The Future of Us

1://Emma

I CAN’T BREAK UP with Graham today, even though I told my friends I’d do it the next time I saw him. So instead, I’m hiding in my bedroom, setting up my new computer while he plays Ultimate Frisbee in the park across the street.

My dad shipped me the computer as yet another guilt gift. Last summer, before he and my stepmom moved from central Pennsylvania to Florida, he handed me the keys to his old Honda and then started his new life. They just had their first baby, so I got this desktop computer with Windows 95 and a color monitor.

I’m scrolling through various screensavers when someone rings the doorbell. I let my mom answer it because I still haven’t decided between a shifting brick wall maze and a web of plumber’s pipes. Hopefully it’s not Graham at the door.

“Emma!” my mom shouts. “Josh is here.”

Now that’s a surprise. Josh Templeton lives next door, and when we were little we constantly ran back and forth between our houses. We camped in our backyards, built forts, and on Saturday mornings he carried over his cereal bowl to watch cartoons on my couch. Even after we got to high school, we hung out all the time. But then, last November, everything changed. We still eat lunch with our small group of friends, but he hasn’t been in my house once in the past six months.

I select the brick wall screensaver and head downstairs. Josh is standing on the porch, tapping at the doorframe with the scuffed toe of his sneaker. He’s a grade behind me, which makes him a sophomore. He’s got the same floppy reddish-blond hair and shy smile as always, but he’s grown five inches this year.

I watch my mom’s car backing out of the driveway. She honks and waves before turning into the street.

“Your mom said you haven’t been out of your room all day,” Josh says.

“I’m setting up the computer,” I say, avoiding the whole Graham issue. “It’s pretty nice.”

“If your stepmom gets pregnant again,” he says, “you should talk your dad into buying you a cell phone.”

“Yeah, right.”

Before last November, Josh and I wouldn’t have been standing awkwardly in the doorway. My mom would’ve let him in, and he would’ve jogged straight up to my room.

“My mom wanted me to bring this over,” he says, holding up a CD-ROM. “America Online gives you a hundred free hours if you sign up. It came in the mail last week.”

Our friend Kellan recently got AOL. She squeals every time someone sends her an instant message. She’ll spend hours hunched over her keyboard typing out a conversation with someone who may not even go to Lake Forest High.

“Doesn’t your family want it?” I ask.

Josh shakes his head. “My parents don’t want to get the Internet. They say it’s a waste of time, and my mom thinks the chatrooms are full of perverts.”

I laugh. “So she wants me to have it?”

Josh shrugs. “I told your mom about it, and she said it’s okay for you to sign up as long as she and Martin can have email addresses, too.”

I still can’t hear Martin’s name without rolling my eyes. My mom married him last summer, saying this time she found true love. But she also said that about Erik, and he only lasted two years.

I take the CD-ROM from Josh, and he stuffs his hands in his back pockets.

“I heard it can take a while to download,” he says.

“Did my mom say how long she’d be gone?” I ask. “Maybe now would be a good time to tie up the phone line.”

“She said she’s picking up Martin and they’re driving into Pittsburgh to look at sinks.”

I never bonded with my last stepdad, but at least Erik didn’t rip apart the house. Instead, he talked my mom into raising parakeets, so my junior high years were filled with chirping birds. Martin, however, convinced my mom to start a major renovation, filling the house with sawdust and paint fumes. They recently finished the kitchen and the carpets, and now they’re tackling the downstairs bathroom.

“If you want,” I say, mainly to fill the silence, “you can come over and try AOL sometime.”

Josh pushes his hair away from his eyes. “Tyson says it’s awesome. He says it’ll change your life.”

“Right, but he also thinks every episode of Friends is life-changing.”

Josh smiles and then turns to leave. His head barely clears the wind chimes that Martin hung from the front porch. I can’t believe Josh is nearly six-feet tall now. Sometimes, from a distance, I barely recognize him.

I SLIDE IN THE CD-ROM and listen to it spin inside the computer. I click through the introductory screens and then hit Enter to begin the download. The blue status bar on the screen says the download is going to take ninety-seven minutes. I glance longingly out the window at the perfect May afternoon. After a blustery winter, followed by months of chilly spring rain, summer is finally arriving.

