Future of Us, Page 2

  Emma stands beside her desk chair and turns it toward me. “Okay, I need you to humor me for a second.”

  I sit down and Emma swivels me back around until I’m facing the monitor.

  “Jiggle the mouse,” she says, “and tell me what you see.”

  I’m not sure if it’s being back in her room or the strange way she’s acting, but this whole situation is making me uncomfortable.

  “Please,” she says, and then she walks to her window.

  I give her mouse a shake. The brick wall freezes and then disappears. A website appears with words and tiny pictures thrown everywhere, like a kaleidoscope. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at.

  “This woman looks like you,” I say. “That’s cool!” I glance over at Emma but she’s staring outside. Her window faces the front lawn, as well as my upstairs bathroom window. “She doesn’t look exactly like you. But if you were older she would.”

  “What else do you see?” Emma asks.

  “She has your name, just with Jones at the end.”

  The website says “Facebook” at the top. It’s disorganized, with graphics and writing all over the place.

  “You didn’t make this, did you?” I ask. I’m taking Word Processing I this year, which is all about creating, altering, and saving files on the computer. Emma’s a year ahead, in Word Processing II.

  She turns toward me, her eyebrows raised.

  “Not that you couldn’t do it,” I say.

  It looks like Emma made this website as a class assignment, creating a fantasy future for herself. She says that Emma Nelson Jones went to our high school, now lives in Florida, and married a guy named Jordan Jones Jr. Her husband’s name sounds fake, but at least she didn’t call herself Emma Nelson Grainger, after that track guy. Or Emma Nelson Wilde after her current boy toy. Speaking of Graham, didn’t she say she was going to break up with him by now?

  Emma sits on the edge of her bed, her hands pressed between her thighs. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not entirely sure what you were going for,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When’s it due?” I ask.

  “When’s what due?”

  Emma walks up beside me and stares at the screen, tapping two fingers against her lips. With her hair dripping onto her shirt, tiny rainbow-colored stars on her bra begin to appear. I try not to look.

  “Josh, be honest,” she says. “How did you do this?”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one who told me to download that CD-ROM,” Emma says. She reaches down and presses Eject on the computer’s disc drive. “You said it was from AOL.”

  “It was!” I point at the screen. “You think I know how to do this?”

  “You have plenty of pictures of me. Maybe you scanned one at school and—”

  “And changed it to make you look older? How could I do that?”

  My hands start sweating. If Emma didn’t do this, then...

  I rub my palms across my knees. One side of my brain whispers that this could be a website from the future. The other side of my brain screams at the first side for being an idiot.

  On the screen, Emma Nelson Jones, with slight creases at the corners of her eyes, is smiling.

  Emma flicks her hand at the monitor. “Do you think this is a virus?”

  “Or a joke,” I say. I take the CD-ROM out of her computer and study it. Maybe someone at school knew Emma was getting a new computer, so they created this realistic looking disc and . . . put it in my mailbox?

  On the screen, there is a series of short sentences running down the center of the page. They’re written by Emma Nelson Jones, with other people responding.

  Emma Nelson Jones

  Contemplating highlights.

  4 hours ago · Like · Comment

  Mark Elliot Don’t change anything, E!

  57 minutes ago · Like

  Sondra McAdams Let’s do it together!! :)

  43 minutes ago · Like

  “If it’s a joke, I don’t get it,” Emma says. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “Obviously it’s supposed to be from the future.” I laugh. “Maybe this webpage means you’re famous.”

  Emma cracks up. “Right. How would I become famous? The saxophone? Track? Or do you think I’m a world famous rollerblader?”

  I play along. “Maybe rollerblading is an Olympic sport in the future.”

  Emma squeals and claps her hands together. “Maybe Cody qualifies in track and we’ll go to the Olympics together!”

  I hate the way she can bring Cody Grainger into any conversation.

  She points toward something at the bottom of the page. “What’s that?”

