Jay Asher - The Future of Us

My bed is unmade and T-shirts are strewn all over the floor. This does not look like the room of someone Sydney Mills would be calling. But it is! And she could be calling any second now.

Where is the phone?

I turn in a slow circle around my room. If the phone rings, I could kick piles around until I find it, but what if I answer too late? What if, because she couldn’t reach me, Sydney chats with some other guy and they start going out? Maybe they’ll end up getting married, and he’ll be taking my tropical vacations.

I lift the gray phone cord with my index finger and follow it down the length of my mattress, picking up stray socks and shirts. Finally, I toss aside an issue of Thrasher magazine and unveil the glorious telephone.

Now ring, damn it!

I shake out the tension in my arms. Tonight, before bed, I’m going to add ten push-ups to my usual twenty. I want to look like the kind of guy Sydney is used to calling.

I sit on the edge of my mattress and stare at the phone. If my parents come home early I don’t want them eavesdropping on this call. I’m nervous enough already. So I run to their room, grab the cordless phone from the nightstand, and then head downstairs.

I walk across my lawn toward the street. Every time Sydney comes into Peer Issues, she turns off her cell phone and slips it into her pocket. It always looks so casual and cool. I try shoving the cordless phone into my back pocket, but it’s too chunky to fit.

When I reach the sidewalk, a FedEx truck speeds across the street. I carefully look both ways before crossing. Today is definitely not the day to get hit by a truck. Today is a day to enjoy being alive! Wagner Park is full of maple trees with bright green leaves, lilac bushes, and the shouts of children playing.

I know exactly how far I can go before the phone loses contact with the cradle in my parents’ room. Over spring break, while visiting my brother, I met a girl at a music festival in Seattle. We stayed in touch for a few weeks, but I never told my parents about her. Whenever I talked to her on the phone, I called from the park. As long as I didn’t walk past the swings, I was okay.

I was hoping to visit her again this summer. David even offered to help pay for my flight. I think he was happy to hear me talking about someone other than Emma. But the Seattle girl didn’t want a long-distance relationship. After I left a few messages that she didn’t return, she mailed me a letter saying it was fun at the concert, but what was the point if it wasn’t going to last?

I hear a door shut, and turn to see Emma crouched at her stoop, tying the laces on her silver running shoes. When she adjusts the Discman on her arm, I move behind a tree. If Emma walks over here and Sydney calls, she’ll either roll her eyes at everything I say or coach me along in the background.

Emma crosses the street, jogs toward the running trail, and then disappears from view. I continue to the knee-high concrete barrier surrounding the swings and set the phone on the wall.

Even if I try to do everything right, the ripple effect is unavoidable. Everything changed the moment Emma discovered Facebook. If I didn’t know Sydney and I would eventually get married, I may not have defended her in Peer Issues. And she wouldn’t have asked for my number.

On the wall beside me, the phone remains silent.

MY MOM AND MARTIN are down in the den watching TV, so I go through their room to take a shower. The downstairs bathroom is usually mine, but until the construction is done I have to share with them.

My dad once asked me how I felt about Martin. We were walking on the beach over Christmas break, a few months after he moved to Florida. He was collecting shells in a mesh bag, and I was splashing my feet in the surf. I didn’t want to complain about Martin to my dad because that would make my mom look bad, especially since my dad and Cynthia have been happily married since I was eleven. But I also wasn’t about to sing Martin’s praises.

“He’s okay,” I said. “They don’t fight like Mom and Erik.” My mom and Erik used to have loud screaming matches with doors slamming, and ending with one of them sleeping on the couch. Come to think of it, my mom and dad fought that way, too. But so far my mom and Martin hardly argue at all.

“That’s good,” my dad said. “It sounds like she’s happy.”

I could feel a lump in my throat. “Can we not talk about this?” I asked, looking out at the bay.

I take a long shower, shave my legs, and then tie my robe around my waist. As I’m walking back through their bedroom, I pause in front of the framed baby picture my mom keeps on her dresser. It was taken in a kiddie pool when I was one. I’m wearing an embroidered hat, and I’ve got chubby cheeks, round eyes, and tiny heart-shaped lips.

