Jay Asher - The Future of Us

Mom drops another sugar cube into her coffee. “We want you to know that we don’t have a problem if you get rides to school with Emma.”

I bring a heaping spoonful of Lucky Charms to my mouth.

“We love Emma,” Dad says. “But getting yourself to school on time is nonnegotiable.”

“Okay,” I say, a line of milk dribbling from my lips. I wipe my chin with a napkin.

Outside, Emma’s car door slams shut. I glance up at the clock. If she’s leaving this early, that means she’s intentionally avoiding me.

We are now officially not speaking to each other.

I ADJUST MY REARVIEW MIRROR when I reach the end of the block. If Josh expects me to apologize for kissing him, he can keep waiting. Maybe I screwed up, but the way he went off on me was hurtful. I stayed in my room for the rest of the evening, coming downstairs only for dinner. I tried practicing my sax, which usually relaxes me, but I couldn’t hold any notes.

I turn left at the intersection. I need to call my dad tonight to tell him I’m sorry. It was generous of him to buy me a computer. I just don’t understand why he didn’t pick up the phone when I called him back last night. I tried his number twice, and both times it went to the answering machine.

“This is the Nelson household,” Cynthia’s voice said. “Sorry we missed your call. Please leave a message after the beep.”

We used to be the Nelson household.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave a message.

* * *

I STEER INTO the drive-thru at Sunshine Donuts.

“What’ll it be?” comes a woman’s voice through the speaker-box.

I lean out my window. “One cinnamon donut. That’s all.”

There are three cars in front of me at the pickup window. To pass the time, I study the poster for Sunshine Donuts. The O is bright yellow with long rainbow-colored sun-rays. A beaming woman holding a tray of glazed donuts exclaims, “Have a Sunshine day!”

My day felt awful the moment I woke up, and it’s all because of what Josh said. I was not jerking him around. Josh is my best friend. I wouldn’t manipulate him like that.

By the time I get to the pickup window, my donut craving is gone.

The woman has puffy golden hair bridled beneath a net. She holds out a white paper bag. “Cinnamon?”

“I think I changed my mind. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“You don’t want it?” she asks, jostling the bag.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I leave the parking lot and merge back onto the road.

* * *

THERE ARE TWO WEEKS until finals, and teachers are starting to put on the pressure. During the history final, we’ll have to compose three long essays. For the English final, we have to be prepared to analyze any of the books we read this year. In band, our overall grade will be heavily affected by our performance in this weekend’s Memorial Day parade.

I’m not in the mood for studying, but I also can’t screw anything up. I need a good grade point average to take that college biology class, which leads me into marine biology someday. If my future is bad, I can’t blame it all on Kevin Storm. It’s my responsibility, too.

Even so, everything is getting under my skin. The ticking clocks in every classroom, the halls that reek of fruity perfume, Anna Bloom’s giggle in the library. I’d never paid much attention to Anna before, but after I saw her flirting with Josh yesterday, I’ve been seeing her everywhere. And everyone I pass is buzzing about tomorrow’s Senior Skip Day and Rick’s bonfire.

Between third and fourth periods, I spot Josh ahead of me. I dart into the bathroom and stay there until the bell rings.

* * *

“I LOVE FRIES,” Kellan says as we push our trays through the lunch line. “They energize me.”

I eye the wilted salad-bar lettuce and the puddles of grease on the pizza. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave home before Josh, I wouldn’t have forgotten my lunch on the kitchen counter.

“When we register for the college class,” Kellan says, “remind me to take you to the student café. They make the best curly fries.”

As I reach for a peach yogurt, I think about what I’ve seen of Kellan’s future. I couldn’t tell much about her career, just that she lives in Philadelphia and works for a sign language school. She doesn’t become the doctor or scientist she always talks about, but unlike me, she sounds happy.

After paying for our food, we head to the ketchup pump.

“Will you grab me some napkins?” Kellan asks. “Get some for Tyson, too. That boy never wipes his hands, which is just plain nasty.”

Something’s definitely up with her and Tyson. Back when they were a couple, Tyson occupied all her thoughts. She doted on him, bringing him cookies and cough drops and packs of spearmint gum.

