Emma shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, laughing to herself. “This is stupid.”

“What’s stupid?” I push my sweaty hair out of my eyes. After picking up my new wheels, I met Tyson in the First Baptist parking lot to skate. Between the morning and evening services, the lot is empty, and they have some killer banks in the asphalt.

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.