by Jay Asher
There are also the people too bizarre to ignore, like Kyle Simpson. Future male stripper.
19://Emma
KELLAN AND I are spending study hall in the library. Kellan, who will ace finals no problem, is taking a quiz in YM called “What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?” I’m trying to remember key events in the Spanish-American War for the history final, but what I’m really thinking about is my future.
I close my eyes and massage my forehead. It’s hard to tell much when the future is given out a few random sentences at a time. Also, my life has changed every time we’ve looked, so I can’t even predict what’s going to make my future self miserable today.
“‘You’re having a girls’ night in,’” Kellan reads, “‘when your boyfriend calls and invites you to the movies. Do you, (A), say you can’t make it but you’ll be free tomorrow; (B), invite him over to join your gal pals; or (C)—’”
“None of the above,” I say. “Call him on the fact that he doesn’t really want to see a movie. It’s just a booty call.”
“You’re right,” Kellan says, shaking her head. “Guys are such horndogs.”
I study my fingernails. “Do you ever think about who you’re going to marry someday?”
“Funny you should ask.” Kellan grins and folds down a corner of her magazine page. “This morning I was telling Tamika about a Husband Theory I came up with.”
“You have a Husband Theory?”
“I thought of it while I was waiting at a stoplight yesterday,” she says. “Okay, imagine you’re about to die in a head-on collision. There you are, driving down the street, when a Ford Bronco comes hurtling toward you. You know this is it, the end. So you glance in the passenger seat and . . . who do you see?”
“That’s terrible, Kel!”
“Quick, who do you see? That’s your future husband.”
I pick some coral polish off my thumbnail. “I’m the one driving?”
“Yes, and you’re both about to die. Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You, maybe.”
“Impossible” she says. “We just learned in sociology that they don’t allow same-sex marriage anywhere in the world. That’s what my next editorial is about. But come on! Who’s in your passenger seat?”
“No one,” I say, shaking my head. “I see a tabby cat. Or maybe one of those cockatoos like that woman downtown carries on her shoulder.”
Kellan pushes out her lower lip. “You’re not even playing along.”
“Sorry. Okay, I’ll envision Cody. What about you? Who do you see?”
“Tyson,” she says, and then she opens her magazine again.
“Tyson?” I look over my shoulder to make sure the librarian hasn’t noticed us talking. She’s sitting at the front desk, reading School Library Journal. “He broke your heart. Twice! Why do you always forget that?”
“That’s who I see,” Kellan says. “I can’t help it. But do you want to hear something cute? Tyson’s helping some senior skaters get the wood for the bonfire on Friday night. That’s so Paul Bunyan of him, isn’t it?”
When Kellan goes back to her YM quiz, I think about my real future husband, Jordan Jones Jr. He didn’t have much on his webpage, though he obviously enjoys fishing. But I don’t know enough about him to envision him in my passenger seat.
Then it hits me. I jump out of my chair and hurry across the library. He’s what’s making my future suck. If I can get rid of him, then maybe I’ll have a shot at happiness.
“Ms. Nesbit?” I say. The librarian has a pink streak in her hair and two silver hoops at the top of one ear. “Does the library have any phone books?”
She sets down her magazine, open to an article on book censorship. She’s definitely one of the cooler teachers at Lake Forest High.
“Is it an emergency?” she asks, heaving out the local white pages. “I can let you use the phone in back if you need to make a call.”
“Actually, I’m looking for phone books from other states.”
Ms. Nesbit fidgets with one of her earrings. “Any state in particular?”
My pulse quickens. “California?”
“You should try the public library,” Ms. Nesbit says. “They have phone books from all over the country. I’m sure they have some from California.”
20://Josh
AFTER TAKING ATTENDANCE, Mrs. Tuttle leads our class down the hall toward the auditorium, where we’ll join another Peer Issues class on the stage. Whatever we’re doing, that’s the only space big enough for everyone.
