hot he was when he took off his shirt. Guys seem to love doing that if they’re ripped. Needless to say, I’m a shirt-on kind of guy. I’m just thankful I didn’t have gym with Kyle while they were dating. The last thing I needed was to hear him talk about Emma while parading around buck naked.
I pretend to feel around for change on my towel. “Sorry, dude.”
Tyson pulls his bunched-up pants out of his locker, reaches into one of the pockets, and tosses over a quarter. Kyle slaps him on the back, then swaggers back down the aisle. When he’s gone, Tyson and I look at each other and shudder.
“Why does he do that?” I whisper. “Either get dressed or wrap a towel around yourself.”
“Exactly,” Tyson says. “I don’t need to see his schlong five days a week.”
I pull my shirt over my head. “Maybe that’s why you and Kellan broke up. You call it a ‘schlong.’”
“If I’d had a beeper,” Tyson says, “I bet we’d still be together.”
“If you had a beeper, she’d be calling it nonstop. You’d spend half your life running to the nearest payphone to call her back.”
The bell rings and I finish tying my sneakers. Then I yank my backpack from my locker and set it on the bench. From the front pocket, I remove a pen and a sheet of paper, which I smooth against my thigh. During first period, I began a list called “I wonder what becomes of . . .?” So far I’ve written the names of eighteen people I want to search for on Emma’s computer. The list includes a few of the smartest people in my grade. Maybe one of them finds a cure for AIDS or designs a car that doesn’t run on gas. Maybe the president of drama club makes it to Broadway. And my first girlfriend, Rebecca Alvarez. What’s she doing fifteen years from now?
