Джей Эшер - The Future of Us

A few minutes later, the phone rings. I’m not answering. Whoever it is can just leave a message.

“Emma!” Martin calls.

How long has he been home? I hope he didn’t hear my argument with Josh.

“Are you upstairs?” he asks. “Your dad’s on the phone.”

I unplug the cord from my computer and snap it into my phone. As I do this, I step on the damp stain on my carpet. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone right now, especially my dad. I feel guilty that I haven’t called to thank him yet. Plus, he gets all lovey on the phone, which will only make me feel worse.

“Hey, Dad,” I say.

“Is there a problem?” he asks. He sounds stern. “I left you a message over the weekend, and again on Monday, and I still haven’t heard back. It’s Wednesday, Em. Mom said the computer arrived on Saturday.”

I can’t do this now. “I know. I started an email to you, but I’ve been—”

“Too busy to thank me? I’m pretty sure I raised you to be—”

“Oh! So you’re raising me now.”

He pauses. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” My voice rises. “You have a new family and you’re trying to get rid of me by giving me gifts. Is that fair?”

“I don’t know where this attitude—”

I slam down the receiver.

I TURN THE DIAL to Hot and water sprays into the washing machine, sending up waves of steam. After pouring a circle of blue detergent over the dirty clothes, I shut the lid. It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired to clean my room, but last night I scooped all my clothes into a big heap and shoved two years’ worth of Thrasher magazine into the closet. There’s no way to predict when Sydney will first come up to my room, so I want to be ready.

I pass the table where my parents are eating breakfast. Dad is crunching on buttered toast while Mom sips her coffee.

I grab the Lucky Charms in the pantry and linger there for a moment, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to them. My parents got home late last night, and everyone was too tired to discuss what had happened in Dad’s office.

“You’re doing laundry before school?” Mom says. “That’s unusual.”

“I cleaned my room,” I say from the pantry.

“Even more unusual,” Dad says.

They used to bug me about straightening my room, but eventually they gave up. If they want to view this as my way of apologizing for yesterday, that’s fine.

“I’ll be vacuuming this weekend,” Dad says. “I’ll run it over your carpet now that there’s a floor again.”

I head to the table. “I’ll take care of it,” I say, shaking the cereal into a bowl. “It’ll be a nice break from homework. They’re piling it on before finals.”

“We noticed you were in your room all evening,” Mom says. “It’s good to see that your studies haven’t been forgotten.”

I’m late for school one time, by just a few minutes, and now they’re concerned about my homework. If they knew I become a successful graphic designer with a huge house on the lake, they’d stop stressing over one little tardy.

“I haven’t fallen behind all year,” I say, pouring milk over my cereal.

Mom leans across the table and touches my hand. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had.”

“We know we’re lucky,” Dad adds. “We don’t take it for granted that, other than this one time, you’ve been very responsible about getting yourself to school.”

“After you left, we polled a few of our colleagues,” Mom says, “and some of their children are late to school way more often than they’re on time.”

One reason my parents feel overbearing is their need to discuss everything . That was probably why David moved across the country. He wasn’t comfortable with them knowing every part of his life.

I definitely can’t tell Mom and Dad that Emma kissed me. She lives right next door! They’d be nervous wrecks every time I’m home alone. Tyson would listen, but it’s not fair to drag him into this when he sees Emma every day.

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.