A Week of Mondays Page 15

  Obviously, in reality, I don’t do that.

  But I do notice there’s much more of a strut in my step than usual. After the election speeches, the day only got better. I didn’t ditch school to get Tristan’s band the gig. I went straight from my counseling appointment (where Mr. Goodman gave me yet another pamphlet) to English class. I turned in my extra-credit English paper, solidifying my A for the quarter.

  I don’t need to score Tristan a gig to convince him not to break up with me. I just have to be my beautiful, calm, and mysterious self. Which is also why I don’t seek Tristan out at his locker after class. I hang out at mine waiting for him to come to me. He’s bound to come eventually, right?

  And then right on cue, almost like I summoned him from the heavens, he’s there. He taps me on the shoulder while I’m stowing my books and bag in my locker.

  I spin around and Tristan plants a delicate kiss on my lips. “Nice speech today. You were great up there.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Are you heading to the locker room for softball tryouts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll walk you there.”

  Wow. These commandments really do work. I’m going to have to write a very passionate fan letter to Dr. Louise Levine expressing my undying gratitude to her and her book.

  I’m about to close my locker door when I hear a high-pitched, grating voice behind us.

  “Hey, Tristan.”

  I flinch at the sound, knowing full well who will be standing there when I turn around.

  “Hey, Daphne,” Tristan says, stiffening slightly as he glances between the two of us. At first I don’t know why he’s acting so strange, and then suddenly it hits me. He thinks I’m going to flip out again. Like I did Sunday night, which for him was last night. That fight is still totally fresh in his mind.

  Well, that just goes to show how much he knows me. This is my moment to prove to him that Sunday night was a fluke. An alternate, hangry version of Ellison Sparks. I am the real version. The cool, collected, my-boyfriend-can-talk-to-cheerleaders-as-much-as-he-wants-and-it-won’t-affect-me-in-the-slightest version.

  I paint on a breezy smile. “Hey, Daphne! How was the bake sale today? Did you guys make a lot of money?”

  See. Easy, breezy, Creature-of-Mystery Ellie.

  Daphne gives me a look that says, “Consider yourself lucky I even tolerate you.”

  I fight an urge to roll my eyes.

  “So, Tristan,” she says, turning back to my boyfriend. “I have some excellent news.”

  Tristan once again casts a glance at me and I smile and turn back to my locker, pretending to be totally absorbed in my magnetic pen holder.

  Magnets are pretty amazing, aren’t they? I mean, they just stick to metal naturally! It’s mind-blowing!

  I pull the pen holder from the door and stick it back. Then do it again.

  Fascinating!

  “I found out that the band playing at the carnival tonight dropped out and they have an open slot. So I pulled some strings and I got Whack-a-Mole the gig!”

  The pen holder slips from my grasp and crashes to the floor, pens, pencils, and highlighters scattering around my feet.

  She got him the gig? But I was supposed to get him that gig.

  Except I didn’t. Because I chose to go straight to English class instead and turn in my extra-credit paper.

  Because I chose to play by the rules and follow those stupid commandments.

  But how did she know about it? There’s no way she could have known. The only reason I knew was because I’ve lived through this day before, but I certainly didn’t tell anyone.

  As soon as the thought is out, my whole body freezes.

  I did tell someone. I told Owen. On the way to the gym for the speeches. I was trying to prove to him that my life did not revolve around Tristan.

  The words come rushing back to me like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head.

  I found out the band that was supposed to play at the carnival tonight canceled and I could ditch school to go and get Whack-a-Mole the gig, but I’m not going to because I have other things to do.

  Daphne must have overheard me. Or someone must have overheard me and reported it back to Daphne, and then she went and got Tristan’s band the gig.

  I watch in horror as Tristan freaks the freak out in almost the exact same way he did with me.

  “Are you serious?!” he screeches. “Daphne! That’s amazing!” He leaps forward to hug her and then swings her around. Thankfully he leaves the kissing part out. Daphne catches my eye just as he’s setting her back on her feet.

  I close my mouth and force it into a smile.

  Girl Commandment #6: Thou shall never act or appear jealous.

  “That’s amazing!” I echo. I turn to Tristan and hug him. “I’m so happy for you!”

  I never really considered myself an actress before but this is an award-winning performance if I ever saw one.

  “How did you do that?” Tristan asks.

  Daphne shrugs. “Oh, it was nothing. You just have to know the right people.”

