by Jay Asher
I’m tempted to slide down the ramp, grab my backpack, and add this guy to my “I wonder what becomes of . . . ?” list, which is now up to thirty-seven names. It starts with Tyson, then my brother, my parents, and all the way down to this kid in my grade, Frank Wheeler, who once told us that if he’s not a millionaire by the time he’s thirty he’ll jump in front of a bus.
Tyson roars up beside me, rocks the middle of his board against the lip, then rolls back down again. Across the ramp, the stoner guy’s girlfriend adjusts her helmet. When she first showed up last month, no one wanted to give her a chance. But on her first drop she put most of us to shame.
“You should ask your girlfriend to teach you to skate,” I say.
“No way,” he says. “It requires too much balance.”
Tyson skates up close, locking his rear truck against the lip. He extends his arm and I pull him onto the deck.
“Ready?” he asks. “I need to get to work and prep for a party.”
Fifteen years in the future, I wonder if Tyson’s running GoodTimez Pizza. It wouldn’t be a bad job. Free pizza for life sounds like a sweet deal to me. In fact, Sydney and I probably take our kids there on their birthdays.
I drop down the ramp, twisting halfway and ending in a knee-slide.
“What time’s the birthday party?” I ask as Tyson and I push through the side gate.
“Five thirty,” he says. “But I told Kellan I’d meet up for a few minutes before I start. She has a break in her college class and wants to talk.”
I tap the tail of my board against the sidewalk. “What about?”
“Who knows,” he says. “She’s probably pissed at me about something. I can do no right by that woman.”
“You don’t have to meet her,” I say. “Not if she’s just going to chew you out.”
We pause at an intersection and Tyson turns to me with a grin. “But she’s so hot when she’s mad.”
We cross the street and Tyson nods toward the road leading to the cemetery. “Are you up for a quick detour?”
We lean our boards against the cemetery gate and walk along the winding gravel path. It’s odd to think that only a few rows over, near Clarence and Millicent’s final resting place, Emma and I began to pull apart. It was cold that night, so she snuggled against me. It’s not that she hadn’t done that before, but it felt different that time. She asked about the upcoming winter formal and whether I was thinking of going. I wasn’t, but I said that if no one asked her, maybe we should go together. I said it with a half-smile so she could take it as a joke if she wanted. She remained quiet as we walked through the shadow of gravestones, and then finally said, “Maybe.”
I liked “maybe.” I pictured her in the shiny blue dress she modeled for me after a trip into Pittsburgh with her mom. I imagined slow-dancing with her. With that thought in mind, I finally told her I liked her. My heart pounded, and I did what I’d wanted to do for a long time. I leaned down to kiss her.
But Emma pulled back. “What are you doing?”
“I thought maybe—”
She shook her head. “Oh, no.”
“I thought we—”
“We weren’t,” she said. “I couldn’t. You’re . . . Josh.”
And that’s when everything changed.
It’s been six months since that night, and things are definitely changing again. In fact, they’re changing in ways I never could’ve—
Oh, no.
After school, when I got my skateboard from Emma’s car, something was up. Maybe it was the way she didn’t make eye contact. Or how she said she was going to the library to look something up. Emma is always more specific than that. And if she’s hiding something, there’s only one thing it could be. It’s about her future.
But if Emma’s sneaking around changing her future, she could unintentionally mess up mine. And I love my future! One little ripple started today could create a typhoon fifteen years from now.
I look over at Tyson. His eyes are on the gravestone: LINDA ELIZABETH OVERMYER
Beloved Wife Of William
Beloved Mother To Tyson James
November 25, 1955 – August 15, 1982
“I need to head out,” I tell him. “I forgot, but I have to check on something. I can try to swing by GoodTimez later.”
“That’s cool,” Tyson says, nodding at me. “I’m going to be a few more minutes.”
I run back up the gravel path. Once I hit the parking lot, I throw my board in front of me and jump on. When I get to the sidewalk, I dip at the knees to make the sharp turn, then push hard down the street, mentally mapping the fastest route to the library.
23://Emma
I TUCK THE PHOTOCOPIED PAGES in my backpack and hurry out to my car. Now that I have a list of numbers to try, I need to buy a phone card and get home as quickly as possible.
Dylan catches up to me in the parking lot. “You must be in some deep thought,” he says. “I was calling your name since you walked out the door.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. Even though I blew it straight this morning, the warm weather’s making it spring up again.
I normally wouldn’t mind hanging out with Dylan for a few minutes, but I’m in a rush. I know that what I’m about to do is wrong. The ripples throughout my entire life will be huge. So I need to track down Jordan Jones Jr. before my conscience takes over, or before I run into Josh and he tries to stop me.
“Where are you headed?” Dylan asks as we approach my car.
“I need to grab something at 7-Eleven.”
“Any chance you can give me a ride?”
“That’s fine,” I say. “But I’m in a hurry.”
“I can hop out at 7-Eleven and walk from there.”