I have a track meet tomorrow, but I haven’t been running in three days. I know it’s stupid to worry about bumping into Graham. Wagner Park is huge. It stretches along the edge of downtown all the way to the newer subdivision of homes. Graham could be playing Frisbee anywhere. But if he sees me, he’ll hitch his arm around my shoulder and steer me somewhere to make out. At prom last weekend, he was all over me. I even missed doing the Macarena with Kellan and Ruby and my other friends.

I consider interrupting the download to call Graham’s house and see if he’s home yet. If he answers, I’ll hang up. Then again, Kellan told me about a new service where some phones display the number that’s calling. No, I’ll be a grown-up about it. I can’t hide in my room forever. If I spot Graham in the park I’ll just wave and shout that I have to keep running.

I change into shorts and a jog bra, and twist my curly hair into a scrunchie. I strap my Discman around my arm with Velcro and walk out to my front lawn, where I stop to stretch. Josh’s garage door opens. A moment later, he rolls out on his skateboard.

When he sees me, he stops on his driveway. “Did you start the download?”

“Yeah, but it’s taking forever. Where are you headed?”

“SkateRats,” he says. “I need new wheels.”

“Have fun,” I say as he pushes toward the street.

There was a time when Josh and I would have talked longer, but that’s been a while. I jog over to the sidewalk and take a left. When I get to the end of my block, I cut across and meet the paved trail leading into the park. I push Play on the Discman. Kellan made this running mix for me, starting with Alanis Morissette, then Pearl Jam, and finally Dave Matthews.

I run the three-mile loop hard and fast, relieved not to see any Frisbee games. As I’m nearing my street again, the opening guitar of “Crash into Me” comes on.

Lost for you, I mouth the words. I’m so lost for you. The lyrics always make me think of Cody Grainger. He’s on the track team with me. He’s a senior and an incredible sprinter, ranked in the top twenty in the state. Last spring, on the ride home from a meet, he sat next to me and told me all about the college scouts who’ve been calling him. Later, when I couldn’t hold back a yawn, he let me rest against his shoulder. I closed my eyes and pretended to fall asleep, but I kept thinking, Even though I don’t believe in true love, I could reconsider that for Cody.

Kellan says I’m delusional about him, but she’s one to talk. When she got together with Tyson last summer, you’d think the girl invented love. She’s got a genius IQ and writes intense editorials for the school paper, but all she could talk about was Tyson this and Tyson that. When he broke up with her after winter break, she crashed so hard she missed two weeks of school.

While I may pine for Cody, I still have to live my life. For the past two months I’ve been going out with Graham Wilde. We’re in band together. He plays drums and I play saxophone. He’s sexy, with shoulder-length blond hair, but his clinginess at prom was annoying. I’ll definitely end it with him soon. Or maybe I’ll just let things dissolve over the summer.

THE STATUS BAR is still chugging along.

I take a shower and then settle into my papasan chair to read over my notes for the biology final. I’ve been getting A’s in biology this year, definitely my strongest subject. Kellan has been trying to convince me to sign up with her for a biology course at the college next fall, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. I want a low-key senior year.

When the download is complete, I close my textbook and then restart the computer. As I dial in to AOL, the modem crackles and beeps. Once I’m on, I check to see if EmmaNelson@aol.com is available, but that email address is already taken. So is EmmaMarieNelson. Finally I settle on EmmaNelson4Ever. For my password, I consider a few options before typing “Millicent.” Last summer, when Kellan and Tyson were all over each other, Josh and I made fun of them by pretending we were a lovesick middle-aged couple named Millicent and Clarence who devoured Hamburger Helper and drove around town in a beat-up ice-cream truck. Kellan and Tyson never thought it was funny, but it sent Josh and me into hysterics.

I click Enter and the same AOL screen I’ve seen on Kellan’s computer now appears on mine.

“Welcome!” chimes an electronic voice.

I’m about to write my first email to Kellan when a bright light flashes across the screen. A small white box with a blue border pops up, asking me to re-enter my email and password.

“EmmaNelson4Ever@aol.com,” I type. “Millicent.”

For about twenty seconds, my monitor freezes. Then the white box snaps into a tiny blue dot and a new webpage fades in. It has a blue banner running across the top that says “Facebook.” A column down the center of the screen is labeled “News Feed” and under that are tiny photos of people I don’t recognize. Each photo is followed by a brief statement.