  I snort and both Daphne and Tristan look at me. I pretend to have something in my nose and reach for a tissue from my locker.

  You just have to know the right people? What a bunch of codswallop, as Owen would say. I know for certain that she just drove down to the fairgrounds and asked the sweaty bald guy like I did. But did she get detention because of it? Or is she better at the whole school evasion thing than I am?

  “So, I guess I’ll see you tonight, then?” Daphne asks, running her hand down Tristan’s arm.

  “You bet!” Tristan says, and I swear he sounds like a ten-year-old boy who’s just been invited to meet the real Spider-Man.

  Daphne disappears down the hallway and Tristan turns to me with a grin so wide, I’m afraid he might break some important jaw muscle. “Amazing,” he breathes. “I wasn’t even that excited about the carnival, but now…” He does a little leap. “I can’t wait to tell the guys!”

  Wasn’t even that excited about the carnival?

  What is that supposed to mean? That being at the carnival with just me is nothing to get excited about?

  I can feel the red-hot frustration bubbling up inside me—the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head—and I almost open my mouth to demand an explanation, but I manage to rein it in just in time.

  “Amazing!” I repeat, feeling like this word has lost all meaning for the rest of eternity.

  “She really didn’t have to go out of her way to do that,” Tristan remarks.

  “No. She really didn’t,” I agree, hiding my gritted teeth behind a smile as I contemplate the leniency of another commandment: Thou shall not kill.

  My Little Runaway

  3:22 p.m.

  So, an overly bouncy, malnourished, almond-poisoning cheerleader is after my boyfriend? So what? This is not a game changer. This is absolutely nothing new. Every girl in this school would date Tristan if they had the chance. Some are just more … proactive about it than others.

  I will not let this derail me. I will continue the course! If I had one of those motivational posters on my wall it would be the one with the mountain climber that says PERSEVERANCE!

  Tristan is my mountain. And I will get to the top!

  Daphne and her way-too-short-to-qualify-as-dress-code-appropriate cheerleading skirt is just an obstacle in my way. Like a boulder or a tree.

  I tell Tristan again how happy I am about the gig and promise to meet him at the carnival later tonight.

  First, I have a varsity softball team to get on.

  As I head into the locker room to change, the school receptionist comes on over the loudspeaker to remind people to sign up for the school musical auditions by the end of today. Then she announces the election results.

  Oh yeah, I forgot about those.

  “And in a landslide victory, claiming 72 percent of the vote, the junior class president and vice president are Kevin Hartland and
Melissa O’Neil!”

  Really? We lost again? Even after my improved election speech? I’m beginning to think that vice presidency is simply not in the cards for me.

  Truth be told, though, I’m not that bummed about it. Did I really want to spend the rest of the year catering to Rhiannon’s every whim? Probably not. Plus, being on student council sounds like a really big time-suck. This way, I’ll have more time to spend with Tristan and the band.

  I change into my training clothes and jog out to the field. When it’s my turn at bat, I recognize the signals Coach gives to the pitcher—thank you, previous two Mondays!—and knock each one out of the park.

  “Wow,” Coach says as he watches the last curveball sail into the stands. “You’ve really improved your swing, Sparks. The varsity team could use a hitter like you.”

  I drop the bat like a rapper dropping the mic and step off the field. I have to restrain myself from saying “Sparks OUT!” because that might be a tad overkill.

  4:25 p.m.

  The drive home is always a little lonelier without Owen. He doesn’t do any after-school sports or activities, so he usually takes the bus. But today, the car feels emptier than most days after our weird fight in the library. What was that all about, anyway? Was he really angry at me because I’d read The Book Thief and didn’t tell him? That seems like a totally inane thing to be mad about.

  Or was it about something else?

  I slow to a stop at the red light on the corner of Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation. The scene of the crime. I glare up at the cameras hidden stealthily around the intersection. I’ve already scored two tickets here, although thankfully this morning I was smart enough to avoid one. Actually, I’ve managed to avoid a lot of things today: public humiliation, detention, a severe allergic reaction, a failed history test, and hopefully, if all goes to plan, a devastating breakup later tonight.

  And yet Owen hasn’t talked to me since lunch.

  Why do I feel like I’ve managed to improve upon every aspect of this day, but when it comes to my best friend, things are actually getting worse?

