Джей Эшер: The Future of Us

Josh’s mouth hangs open.

I open my car door. “We’re going to be late.”

I IMAGINE Sydney Mills standing in front of me. Her long brown hair is held back by a white headband, and her eyes are the color of sweet caramel. She opens her arms and I pull her into a kiss, the fullness of her breasts pressing into my chest.

Then I open my eyes, grab my skateboard, and meet Emma at the trunk.

“Sydney Mills?” I say. “That’s ridiculous!”

Emma stuffs her silver running shoes into her backpack. “But now you want this to be true, right?”

“Why would I want to believe something that’s a hoax?” I say. Even so, I’m tempted to make Emma drive us home so I can see for myself. But if we’re late to school, the secretary will leave a message on our home answering machines.

Sydney Mills is a year ahead of me. She’s insanely hot, she’s one of the best athletes in school, and she comes from a wealthy family. I have no idea why anyone would match us up even as a joke. We’ve been in Peer Issues together since January and we’ve never said a word to each other.

“Look at you,” Emma teases, bumping her arm against mine. “You’re in love .”

Emma reaches up to ruffle my hair, but I pull away. I sling my backpack over one shoulder and start walking toward school.

“Wait up, Mr. Mills,” Emma calls.

I stop and turn around.

Emma shifts her saxophone case to her other hand. “It’s okay. I’d be walking like a maniac, too, if I discovered Cody and I were married and vacationing in Waikiki.”

Waikiki?

“I wasn’t walking fast because I’m excited,” I say. “I just hate it when you… you know… touch my hair and stuff.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, and I know she gets it. She doesn’t want to hurt our friendship either. That’s why she let me put distance between us for the past six months.

Emma points at a white convertible with its top up. “There’s Sydney’s car. Maybe you should leave a love sonnet beneath her windshield wiper. Or a haiku! It’s probably best if you don’t try to rhyme.”

For the junior high talent show, I bombed with my rap act. I thought I could be the first redheaded rapper. I called myself RedSauce. A few times a year, Emma brings it up to torture me. But that’s better than my brother, who mentions it almost every time we talk.

“So, Sydney and I go to Waikiki?” I ask.

As we push through the double doors of the school, Emma leans in close. “Your future self isn’t as revealing as I am,” she says, her breath sweet with cinnamon. “You don’t give juicy details about whether you and Sydney do it on the beach, so don’t get all hot and bothered.”

Emma waves goodbye, and then gets swallowed by the mob of students.

“You’re just jealous!” I say, but I don’t think she hears me.

I’M COMPLETELY DISTRACTED in band. After I miss my cue for the fourth time, Mr. Markowitz points his baton at the horn section and says, “How about everyone take a five-minute break? Flutes, come see me to talk about solos.”

I glance toward percussion, but Graham isn’t here yet. Sometimes he gets held up meeting with the swim coach, which is fine by me. I’m still dreading seeing him. I set my instrument on my seat and head to the water fountain. As I lean over the arc of water, I think about what happened on my computer. It all seems less real today, especially the part about Josh marrying Sydney Mills. That’s like matching me with Leonardo DiCaprio.

“Guess who?” Graham covers my eyes with one hand and wraps the other around my waist.

I wipe my mouth and then turn to face him. As soon as I do, my breath catches. He shaved off his hair! All that beautiful blond hair is gone, and now his scalp is prickly and pale.

“What did you do?” I ask.

He grins and rubs his hands over his head. “Greg and Matt came over after Ultimate Frisbee and we buzzed our heads. Do you like it?”

All I can do is stare.

“Admit it,” Graham says, lacing his fingers into mine. “You want to run your hands over my big, smooth head.”

I’m not in the mood for this. When he presses against me, I back away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Neither of us says anything more. Sometimes it feels like if it weren’t for making out, we’d have nothing to do with each other.

“IT’S TIME TO END it with Graham,” I say, looking into my paper lunch bag.

We’re in the cafeteria so Kellan can load up on her daily special, french fries and Sprite. Kellan is an inch shorter than me, with shiny black hair and perfect skin. And she can put away fries without gaining a pound.

“Weren’t you going to break up with him in the park yesterday?” she asks.

I smile at a few girls who walk by us. “I never ended up seeing him.”

“Well, what’s stopping you from doing it today?” Kellan pays the cashier and heads to the condiment station. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not stopping you.”

“Did you see his hair yet?”

Kellan shakes her head.

“It’s shaved,” I say. “He and Greg and the swim team guys did it yesterday. I swear, guys in groups are capable of the stupidest things.”

“Like war,” Kellan says, heaping napkins and ketchup packets onto her tray.

“And jumping off rooftops.”

“And lighting their farts on fire,” she says.

I laugh. “Do you know anyone who’s done that?”

“Tyson,” she says. “Next to the Dumpster behind GoodTimez, while you were visiting your dad last winter.”

Tyson’s father owns GoodTimez Pizza, a restaurant that specializes in birthday parties and cheesy deep-dish pies. Because of the arcade and the prime parking-lot skating, Josh and Tyson spend many hours there.

“Was Josh with him?” I ask.

Kellan considers it for a moment. “Actually, he filmed it. But he didn’t light anything.”

“Good. Because I would never let him forget that.”

As we push through the side doors of the cafeteria, Kellan asks, “So how does Graham look without his golden tresses?”

“Truthfully, his hair was the only thing that made him hot,” I say. “Now he looks like a peach lollipop.”

It’s sunny outside, even warmer than yesterday. We start across the campus to our usual lunch spot, and I turn to Kellan. “Can I ask you a physics question?”

Her face brightens at the mention of physics. She’s currently taking physics at Hemlock State on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. It’s part of the same enrichment program that she tried to get me to apply to, so we could take college biology next fall.

I shift my paper bag to the other hand and say, as casually as possible, “What do scientists think about time travel?”

She lifts her tray up to her chin and pinches a fry with her teeth. “Why?”

“I’m just curious,” I say. “ Back to the Future was on cable last night.”

Kellan pauses in front of a muddy patch in the grass and launches into an explanation of time dilation and special relativity. I try to follow, but I get lost somewhere around wormholes.

“Nothing’s proven,” Kellan says. “But nothing’s ruled out, either. My personal opinion is that it’s possible, but I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “The past is over. We can read about it in history books. And what if in the future we’re at war again, or we still haven’t elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.”

“I hope the future’s better than now,” I say, though I’m not sure it will be.