I unlock my car and we both climb in. As Dylan pulls around his seatbelt, I notice the three books on his lap. Weetzie Bat and two more from the Dangerous Angels series.
“You’re into Francesca Lia Block now?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure those aren’t for your little sister.”
“These are for Callie. She’s obsessed with this author. Have you read them?”
I drive across the parking lot. “Who’s Callie?”
“My girlfriend. She lives in Pittsburgh, but she was at the prom with me.”
“Oh,” I say.
“We’ve been together since Christmas. You should see her snowboard. That’s how we met.”
The way he’s talking about this girl sounds serious. I can’t help being a little annoyed, though. The summer Dylan and I were camp counselors, I was reading all the Francesca Lia Block books whenever we had a break. The fact that he doesn’t seem to remember that stings for some reason.
DYLAN HOLDS OPEN the door to 7-Eleven for me. As we say goodbye, I double-check the parking lot to make sure Josh isn’t one of the skaters out there.
At the counter, I debate between a five-and a ten-dollar phone card. I choose the cheaper one, pay the guy, and then walk back to my car.
I drive home slowly, watching a father in his driveway lift up his young son so he can dunk a basket. Sprinklers quietly arch across front lawns. These neighborhoods feel so serene, almost frozen in time.
Meanwhile, Josh and I are hurtling into our futures.
I hit the power button on my radio, and turn the volume high. “Wonderwall” by Oasis is playing. That’s Kellan’s new favorite. She was humming it as we left study hall earlier.
And all the roads we have to walk are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
I turn off the radio. I don’t need to feel any guiltier for going home, locking my bedroom door, and permanently blocking one of those winding roads.
24://Josh
I’M SWEATY when I arrive at the library, and the cold air is a shock. I don’t know what Emma’s looking for in here, so I have no idea where to find her. I race across the carpeted floor, looking through the aisles of fiction. No Emma. She’s not at the magazines or in the children’s room, either. Finally, I
go to the reference desk. The man working there is staring at a computer screen.
“Excuse me?” I ask. “Was there a girl in here, probably not too long ago? She would’ve been looking for . . . something.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.” The man removes a pencil from behind his ear. “What does she look like?”
“She’s shorter than me,” I say. “She’s pretty. Her hair is curly and comes down to here.” I touch behind my shoulder.
The man writes something on a yellow legal pad and then nods. “I meant to ask if she’s going to college in Chico, because there’s a—”
Shit!
“Why would you ask her about Chico?” I say.
His eyes notice something behind me, and then he tosses up his hands in exasperation. “I told the interns not to leave empty carts near the copy machine. People set their books there and don’t return them to the shelves.”
“Why Chico?” I ask again.
The man walks out from behind the desk and I follow him to the copier. “The last time I saw her,” he says, lifting a phone book from the cart, “your friend was over here making copies.”
He’s holding a phone book from California. Emma, what are you doing?
I glance into the blue recycling bin next to the copier and notice a single sheet of paper in there. I pull it out. The copy is dark, but I can make out enough. Someone copied a two-page spread of phone numbers for people named Jones.
“Is your friend thinking of going to California for college?” the man asks. “Because my daughter—”
“I highly doubt it,” I say, folding up the paper and stuffing it into my back pocket. “But thanks.”
I hurry to the front door of the library. Once outside, I hop on my board and skate toward home as fast as I can.
25://Emma
THERE’S NO ONE AT HOME. Even so, I lock my bedroom door before pulling the two sheets of paper from my backpack. I unfold them onto my desk, pressing my fingers along the creases.
After punching in the toll-free activation number on the back of the phone card, I start by calling J.B. Jones. An answering machine picks up, saying it’s the home of Janice and Bobby. I quickly hang up and cross out Jones, J.B. with a pencil.
The next number I try is an old lady who’s convinced I’m her granddaughter. It takes almost five minutes before she lets me hang up. I should have gotten the ten-dollar phone card.
Next up is Jones, J.D. I follow the steps on the card and dial the number.
A woman with a singsong voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I say, “is Jordan there?”
“Junior or Senior?” she asks.
I clutch the phone against my shoulder, wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts, and clear my throat. “Junior, please.”
“My nephew’s living with his mom now.”
Think fast, Emma.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I couldn’t find his number, but I thought this might have been it.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“What’d you say your name was?” the woman asks.
I consider making up a name, but I feel nervous enough as is. “My name is Emma. We’re friends from school.”
“Jordan certainly had plenty of those. You got a pen?”
As she recites the number, I scribble it in a margin of my photocopy. We say goodbye and I hang up, staring at the phone number of my future husband.
Some people would wait. Josh, for example, would think this through carefully. He’d weigh the options, and then call David to get his brother’s opinion. I, on the other hand, just flip over the phone card and start dialing.
“Hello?” It’s a guy’s voice.
“Jordan?”
“No, it’s Mike. Hang on.”
The phone gets set down. There’s a television on in the background, and something that might be a blender. Mike, who I’m guessing is my future brother-in-law, shouts for Jordan and then says, “How should I know?”