  Emma Nelson Jones

  Anyone want to guess where my hubby was all last

  weekend?

  20 hours ago · Like · Comment

  Below that text, mostly hidden by the bottom of the screen, there’s a photo. The top of the picture looks like ocean water. I roll the mouse over it.

  “Should I click to see if—?”

  “No!” Emma says. “What if this is a virus and the more we open, the worse it gets? I don’t want to screw up my new computer.”

  She grabs the CD-ROM from me and drops it in her top desk drawer.

  I turn in the chair to look directly at her. “Come on, even if it’s a prank, don’t you want to see who they say you end up marrying?”

  Emma thinks about it for a second. “Fine,” she says.

  I click on the photo and a new screen appears. We watch the large square in the center slowly fill from top to bottom. First, choppy ocean waves. Then a man’s face. He’s wearing black sunglasses. Then his fingers, gripped around the sword-like nose of a fish. When the picture has fully loaded, we see that the man is standing at the bow of a fishing boat.

  “That fish is huge!” I say. “I wonder where he is? I guess it’s supposed to be Florida.”

  “He’s hot!” Emma says. “For an older guy. I wonder where they got this picture.”

  We’re startled by a rapid knock on Emma’s door, followed by her mom entering the room.

  “Do you like your new computer?” she asks. “Are you two surfing the World Wide Web with all those free hours?”

  Emma moves slightly in front of the monitor. “We’re researching swordfish.”

  “And future husbands,” I say, which gets the back of my arm a sharp pinch.

  “Can you work on it later?” her mom asks. “Marty has to call a client before dinner and he can’t do it while you’re on that Internet.”

  “But I’m not done,” Emma says. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back to this website again.”

  She’s right. What if we can’t get back here? Even if it is a joke, there’s so much more to check out. Emma needs to say something convincing to keep us online.

  “There’s one phone line,” her mom says. “Write down the website name on a piece of paper and go back to it later. If this Internet thing is going to be a problem—”

  “It won’t,” Emma says. She grabs the mouse, exhales slowly, and signs out of AOL.

  The electronic voice offers a cheery, “Goodbye!”

  “Thank you,” Emma’s mom says. Then she tilts her head at me. “It’s nice to have you over again, Josh. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  I stand up and grab my skateboard, avoiding Emma’s eyes. “I can’t. I’ve got too much homework, and my parents . . .” As I trail off, I feel my cheeks flushing.

  The three of us walk downstairs. Emma’s mom joins Martin in the bathroom where he’s arranging plastic bags from Home Depot. Emma opens the front door for me and leans in close.

  “I’ll try to get back online later,” she whispers.

  “Okay,” I say, my eyes shifting down to my skateboard. “Call me if you need anything.”

  3://Emma

  ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT during dinner is Emma Nelson Jones.

  “You can hardly tell
it’s low-fat cheese,” my mom gushes to Martin as she nibbles her pizza. “And pears instead of pepperoni? Delicious.”

  “I agree,” Martin says.

  We’re eating on TV trays while watching Seinfeld. They record it on the VCR every Thursday and then watch it on Sunday night. I grab another slice of pizza and transfer it onto my plate.

  “Be careful with that,” Martin reminds me.

  “The new carpet,” my mom adds.

  The show breaks for commercials. Rather than fast-forwarding, Martin moves closer to my mom and strokes her arm. I can’t deal with this. I balance my plate in one hand, grab my glass of milk, and head up to my room.

  I sit cross-legged on my bed, eating pizza while staring at the brick wall screensaver on my computer. Maybe this isn’t a prank or a virus. Maybe there really is a woman in her mid-thirties named Emma Nelson Jones. She went to Lake Forest High years ago and just happens to have my birthday. But even if all those coincidences are true, why is she showing up on my computer?

