The Future of Us (27 page)

Tyson applauds. “He didn’t die. I guess that’s a success.”

I slide my backpack over my shoulder and stand up. “I’m heading home.”

Tyson laughs. “But what if he tries it again?”

I shake my head. I’m too stressed about tonight’s bonfire to enjoy anything going on here. Maybe I’m worrying over nothing. Maybe this is the night Sydney and I finally click. Or maybe this is the night we part for good.

I slap Tyson’s hand. “I’ll see you at the lake.”

I SLIDE OPEN my closet door. On the long shelf above my shirts, I keep everything I can’t throw away. Skater magazines. A cast I once wore on my leg, signed by everyone I know. A shoebox of bootleg punk tapes that David gave me. I jiggle out a box of well-worn charcoal sticks and a large sketchpad I haven’t touched since last year.

It feels good to hold this sketchpad again. Years ago, I wrote “TEMPLETON” in bold letters across the front. That’s what I wanted to go by when I became a famous artist.

I flip open the cover and laugh at my first masterpiece:
Twenty-one Tweety Birds
. It’s twenty-one pencil sketches of Tweety, but I only colored three of them yellow. I don’t remember the significance of those three, but it meant something at the time.

The next page is
Toons & Tins
. The Tasmanian Devil and Porky Pig shout into tin-can telephones, frustrated that they can’t understand each other, with spittle flying everywhere. Seriously, what the hell was I on?

A few pages later, I turn the sketchpad on its side.

At the beginning of my freshman year, Emma and I were studying on her bed when I asked if I could sketch her. She set aside her book and sat patiently while I drew, but it frustrated me that I couldn’t get her just right. It may have looked like her, but it
felt
like anyone.

Emma loved it, though, and she made me show it to all our friends. But I never attempted to draw anything real again. If there was one thing I should’ve been able to capture, it was Emma.

I flip past the next several Looney Tunes drawings and tear out the first blank sheet. I set it on top of my sketchpad, which I pull against my hip. With a broken piece of charcoal, I run a broad squiggle down the center of the page and shade a ragged patch to the right. I study it for a moment, and then add an arched horizon at the bottom. This feels like the beginning of something. I’m just not sure what.

THE INSIDE OF CODY’S CAR is different than I imagined. It’s worn out, the seat upholstery is thinning, and the vinyl along the door is cracked in several places.

“My brother gave it to me when he left for college,” he says as we pull out of the student parking lot. “I know, it’s a clunker.”

The fact that Cody seems embarrassed about his car is really cute. He’s showing me his vulnerable side. It makes me want to burst out and tell him that one day he’ll be able to buy any car he wants.

“Where does your brother go to school?” I ask.

“University of Vermont. He’s into environmental causes.”

Cody turns left onto Finch Road, heading in the direction of the highway. He reaches down near my knees to open the glove compartment, which is neatly lined with cassette tapes. “Can you grab the tape labeled ‘Dave Matthews’?” he asks. “That’s the bootleg I was telling you about. They played near my brother’s school, and he recorded it.”

I pull out the cassette and push it into the tape player. A light static emits from the speakers. While I wait for the music to start, I glance over at Cody. He’s such a confident driver, the way he reclines in his seat with one hand loosely on the wheel.

He merges onto the highway, and the tape begins. There are so many concertgoers talking in the background I can barely hear the music. I think they’re playing “What Would You Say.”

“That audience is annoying,” Cody says, gesturing at the stereo. “If you’re only there to get drunk and talk through the performance, you may as well go to a bar.”

“My dad plays music professionally,” I say. “He’s always complaining about that.”

Cody turns up the volume. “As a guitarist, Dave Matthews is so underappreciated. Can you hear what he’s doing right there?”

I try to listen, but the quality is really poor. “It’s amazing.”

Cody hits the gas hard and passes two cars. We’re headed in the direction of the Lake Forest Mall. Kellan and I go there a few times a year, but mostly we save our money to shop in Pittsburgh.

“Why did you have to drop off your class ring?” I ask. I can picture Cody’s ring perfectly. It’s silver and chunky with an orange stone in the center, the official Cheetah color.

“I’m getting it engraved with the date I’m competing in states,” he says. “I know it’s strange to engrave a date that hasn’t happened yet, but I’m doing it for good luck.”

Cody placed first in the hundred-yard dash at regionals two weeks ago. In another week he’s going on to states, where he has a chance to be the top male sprinter in all of Pennsylvania.

“Maybe I’ll have them look at my necklace,” I say, rummaging through the small pocket of my backpack. “I wonder if they can fix the clasp.”

“I’m sorry . . . the sound on this is terrible.” Cody pushes the power button on the stereo. As he does, a cyclist from the bike lane swerves in front of us.

I scream. “Watch out!”

Cody jerks the car to the left. Another car honks and slams on its brakes, and I cover my eyes.

“What the hell?” Cody shouts, glancing into his rearview mirror.