The blender stops. Footsteps approach the phone, and then a guy’s voice says, “What’s up?”
“Is this Jordan?” I ask.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Emma,” I say, smiling broadly. “We met at that party . . . recently?”
I hold my breath, hoping Jordan went to a party at some point in the past month.
“Jenny Fulton’s?” he asks.
I exhale. “Yeah. Jenny’s.”
There wasn’t much to go on when I looked up Jordan on Facebook. It had his name, his picture, and his hometown. Even so, my goal is to keep him on the phone long enough to figure out how, at some point in the future, our lives intersect.
“So what’s up?” he asks.
“Not much,” I say. “What have you been up to?”
“Just hanging out.”
Silence.
“Have you been . . . fishing recently?” I ask.
“Uh, no,” he says. “I’ve never been fishing.”
Dead silence.
“So what have you been doing?” I ask.
“Mostly looking for a summer job.”
“Cool,” I say.
The blender starts up again. “Listen, was there something you wanted?” he asks. “Because I should probably get back to—”
“Oh, right,” I say, picking up speed. “Anyway, I was thinking about our conversation at the party.”
“Are you sure you’re not talking about Jordan Nicholson?” he asks. “I think he was there, too. People always get us mixed up.”
It’s strange, but Jordan doesn’t sound like an asshole. He almost seems nice. So how is it possible that someday he becomes the kind of person who ends up staying out for three nights, most likely cheating on me? Would he believe that was possible if I told him right now?
“It was definitely you,” I say. “We were talking about where we’re applying to college and you—”
“Hang on,” Jordan says.
I hear a screen door slam and a girl’s voice say, “You ready?”
Jordan tells her it’ll be a second. “Sorry,” he says to me. “No, I really think you’re talking about Nicholson because I’m already in college. I just got home for the summer.”
“Really?” My voice catches. “Where do you go?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe this is where Jordan and I meet. I have a rough list of where I want to apply next year, all out of state, and all near an ocean.
“Tampa State,” he says. “I just finished my first year.”
I open my eyes and force a laugh. “You’re right. It was Jordan Nicholson. I am so sorry.”
“Do you need his number?” he asks. “I think Mike has it.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Okay, well . . .” Someone shuts off the TV and I can hear the girl laugh in the background.
As I hold the phone against my ear, I actually feel sad. In the future, Jordan and I were supposed to meet at college and get married. Now, we’ll probably never even know each other.
We say goodbye. When the line disconnects, I continue listening to the silence in the receiver. An automated voice eventually comes on, saying I have ninety-three cents remaining on my card. I hang up and walk over to my dresser.
In my top drawer, beneath my socks and underwear, I keep a journal. I don’t write in it a lot, maybe a few times a year. I flip to an entry I wrote back in March. It’s a list I made after a college counselor talked to us about the application process.
Emma’s Top College Choices
1: Tampa State
2: University of North Carolina at Wilmington
3: University of California at San Diego
I grab a black marker from my desk and draw a line through “Tampa State.” If I don’t go to college there, I won’t meet Jordan. And if I don’t meet Jordan—
There’s a knock on the door. I bury my journal back in my drawer. “Who is it?”
The handle turns, but the door is locked.
&
nbsp; “Emma,” Josh says. “I need to talk to you.”
When I open the door, Josh’s hair is sweaty, with several strands matted to his forehead. He’s holding the Scooby-Doo keychain in one hand, and a folded-up sheet of paper in the other.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He wipes his brow. “I skated here from the public library.”
I glance nervously at the paper in his hand. “I guess we just missed each other.”
Josh frowns as he unfolds his paper. It’s the first photocopy I made from the phone book. It came out too dark and I tossed it in the recycling bin.
“I know what you’re about to do,” Josh says, “but you can’t unmarry your future husband.”
The way he says “unmarry your future husband” makes my stomach lurch.
“You can’t go around changing what’s supposed to happen,” he says. “I know you’re upset because you’re married to this jerk, but according to Facebook, we’re still friends. I promise I’ll be there for you. If you end up going through a divorce, maybe I can loan you money for a lawyer, or I can let you move into my guest room for a while.”
Loan me money? Anger pulses through me. Right, because he and Sydney are so rich!
Josh notices my phone card on the desk, with the silver scratched off the back to reveal the activation code.
His voice is hushed. “You did it?”
I nod slowly.
“You talked to Jordan?”
“It’s over,” I say. “We’re never going to meet.”
The color drains from Josh’s face.
26://Josh
JUST LIKE THAT, the future is changed forever.
Fifteen years of history—future history—is changed because Emma didn’t like the guy she married. But she only had a few sentences from fifteen years in the future to work with. That’s not nearly enough information to make such a drastic decision about her life. And his life! Come to think of it, any person who was impacted by their relationship, even in the slightest way, will be twisted in countless new directions.
I want to both scream and laugh hysterically. Instead, I crumple the photocopy in my hand and throw it across the room. The paper barely makes a sound when it hits the wall.