I circle the mouse around the screen, confused by the jumble of pictures and words. I have no idea what any of this means, “Status” and “Friend Request” and “Poke.”

Then, just under the blue banner, something makes me shiver. Next to a small picture of a woman sitting on a beach, it says “Emma Nelson Jones.” The woman is in her thirties with curly brown hair and brown eyes. My stomach tingles because this woman looks familiar.

Too familiar.

When I move the mouse over her name, the white arrow turns into a hand. I click and another page slowly loads. This time, her picture is larger and there’s so much information I don’t know where to begin reading. In the center column, next to a smaller version of the same picture, I see:

It says Emma Nelson Jones went to Lake Forest High School. She’s married to someone named Jordan Jones Jr. and was born on July 24. She doesn’t list the year, but July 24 is my birthday.

I sink my forehead into my hands and attempt to take a deep breath. Through my open window, I hear Josh skating toward his house, his wheels bumping over the lines in the sidewalk. I run down the stairs and burst out the front door, squinting my eyes in the bright sun.

“Josh?” I call out.

He rides up his driveway and kicks the skateboard into his hand.

I clutch the railing on my front porch to steady myself. “Something happened after I downloaded AOL.”

Josh stares at me, the wind chimes ringing through the silence.

“Can you come upstairs for a second?” I ask.

He looks down at the grass, but doesn’t say a word.

“Please,” I say.

With his skateboard in his hand, Josh follows me into the house.

2://Josh

I FOLLOW EMMA up her stairs and count on my fingers from November to May. It’s been six months since I’ve been in her house. Before that, this was like my second home. But after we all went to the opening night of Toy Story, I misread things and thought she wanted to be more than friends.

She didn’t.

When we get to her room, Emma waves a hand at the computer. “Here it is.”

The monitor plays a screensaver that makes it look like you’re moving through a maze of brick walls.

“It’s nice,” I say, leaning my skateboard against her dresser. “You can barely hear it run.”

Her room looks the same as before, other than a vase of wilting white roses on her dresser. Several red paper lanterns dangle from the ceiling. Two corkboards near her bed are packed with photos and ticket stubs from movies and school dances.

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.

“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?”

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.

I finish my pizza and head to the bathroom. Since the downstairs bathroom is out of commission, I have to cut through my mom and Martin’s room every time I need to pee. As I look in the mirror, I think about Emma Nelson Jones and her highlights.

I’ve always liked my hair color, especially in the summer when I spritz it with Sun-In and lay out in the backyard. But maybe someday I’ll contemplate highlights, too.

Maybe someday I am.

I hurry to my computer and jiggle the mouse. When I dial into AOL, it’s just the regular homepage. But then I look in the “Favorite Places” box, where I know Kellan stores links to all the webpages she likes.

And there it is. Facebook. When I click on the word, that box appears asking for my email and password, which I quickly enter.

In the top corner, next to where it says “Emma Nelson Jones,” there’s a different photo than last time. When I click her name, a page appears with a larger version of the same photo. She looks glamorous in a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses.

Below the photo, I click on a tab labeled “Info.”

1997? That’s when I’m going to graduate. That’s next year!

I force my eyes away from the graduating class that hasn’t happened yet and scroll down. Emma Nelson Jones has created lists of her favorite movies, music, and books.

I haven’t heard of the first two movies, though I’m happy to see Toy Story apparently has two sequels, but it’s the books section that really jumps out at me.

I don’t know what Harry Potter or The Help are, but Josh gave me Tuck Everlasting for my eleventh birthday. I still remember reading the scene where Tuck rows Winnie across the lake. The boat gets stuck in a tangle of roots and Tuck explains how the water rushing by is like time flowing on without them. Reading those words made me feel deep and philosophical.

I click back to the page where Emma Nelson Jones talked about wanting to highlight her hair, but I can’t find anything about that now. It still says she’s married to Jordan Jones Jr. but there’s no photo of him with the fish. That’s odd. How did everything I saw before change like that?

Today is May 19! So that means this is all happening right now. But today isn’t Thursday. It’s Sunday.

Three people have responded to Emma, asking what she’s cooking. She’s replied with, strangely enough, one of my favorite meals.

A few more people have written, saying how much they love comfort food. And then, at the bottom, Emma wrote something just twelve minutes ago. As I read it, my arms prickle with goose bumps.

