Jay Asher - The Future of Us

“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.

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?

There are also the people too bizarre to ignore, like Kyle Simpson. Future male stripper.

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.”

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.”