  I pick up the phone and dial Josh. I know his number so well I don’t have to look at the list on my corkboard. But then I set the phone back on its cradle. Josh doesn’t want to be dragged into this. He sprinted out of my room as soon as he had a chance.

  I try Kellan, but her line is busy, and I can’t decide whether to call my dad. Back when he and Cynthia lived in Lake Forest, we saw each other all the time. We took runs together, and when he played sax with his jazz band, I’d often come up on stage and join them for a song. But now whenever I call it feels like I’m intruding on their time with the new baby. I’ve only been down to see him twice since he moved, for a week at Christmas and four days at spring break.

  I finish my pizza and head to the bathroom. Since the downstairs bathroom is out of commission, I have to cut through my mom and Martin’s room every time I need to pee. As I look in the mirror, I think about Emma Nelson Jones and her highlights.

  I’ve always liked my hair color, especially in the summer when I spritz it with Sun-In and lay out in the backyard. But maybe someday I’ll contemplate highlights, too.

  Maybe someday I am.

  I hurry to my computer and jiggle the mouse. When I dial into AOL, it’s just the regular homepage. But then I look in the “Favorite Places” box, where I know Kellan stores links to all the webpages she likes.

  And there it is. Facebook. When I click on the word, that box appears asking for my email and password, which I quickly enter.

  Joy Renault

  Watching the Harmony Alley Carjackers for the first

  time since college. Squee!!!

  17 hours ago · Like · Comment

  Gordon Anderson

  I feel silly ordering apple juice as an adult, like I

  should be pronouncing it “appa doos.”

  4 hours ago · Like · Comment

  Doug Fleiss It always reminds me of baby

  breath.

  2 hours ago · Like

  In the top corner, next to where it says “Emma Nelson Jones,” there’s a different photo than last time. When I click her name, a page appears with a larger version of the same photo. She looks glamorous in a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses.

  Below the photo, I click on a tab labeled “Info.”

  High School Lake Forest High School Class of 1997

  1997? That’s when I’m going to graduate. That’s next year!

  I force my eyes away from the graduating class that hasn’t happened yet and scroll down. Emma Nelson Jones has created lists of her favorite movies, music, and books.

  Movies American Beauty, Titanic, Toy Story 3

  I haven’t heard of the first two movies, though I’m happy to see Toy Story apparently has two sequels, but it’s the books section that really jumps out at me.

  Books Tuck Everlasting, Harry Potter, The Help

  I don’t know what Harry Potter or The Help are, but Josh gave me Tuck Everlasting for my eleventh birthday. I still remember reading the scene where Tuck rows Winnie across the lake. The boat gets stuck in a tangle of roots and Tuck explains how the water rushing by is like time flowing on without them. Reading those words made me feel deep and philosophical.

  I click back to the page where Emma Nelson Jones talked about wanting to highlight her hair, but I can’t find anything about that now. It still says she’s married to Jordan Jones Jr. but there’s no photo of him with the fish. That’s odd. How did everything I saw before change like that?

  Emma Nelson Jones

  Thursday, May 19 is a day that will go down in

  history. The question is, in a good way or a bad way?

  I’ll think about that as I make dinner.

  2 hours ago · Like · Comment

  Today is May 19! So that means this is all happening right now. But today isn’t Thursday. It’s Sunday.

  Three people have responded to Emma, asking what she’s cooking. She’s replied with, strangely enough, one of my favorite meals.

  Emma Nelson Jones Mac and cheese.

  Desperately need comfort food.

  about an hour ago · Like

  A few more people have written, saying how much they love comfort food. And then, at the bottom, Emma wrote something just twelve minutes ago. As I read it, my arms prickle with goose bumps.

  4://Josh

  MY PARENTS GOT HOME LATE, so it’s scrambled-eggs-with-hot-dog night in the Templeton home. Any other night I’d be loving it, but now I’m a little distracted. I tried calling Emma before we sat down to eat, but her line was busy.