At the far end of the hall are the double doors to the theater. Mr. Fritz’s class is already filing in. I remember David’s advice about not letting moments pass me by, so I hurry to catch up with Sydney Mills. As I approach, her coconut scent washes over me and I’m reminded of suntan lotion and bikinis. And Waikiki! I mean, Acapulco.
I don’t want to force a moment between us, but I need to talk to her at least once to get it over with. Otherwise, I’ll keep agonizing about when she’ll ever acknowledge me. Just yesterday, the two of us falling in love never would have occurred to me. But after seeing that photo of Emma at the lake, and the one of Sydney and me with our kids, there’s no way this could be a hoax.
I slide up beside Sydney and walk next to her down the hall. I need to say something clever. Something she’ll always remember as the first words I ever said to her. We’ll write those words on Valentine’s Day cards and retell the story to our grandchildren someday.
Sydney looks over at me and smiles. Here’s my moment!
“I . . . I like this auditorium we’re going to.”
Really? That’s the ice-breaker that seals our fate?
“That’s good,” she says, her smile fading. “Because that’s where we’re going.”
To get through the doors, our class shrinks into a compact mass of bodies. I let Sydney pull ahead while my face burns with embarrassment. “I like this auditorium we’re going to” will not be appearing on any Valentine’s cards.
The other class is standing near the edge of the stage with their teacher. Mr. Fritz is overweight, yet he always wears tight polyester shirts. Apparently, whenever he talks about sex he gets crescent-moon sweat marks beneath his man-breasts.
“Let’s gather round,” Mrs. Tuttle says. She walks close to Mr. Fritz and we form a semicircle around them.
Sydney settles at one end of the semicircle while I hang near the center.
“We are here to do a group exercise,” Mr. Fritz explains. “Hopefully it will allow you to see outside of your own lives.”
Next to me, a guy from the other class whispers, “A dollar says Fritz and Tuttle do the wild thing in the teachers’ lounge.”
Mrs. Tuttle takes a step forward. “We thought it would be enlightening to learn how many different perspectives there can be on relationships just within our two classes.” She places a hand on Mr. Fritz’s shoulder.
“What’d I tell you?” the guy asks, grinning at me.
“One of the things we’ve been trying to get across all semester,” Mr. Fritz says, “is that your well-being is affected by the relationships you have.”
I glance over at Sydney. She’s paying close attention as she twists back her hair. I take in her long hair and smooth skin. Everything about her is so beautiful.
Mr. Fritz points to the four corners of the stage. “Each corner will represent a different relationship philosophy. We’ll give you a scenario and present you with four options, then you’ll move to the corner you most agree with.” He hands his clipboard to Mrs. Tuttle.
“We’ll start with an easy one,” she says. “Imagine that you want to go on a date with someone at our school. Would you ask them out . . . wait as long as it takes for them to ask you out . . . tell your friend to find out what that person thinks of you . . . or are you simply too busy to date?”
“People don’t really call it dating anymore,” Abby Law says.
A few people giggle, and Ms. Tuttle says, “Well, whatever you cal
l it.”
The guy next to me shouts, “Hooking up!” and now the whole class is laughing.
Mr. Fritz points to the front of the stage. “Come downstage-left if you’d ask that person out. But if you’d rather—”
Abby Law cuts in again. “Actually, you’re pointing upstage-right.”
After the four options are sorted out, I walk to the corner where you ask a friend for help. Last fall, I should’ve asked Tyson to find out what Emma thought about our relationship. It would’ve saved me so much humiliation.
“No one’s too busy to date?” Mrs. Tuttle asks, pointing toward the empty corner.
Shana Roy raises her hand. Any guy in this room would give his left nut to be asked out by her.
“I almost went over there,” she says. “But if the right person asked, I’m sure I’d find the time.”
“That wasn’t the question,” another girl says. “What would you do if you wanted to date someone?”
“You’re right,” Shana says. “I’d ask them out.”