Just like my own baby on Facebook.

When I get back to my room, I snuggle deep under my covers and think about Kevin Storm. His name is perfect. I wonder if we name our daughter Olivia. I’ve always loved that name, and Olivia Storm sounds like she’ll grow to be a confident woman. I know I told Josh we can’t get attached to our future children because there’s no way every detail will line up so the same sperm will impregnate the same egg on the same day. But I can’t help it.

I roll onto my side.

Tomorrow, I’m going to end things with Graham. For real this time. It was fun while it lasted, but I can’t imagine letting him kiss me anymore. Not since Josh saw us together. Not when Kevin Storm is waiting in my future.

I’ve always said I don’t believe in true love, but that I’d leave the door open for Cody Grainger to one day prove me wrong. Since I don’t end up marrying Cody, maybe I should open the door a little wider so Kevin Storm can have a chance, too.

MARTIN SETS A BOWL of dry oats and raisins on the counter. “It’s muesli,” he says, reaching for his soy milk. “The Swiss eat it for breakfast, and it’s definitely growing on your mom and me.”

“Good to know,” I say.

I drop a frozen Eggo waffle in the toaster and look out the window at Josh’s driveway. His parents’ car is still there. I wish they would leave so I can yank him back here to check Facebook.

Martin slides into the breakfast nook. “Have you ever seen the statistics on life expectancy in Switzerland?”

I hover over the toaster, willing my waffle to pop up, willing Martin to shut up, and willing Josh’s parents to get a move on.

My mom strolls in. “Ready to leave? I thought we could swing by the paint store on the way to work.”

“I just have to finish my muesli,” Martin says.

My mom sets her coffee mug in the sink. “Emma, did you call your father and thank him for the computer yet?”

I hate the way she calls him “your father.” Up until last year he was “Dad.” “Not yet,” I say, dousing my waffle with syrup. “I started an email to him, but I haven’t sent it yet.”

“He left a message on Monday to see if it arrived,” my mom says. “When you call, you should also ask him about their new baby. Rachel must be five weeks old already.”

I’m not in the mood to call my dad and talk about the computer. The whole issue is too weird right now. Thankfully, I hear Josh’s front door shut. I hurry to the window and watch his parents back their car down the driveway. Then I grab my plate and fork and slip out the door.

I PRESS JOSH’S DOORBELL for the third time and peer through the window. His backpack is on the side table, which means he hasn’t left for school yet. I look behind a potted plant, relieved to see they haven’t moved the emergency key. Balancing my waffle plate in one hand, I let myself in.

There’s loud music coming from Josh’s room.

“Josh?” I call from the bottom of the stairs.

No answer.

I haven’t been in this house since December. It was a few weeks after Josh tried to kiss me, and we were barely talking. When my mom said she and Martin were going next door for dinner and television, I invited myself along in the hopes of getting a few minutes to speak with Josh. But he inhaled his food in three minutes, and then disappeared up to his room.

The entire wall next to the staircase is filled with pictures of Josh and David at every stage of development, every class picture, every bad haircut. They even have clay impressions of their handprints next to framed locks of their baby curls.

I take a bite of my waffle and then knock on Josh’s door. Inside, he’s blasting the song “Walking on Sunshine.”

Through the door, I can hear Josh sing, “And don’t it feel GOOD!”

I turn the knob, open the door, and—

He’s doing sit-ups in his tighty-whities! His chest looks toned, but… tighty-whities?

“Emma!”

I laugh as Josh rips the sheet off his bed and wraps it around his waist.

His face is instantly red. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“I did knock,” I say, bobbing my head to the beat. “But the bigger question is, haven’t you heard of boxers?”

Josh reaches for a pair of pants and pulls them on under the sheet.

I take another bite of waffle and look around his room. It looks the same as before, with clothes on the floor, a Tony Hawk poster above his dresser, and Cindy Crawford above his bed. There’s a can of markers for his art, and some old skateboard wheels on the floor. The only thing different are Josh’s free weights. They were hand-me-downs from his brother, but ever since David left, they’ve been stashed in Josh’s closet. Now they’re in the middle of his floor.