  “You seem quiet,” Dad says. He tilts the frying pan toward my plate and slides on more hot dog wedges.

  The telephone rings. As Dad goes down the hall to answer it, I push around the eggs with my fork. The website on Emma’s computer doesn’t make any sense. It has to be a prank, but if it is, I don’t get it. If I were going to make a fake future for someone, I’d put in outrageous stuff, like they’re going to win the lottery or own a castle in Scotland. Why go to all that trouble for hair coloring and fishing trips?

  Dad walks back to the table. “It was Emma. I told her you’d call her back after dinner.”

  “How is Emma?” Mom asks me. “Did she want that America Online CD?”

  “CD-ROM,” I say, shoveling some hot dog into my mouth to avoid the rest of her question.

  “Is Sheila going to let her use AOL?” Mom asks.

  I nod and fork in more hot dog. Why did Emma call? She knows my parents hate getting phone calls during dinner. Did she find an inconsistency, proving the website is a prank? Or maybe she figured out who did it!

  “Things change so fast when you’re a teenager,” Dad says, spooning salsa onto his eggs. “You and Emma used to be so close. Last summer Mom and I started to worry that you needed to hang around with other people, too.”

  “I hang out with Tyson,” I say.

  “Other girls,” Dad says.

  “At least we know Emma,” Mom says. She looks at Dad and laughs. “Remember how David was always going to that girl Jessica’s house after school, but they never came over here? We finally insisted they study here, and look what happened with that.”

  “The next day,” Dad says, “he broke up with her.”

  David is my older brother. My parents assumed he’d go to school at Hemlock State, where they’re both sociology professors. Instead he moved to Seattle for college, more than two thousand miles from here. I honestly wonder if he chose Washington State to keep Mom and Dad from probing into his life so much. He even stays there during the summer to do internships. I had to fly out over spring break to spend time with him.

  The phone rings again. Dad looks at his watch and shakes his head, but it doesn’t ring a second time.

  “I think I’m done,” I say. I wipe my hands in my napkin and crumple it on my plate.

  “Are you sure?” Mom asks. “There’s plenty more.”

  “My stomach kind of hurts,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. I’m feeling queasy because I th
ink Emma is trying to reach me. I carry my plate into the kitchen and set it in the sink, then walk back down the hall. The phone is on a small table by the stairs. I pick up the receiver, dial Emma’s number, and then stretch the cord as far as possible from my parents’ earshot.

  Within the first ring, Emma answers.

  “Josh?” she asks breathlessly.

  “What’s the matter? Was that you who called a—”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” she says, her voice tight. “I got onto that website again, but—”

  “It was there? How did you find it?” I can’t help feeling excited.

  “Can you come over?” she asks. It sounds like she’s been crying. “My mom and Martin just left for a walk so you can use the emergency key to let yourself in.”

  “Will you tell me what’s going on first?”

  “I think the website might be real,” Emma says. “And I’m not happy.”

  “I can tell. But why?”

  “No,” she says. “I’m talking about the future. I’m never going to be happy.”

  5://Emma

  “HEY,” JOSH SAYS, pushing open my door.

  I look up from my bed. He’s standing at the edge of my room, holding the spare key we hide under a rock by the garage. It has a Scooby-Doo keychain that lights up when you press the nose.

  “Sorry I took so long. My parents made me load the dishwasher.” Josh pushes his hands into his pockets. “So what’s going on? You found something bad?”

  I’m worried if I open my mouth I’ll start crying again. As it is, Josh already looks uncomfortable being up here. It’s kind of sad, because we always used to be there for each other. He went on so many bike rides with me when my parents were splitting up. That was back in fifth grade. When Josh broke his leg skating, I hung out in his backyard even though everyone we knew was swimming at Crown Lake. Josh sat with me at my mom’s wedding last September, pinching my arm every time I succumbed to inappropriate giggles.

  And here he is again, yet things feel like they’ll never be as easy between us as they once were.