She walks across the stage, and I’m mesmerized by the strip of tan bare skin swiveling above her jeans.
At lunch, Kellan talked about the school’s new midriff rule, and how she thinks it violates student rights. Tyson and I laughed, and he told her that every guy is passionately against the rule, but not because of any rights. It’s the view! That pissed Kellan off and she chucked a handful of fries at him.
“This one might be tougher,” Mrs. Tuttle says. She looks at her clipboard and reads, “If things are moving too fast sexually, and a girl is visibly upset, should the boy stop even if the girl hasn’t said the word no?”
The four corners represent “yes,” “no,” “the boy should ask if everything’s okay,” and “I don’t have enough information.” People begin shuffling around until we’re almost equally divided between “yes” and “ask if everything’s okay.” Surprisingly, three girls think it’s fine to keep going.
Ruby Jenkins defends her point of view. “I know girls who’ve been in that situation. And I’m sorry, but you need to say something.”
“Understood,” Mrs. Tuttle says. “Now, Ruby, what if even one boy stood in your corner?”
Ruby smirks. “I’d kick his you-know-what.”
The other girls in her corner laugh and give her high fives.
“That’s stupid,” a guy says. He’s the same person who thinks Fritz and Tuttle are doing the wild thing. “That’s female sexism. The girl needs to speak up.”
Mr. Wild Thing is a senior who plays varsity football. Whenever I pass him in the hall, I get the urge to drop and do fifty push-ups.
“That’s wasn’t the question, Rick,” Sydney says. “If a guy is pushing a girl too far and she’s visibly upset, then he needs to back off.”
A couple girls behind me laugh and one whispers, “I didn’t know Sydney Mills had a ‘too far.’”
I keep my eyes on Sydney. I don’t think she could’ve heard that comment from the opposite end of the stage, but for a brief moment I see her bite her lip.
“I’m just saying,” she says, her voice quieter, “she shouldn’t have to spell everything out for him.”
“So he needs to be a mind reader?” Rick asks.
“I’m just—” Sydney stops midsentence and shakes her head.
Mr. Fritz opens his mouth, but before I know it, I blurt out, “She’s right. It’s human decency.”
Did I actually just say that? It’s true, but why did I say it out loud? And “human decency”? I could’ve come up with something better than that!
“Well put,” Mr. Fritz says, tapping a pencil against the clipboard. “Okay, the next question is about premarital sex, and I’m sure there will be plenty of strong opinions here, too.”
“Human decency?” Abby Law whispers to me. “That sounds like something my dad would say.”
I stare straight ahead, pretending I didn’t hear her. But then, from across the stage, I notice something unusual.
Sydney Mills is looking right at me.
21://Emma
AFTER THE LAST BELL RINGS, I store my saxophone in my band locker and rush to the student parking lot. Even though a trip to the public library sounds innocent, I know I shouldn’t be doing what I’m about to do. And since I’m also skipping track, it’s best to leave the school grounds quickly.
“Emma! Wait up!”
Josh jogs across the parking lot, waving me down. I haven’t seen him since lunch, when I let him stash his skateboard in my backseat.
“I need to get my board,” he says. “Tyson and I are heading over to Chris McKellar’s half-pipe.”
“That sounds like a good thing to do,” I say, trying to keep my nerves calm.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I open the driver’s side door and get in, avoiding eye contact. I hate being dishonest with Josh, but I can’t tell him what I’m about to do. My future husband didn’t come home for three nights. Three nights! And now he’s using my money to buy some gadget. Meanwhile, I can’t even afford a therapist, which I most likely need in the future so I can talk about him!
I have to get rid of this guy.
“Where are you headed?” Josh asks. He pops the passenger seat forward and leans into the back.
“Nowhere,” I say. Then, because that sounded too guilty, I add, “Just the public library to research something.”
Josh glances covertly around and then whispers, “After dinner, we should go to that website again.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Also, I was thinking we should have a code word for it so people don’t know what we’re talking about.”