4://Josh

MY PARENTS GOT HOME LATE, so it’s scrambled-eggs-with-hot-dog night in the Templeton home. Any other night I’d be loving it, but now I’m a little distracted. I tried calling Emma before we sat down to eat, but her line was busy.

“You seem quiet,” Dad says. He tilts the frying pan toward my plate and slides on more hot dog wedges.

The telephone rings. As Dad goes down the hall to answer it, I push around the eggs with my fork. The website on Emma’s computer doesn’t make any sense. It has to be a prank, but if it is, I don’t get it. If I were going to make a fake future for someone, I’d put in outrageous stuff, like they’re going to win the lottery or own a castle in Scotland. Why go to all that trouble for hair coloring and fishing trips?

Dad walks back to the table. “It was Emma. I told her you’d call her back after dinner.”

“How is Emma?” Mom asks me. “Did she want that America Online CD?”

“CD-ROM,” I say, shoveling some hot dog into my mouth to avoid the rest of her question.

“Is Sheila going to let her use AOL?” Mom asks.

I nod and fork in more hot dog. Why did Emma call? She knows my parents hate getting phone calls during dinner. Did she find an inconsistency, proving the website is a prank? Or maybe she figured out who did it!

“Things change so fast when you’re a teenager,” Dad says, spooning salsa onto his eggs. “You and Emma used to be so close. Last summer Mom and I started to worry that you needed to hang around with other people, too.”

“I hang out with Tyson,” I say.

“Other girls,” Dad says.

“At least we know Emma,” Mom says. She looks at Dad and laughs. “Remember how David was always going to that girl Jessica’s house after school, but they never came over here? We finally insisted they study here, and look what happened with that.”

“The next day,” Dad says, “he broke up with her.”

David is my older brother. My parents assumed he’d go to school at Hemlock State, where they’re both sociology professors. Instead he moved to Seattle for college, more than two thousand miles from here. I honestly wonder if he chose Washington State to keep Mom and Dad from probing into his life so much. He even stays there during the summer to do internships. I had to fly out over spring break to spend time with him.

The phone rings again. Dad looks at his watch and shakes his head, but it doesn’t ring a second time.

“I think I’m done,” I say. I wipe my hands in my napkin and crumple it on my plate.

“Are you sure?” Mom asks. “There’s plenty more.”

“My stomach kind of hurts,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. I’m feeling queasy because I think Emma is trying to reach me. I carry my plate into the kitchen and set it in the sink, then walk back down the hall. The phone is on a small table by the stairs. I pick up the receiver, dial Emma’s number, and then stretch the cord as far as possible from my parents’ earshot.

Within the first ring, Emma answers.

“Josh?” she asks breathlessly.

“What’s the matter? Was that you who called a—”

“I don’t know where to begin,” she says, her voice tight. “I got onto that website again, but—”

“It was there? How did you find it?” I can’t help feeling excited.

“Can you come over?” she asks. It sounds like she’s been crying. “My mom and Martin just left for a walk so you can use the emergency key to let yourself in.”

“Will you tell me what’s going on first?”

“I think the website might be real,” Emma says. “And I’m not happy.”

“I can tell. But why?”

“No,” she says. “I’m talking about the future. I’m never going to be happy.”

5://Emma

“HEY,” JOSH SAYS, pushing open my door.

I look up from my bed. He’s standing at the edge of my room, holding the spare key we hide under a rock by the garage. It has a Scooby-Doo keychain that lights up when you press the nose.

“Sorry I took so long. My parents made me load the dishwasher.” Josh pushes his hands into his pockets. “So what’s going on? You found something bad?”

I’m worried if I open my mouth I’ll start crying again. As it is, Josh already looks uncomfortable being up here. It’s kind of sad, because we always used to be there for each other. He went on so many bike rides with me when my parents were splitting up. That was back in fifth grade. When Josh broke his leg skating, I hung out in his backyard even though everyone we knew was swimming at Crown Lake. Josh sat with me at my mom’s wedding last September, pinching my arm every time I succumbed to inappropriate giggles.

And here he is again, yet things feel like they’ll never be as easy between us as they once were.

“I was able to get back to that website,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Only it was different.”

I catch Josh glancing at the wilted roses on my dresser. Graham gave them to me before prom, when we were taking photos in my yard. I make a mental note to chuck them as soon as Josh leaves.