Kellan nods toward the door. “Ready?”

I don’t move. “Can we eat inside today?”

She looks at the door, then back at me. “What about Tyson and Josh?”

I don’t know how to answer.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“I could use a little space from Josh right now.”

Kellan walks to the nearest open table. “Does this have anything to do with Skanky Mills getting him out of class today?”

My stomach tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” Kellan says, “but when I was dropping off an attendance sheet in the front office, Her Royal Highness was there. I overheard her asking the Student Council advisor for permission to excuse Josh for the rest of the afternoon. She said it was for Student Council business.”

I stare at my pale orange yogurt. Whatever “business” Sydney has in mind, Josh is well-prepared with his studly new boxers.

Kellan grins mischievously, leans in close, and whispers, “I’m sure she’ll be so impressed when he whips out his wallet and produces that antique condom.”

“BOMBS AWAY!”

A sandwich drops from the sky and lands at my feet. Tyson charges toward me. I pick up the sandwich and underhand-toss it back to him. He catches it like a football, spins a full circle, and then plops down next to the lunch tree.

“You’ve been holding out,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were driving around with Sydney Mills yesterday.”

How did he find out? I can’t imagine Emma said anything.

“Sydney-frickin’-Mills!” he adds.

“I would’ve called to tell you,” I say, “but things got crazy last night.”

Tyson’s jaw drops. For effect, he pushes his chin back in place, and then he holds up his hand for a high five. “Crazy with Sydney?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

Tyson lowers his hand and begins to unwrap his sandwich.

If Sydney had kissed me, I would’ve high-fived him back. Instead, Emma kissed me. The moment our lips touched, I was back to where I was six months ago. It was the kiss I wanted last November. It felt like everything that happened this week had finally brought us together again. We could start over.

Then I realized the truth. She wasn’t kissing me because of who I am. She had that chance last fall. Emma just needed something that would create a huge ripple, and she didn’t care if it hurt my future. But more than that, she didn’t care if it hurt me.

“All morning, people have been asking about you and Sydney,” Tyson says. “Dude, how could you leave me hanging like that?” He takes a large bite of his sandwich.

“How did everyone find out?”

“Her convertible is hard to miss,” he says. “No offense, but what were you doing in her passenger seat?”

This must be what it’s like to live in Sydney’s orbit. People notice everything you do and then gossip about what they saw. Even though it’s happening to me now, it’s not about me. I’m just a tiny satellite getting pulled in by Sydney’s gravity.

I look across the length of the empty football field. If Emma was coming, she would’ve been here by now.

* * *

AFTER LUNCH, I have Word Processing I with Mr. Elliott. The class has three long tables, all lined with desktop computers. I press the green power button on my computer and then lean back in my chair while it boots up.

Two scenarios play out in my mind. One is that Emma didn’t come to the tree for lunch because she’s still too mad or embarrassed. The other scenario is that Emma left school and went home to investigate Facebook alone. But since Kellan wasn’t at lunch either, they’re probably together. As angry as Emma may be, I can’t imagine her pulling Kellan into this.

Mr. Elliott walks up to my computer and drops a blue slip onto my keyboard. “You need to head to the front office.”

Again? But why this time? The slip has my name written just above the secretary’s signature. The last few class periods of the day are all circled in dark black ink.

Paranoia hits me. What if Mr. Elliott has been monitoring Emma’s computer and he knows what we’ve been doing? A computer geek might know how to do that. Maybe that’s why Emma never made it to lunch. Maybe they nabbed her, but she wouldn’t give up my location!

As calmly as possible, I ask, “Do you know what this is about?”

“All I know,” Mr. Elliott says, scratching a flaky patch on the side of his head, “is you can take your stuff with you because you won’t be coming back.”

* * *

I CAN ALREADY VISUALIZE my parents—brows furrowed and arms crossed—waiting for me in the principal’s office. The school psychologist will be there, and maybe a physics or history teacher to share their perspectives. Emma and her mom will be sitting in chairs, and Martin too, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.