“How about ‘Facebook’?” I say, starting my engine. “No one’s heard of that.”
AS I’M HEADING toward the library entrance, I run into Dylan Portman. We went out at the beginning of tenth grade. We’d been counselors-in-training at the YMCA day camp that summer. By the time school started, we were a couple. We didn’t have much of a connection beyond camp, though, so when he broke up with me, I didn’t take it too hard. That’s why it’s never weird when we see each other.
“How’s it going?” Dylan asks. He’s carrying a huge stack of hardcover books, so I grab the door and hold it open for him. He grins at me, flashing that sexy dimple on his left cheek. Dylan knows he’s hot, and he can work it.
“School lets out and you go straight to the library?” he says, walking next to me.
“Well, look at you with that massive pile of books.”
“I’m returning them for my little sister.” Dylan grins and adds, “I’m that kind of guy.”
Generally, I wouldn’t mind flirting with Dylan, but I’m on a mission and I can’t let anyone get in my way, even if that person has a sexy dimple and tousled brown hair.
“I have a lot of research to do,” I say. Then, to make sure Dylan doesn’t come along while I look for the phone books, I add, “I might be meeting Graham later.”
“Graham Wilde? Awesome how he buzzed his hair.” Dylan points his chin in the direction of the returns desk and then says, “Don’t work too hard.”
The air conditioner is blasting in the library, and it makes me shiver. Or maybe the shiver comes from knowing that I’m about to find my future husband’s phone number. I head straight to the reference desk. The guy working there is chewing on a pencil as he stares at a computer screen.
“Excuse me?” I ask. “My school librarian said you might have phone books from other states.”
He taps at his keyboard and then rises from his chair, sliding the pencil behind his ear. I follow him around a corner and down a flight of stairs, finally arriving at a long shelf crammed with phone books.
The librarian crosses his arms. “Is there a particular state you’re looking for?”
“California,” I say. “Chico, California.”
“That’s in Butte County, I believe.” He plucks the pencil from behind his ear, studies the bite marks, and then retrieves a medi
um-sized phone book. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
When he disappears back into the stairwell, I sit cross-legged on the floor and hurriedly flip to the Js. There are hundreds of Joneses in Chico, California. I focus my eyes on the tiny print. Jones, Adam. Jones, Anthony. Jones, Anthony C. Jones, Arthur. They go on forever! But if my husband’s name is Jordan Jones Junior, then his dad must be a Jordan, too. I flip the page, and with a stab of disappointment, I see there’s no one named Jordan Jones.
If there isn’t a Jordan, maybe his dad is listed by his first initial. I glance at the beginning of the Joneses where they list the single letters, but there are tons of Js there. Clutching the phone book against my chest, I run upstairs to find a photocopy machine.
I give the librarian a dollar and he hands me ten dimes. I spread the phone book across the smooth glass of the copy machine, close the top, and drop a coin in the slot. It lands with a tinny plink, and I hit the green start button.
22://Josh
I’M SITTING ON TOP of the half-pipe in Chris McKellar’s backyard. My legs dangle over the lip while Tyson skates up one side and back down to the other. Chris graduated last year, but his parents still let us use the ramp. As usual, almost everyone else on the half-pipe is a senior. They’re okay with us being here, though, because we always bring pizza.
Sitting beside me, a non-skater guy is full of questions. “Why do they call it a half-pipe?”
He’s here with his girlfriend, who just stepped off on the deck at the opposite end.
“Really? You don’t know?” I ask.
“It looks to me like a U-shaped ramp,” he says.
His eyelids are half-mast and he nods slowly to himself. I wonder how much weed he’s smoked today. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to answer him. “If you took another half-pipe, flipped it upside down, then placed it on top of this one, you’d have a full circle, like a pipe,” I say. “Actually, I guess it’d be more of an oval.”
“You know what you should call it then?” His face goes completely serious. “A half-oval.”