“It still says Emma Nelson Jones went to Lake Forest High,” I say, “and it’s still says ‘Facebook’ at the top. No matter where you click, it always says that.”

“Do you think Facebook is the name of her company?” Josh asks.

“Maybe.” But that’s not the point. The point is what the website says about her. Thinking about it makes my chest hurt.

“Emma, you still don’t know what this thing is, or whether it’s even real,” Josh says. “Somebody’s probably just screwing with—”

“No, they’re not!” I sit up and touch the necklace resting against my collarbone. “Emma Nelson Jones was wearing this necklace in her photo.”

Josh looks at the gold chain I always wear, with the delicate E pendant dangling from it. “The woman’s name is Emma,” he says. “What other letter would she put on her necklace?”

“And she said it’s Thursday, May nineteenth.”

Josh’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“Today is Sunday, May nineteenth,” I say. “That means she’s writing all this from another year where May nineteenth is a Thursday.”

Josh shakes his head. “If someone is trying to prank you, they would’ve thought of all that.”

“But everything was different! When I checked just now, it was a brand new picture of Emma. And there were different people saying things to her. You think all that could change with one corrupted CD-ROM? Don’t you get it? This thing… Facebook, or whatever it’s called… it’s from the future.”

Josh sets the keychain on my desk and sits down. When he jiggles the mouse, the brick wall disappears and everything’s right where I left it, with Emma Nelson Jones writing about macaroni and cheese.

“Why does it say she has three hundred and twenty friends?” Josh asks. “Who has that many friends?”

“Scroll down,” I say, peering over his shoulder.

Josh looks up at me. “Who’s JJJ?”

“My husband. Jordan Jones Junior. The guy with the fish. I never say why he hasn’t come home, but obviously I’m suspicious. When I saw that, it made me sick.”

Josh rubs his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Maybe he went on another fishing trip.”

“Keep reading,” I say, reaching past Josh for the mouse.

“Thirty-one,” Josh says. “So this is supposed to be fifteen years from now.”

I point to the next sentence.

Josh turns to me. “I can’t believe she’s writing these things.”

“Not she,” I say. “Me.”

“Why would anyone say this stuff about themselves on the Internet? It’s crazy!”

“Exactly,” I say. “I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.”

Josh leans back in the chair and crosses his arms against his chest. When he does that, he looks like his brother. I haven’t seen David since last year, but he was always a fun person to have in the neighborhood. Guys wanted him to be their older brother, and girls had a crush on him.

“Listen, Emma. I think…” Josh says, but then he pauses.

“Just say it.”

Josh points toward the screen. “We don’t know for sure who Emma Nelson Jones is or what we’re looking at. But even if it’s real, you’re still reading a lot between the lines.”

The front door closes. Josh and I jump back from the computer.

“Emma?” my mom calls. “Marty says he locked the door when we left, but—”

“It’s okay,” I shout. “Josh is here, that’s all.”

“Are you ready to help us get email addresses?” she asks.

“Can we have another minute? Josh is helping me find something… an assignment.”

“That’s fine,” my mom says. I hear her footsteps climbing the stairs. “But you need to finish up soon. It’s a school night.”

She cannot see this. I reach over and click the X on the top right corner of the screen. The cheerful voice chimes, “Goodbye!”

My mom walks by, waving as she continues on to her bedroom.

Josh picks up the Scooby-Doo keychain. He stops in the doorway and looks back at me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t think you should look at this thing alone,” he says. “It’s either a mean prank or it’s…”

I feel the tears coming on again.

“Let’s make a deal to only look at it together,” he says.

“So you’ll come over again?” I ask. “You don’t mind?”

Josh stares at the keychain in his hand, pressing the Scooby nose on and off. “No, it’s cool.”

“How about tomorrow? After track.”

“That’s fine,” Josh says. “Maybe Tyson and I will even stop by the meet.”

I smile for the first time all evening. Last year, Josh used to come to all my home meets just to wave and cheer me on. It makes me want to be honest and tell him what else I saw on the website, before he came over. But I can’t bring myself to say it. I look down at my new white carpet. What I saw would make things even more awkward between us. And for one night, I want to feel like things can be normal again.

“What is it?” Josh asks.

I’ll have to tell him eventually. “Tomorrow,” I say, “we should see if you have one of those webpages, too.”