In the side mirror, I watch the bicyclist plant his foot onto the side of the road. He takes off his helmet and gives Cody the middle finger.

“Look at him!” Cody says. “He almost caused an accident, and he’s flipping
me
off?”

My heart is racing and my hands are trembling.

“And you should chill on the screaming,” Cody says. “It didn’t exactly help.”

Cody pulls into the Lake Forest Mall parking lot and shuts off the engine. He steps out of the car and I get out too, leaving my backpack inside. Cody doesn’t say anything about my necklace when we’re in the store, and I don’t mention it, either.

ONCE WE GET BACK in the car, the vibe feels better. The engraving on Cody’s class ring looked perfect, and the jeweler asked him to sign a newspaper clipping that had his picture and an article about him going to states. I acted surprised when he showed it to me, but I have the same clipping in my desk drawer at home.

As Cody pulls back onto the highway, he reaches into his glove compartment for a new tape. This time, his fingers brush my knees.

“You know,” he says, “my aunt and uncle’s house is right up the road, and they have a killer sound system. Want to see if we can hear the bootleg better at their place?”

My stomach flutters with excitement.

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “They’re dental surgeons and they work crazy hours. They won’t be home.”

“Are you sure they won’t mind?”

“No, it’s fine. My uncle gave me a spare key.”

Cody takes a left and steers onto a road lined with McMansions and newly planted trees. He parks in front of a huge white house with a fountain in the front lawn and Roman-style columns holding up the porch.

“Nice, right?” Cody grabs the bootleg tape and steps out of the car.

If I were here with Josh, we’d both dig through our pockets for pennies to toss into the fountain. But there’s no way I’d do that with Cody in his aunt and uncle’s front yard.

I glance around at the houses, all gigantic and quiet. Even though no one is around, I feel the need to whisper.

“Are you sure they’re not going to come home?” I ask.

Cody shakes his head. “I come here a lot.”

He punches in a security code and then fits the key into the lock. As he pushes open the door, he turns and smiles at me. My stomach flips over.

I ARRANGE MY CHARCOAL sketches in a semicircle around me, then stand up and take a step back. Some have angular lines, some are mostly wavy, and some are very sparse. Each has a unique feel, yet they all belong together.

Through my bedroom window, I hear Emma’s car pull into her driveway. I run downstairs and out the front door.

The driver’s side door opens and Kellan steps out. “Were you expecting someone else?” she asks.

“Where’s Emma? Is she still at track?”

Kellan’s expression is a mix of concern and pity. “Probably not. I’m dropping off her car, but I’m not waiting around for her to get back.”

“Did you two have a fight?” I ask.

Kellan walks toward Emma’s garage, but then swivels to face me. “Did you just ask if Emma and
I
had a fight? You guys are the ones who don’t seem to be talking.”

“We talked at lunch,” I say.

“Barely!” Kellan continues to the side of the garage and jiggles the doorknob, but it’s locked. “Josh, do you have any idea whose car she’s in right now?”

I knock my shoe against a fake rock and pick up the Scooby-Doo keychain. My hands fumble as I try to fit the key in the lock. Kellan snatches it from my hand and lets herself in.

“She’s with Cody,” Kellan says. “That guy’s an egotistical asshole, and I hold
you
responsible for this.”

“
Me
?” As far as I know, Emma and Cody had one conversation in the hallway. He wasn’t even her friend on Facebook.

Kellan removes a helmet from the handlebars of Emma’s bike. “There’s some weird competition going on between the two of you, and I don’t like it,” she says. She flips up the kickstand and rolls the bike toward the door.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you really think Emma would be driving around with Cody Grainger if you were coming to the bonfire with the rest of us? But no, you’re going with Sydney Mills.”

I don’t want to picture Emma in Cody’s car.

As I follow Kellan to the sidewalk, I look down the street. I don’t know what Cody drives, but as a beat-up minivan rounds the corner, I secretly hope that’s him.

When I turn back, Kellan’s eyes have softened. “I get that Sydney is gorgeous,” she says. “But I watched you at lunch today. When you told us she was taking you to the bonfire, you didn’t look like most guys would have.”

“How was I supposed to look?”

Kellan lets out a shallow sigh and adjusts the strap beneath her neck. “Happy.”

I don’t know how to respond.

“Are you only going to the bonfire with Sydney because it feels like you should? Because she’s
Sydney Mills
?” Kellan asks. “And if you say yes, I will be so disappointed in you.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“No girl, no matter how perfect she is, deserves to get hurt like that,” Kellan says. “So if you’re not into Sydney, you need to tell her tonight.”

Kellan swings her leg over the bike and pushes forward.

I walk slowly back to my house. When I reach the front door, I hear the soft squeal of brakes. Kellan doesn’t know I’m watching, but I see her stop next to Emma’s car and reach for a windshield wiper. She leaves a folded-up piece of paper against the glass, and then circles back around and rides off.