  The light turns green, but I’m too lost in my own thoughts to notice. A loud honk comes from behind, jolting me back to reality. I blink and move my foot to the gas pedal. But it’s right then that I notice someone in the crosswalk to my right. A girl. She’s small and frail and, from the looks of it, sopping wet. Her hair is matted to her forehead. Her clothes are clinging to her body. It takes me a beat to recognize her.

  Hadley?

  Another impatient honk echoes from behind me, causing the girl to look over. Our eyes meet and a flash of panic registers on her face. She bows her head and picks up her pace, as if she’s hoping I won’t notice her.

  Oh, but I noticed her.

  I slam on the accelerator and veer the car over to the curb, screeching to a halt a few yards in front of her. She pretends not to see me, keeping her gaze on the sidewalk and walking briskly past me. I hop out of the car, leaving the engine running.

  “Hadley!” I call. But she doesn’t look up.

  I have to full-on sprint to catch up and intercept her.

  “Hadley, what are you doing?” I stand in front of her. She tries to get around me, but I’m too quick. I duck left and then right, forcing her to finally stop, but she still won’t make eye contact. “Why are you walking home? Why didn’t you take the bus?”

  “I missed the bus, okay?” Her tone is sharp and snappish. Not anything like the Hadley I spoke to this morning.

  She missed the bus?

  Did she miss the bus yesterday? And the day before that? No, I’m pretty sure she was locked in her room by the time I got home. But on those two days, I spent at least ten minutes moping around after softball tryouts, lamenting my failure. Today, I left as soon as I made the team.

  Maybe she’s been walking home on every version of this day, and I just never knew.

  “Why did you miss the bus?” I take in her drenched clothes and soggy hair. “And why are you all wet?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Another whip of a response.

  “Okay.” I glance at my running car, the door still ajar. “Well, do you want a ride?”

  She considers this for a moment, silently debating her options: continue to walk home soaking wet, which can’t be very comfortable … or warm. Or ride home with me and be potentially forced to endure more questioning.

  “I’ll walk,” she decides.

  I shake my head. “Hadley, don’t be ridiculous. Get in the car.”

  She sidesteps me and keeps walking.

  What is her deal? Do I seriously need to grab her and stuff her into the car like a kidnapper? Too bad I don’t have a potato sack in my trunk.

  “Hadley!” I call after her, but she doesn’t stop.

  “Leave me alone, Ellie!”

  I sigh and return to my car. Frustrated, I yank the gearshift into Drive and creep alongside the curb, keeping pace with my sister, which is currently four miles per hour. I stay right behind her, watching her the whole time. She has to know I’m there, even if she refuses to acknowledge me. At this rate, it takes us ten minutes to get home. She scurries up the driveway and into the garage door that I just opened with my clicker.

  I park the car and jump out, following her into the house. She’s got a decent lead on me as she storms up the stairs. She makes it to her room a few seconds before me and slams the door in my face.

  I rap gently on the door three times. “Hadley? Can I come in?”

  “No!” she shouts, and I can hear her voice crack. I’d recognize the sound of a girl crying anywhere. After all, I’ve had a lot of practice the last few days. “Go away!”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “No, you don’t! You want to ask me what happened and I’m not telling you. So just leave. Go to your stupid carnival with your stupid boyfriend!”

  Stupid carnival?

  Stupid boyfriend?

  Since when did she think Tristan was stupid? She’s always liked him, and she’s always been interested in our relationship. Like overly interested. To the point where it got annoying.

  I think back to the past two variations of this day and try to find any additional clues as to what might be going on. When I spoke to Hadley this morning, she seemed fine. She was chipper and spouting Urban Dictionary phrases as per usual. But at night? What happened at night?

  I feel a stab of guilt as I realize that for the past two days, I barely said two words to my sister after leaving the house in the morning. That first night, I stopped by her room and she asked me if I wanted to watch The Breakfast Club with her, but I said no. I was too wrapped up in my heartbreak, too distracted by my own problems to spend any time with her. Was she upset? Is that why she was rewatching her favorite movie for the ten millionth time?

  I bite my lip and stare at Hadley’s closed door. It’s clear I’m not going to get through to her now. If she’s anything like me, she needs some time to cool down.

  “Okay,” I call. “But I’m here if you want to talk.”

  “I don’t.” She says it so harshly it feels like she’s slammed the door in my face for the second time today.

  I Saw Her Standing There

  8:11 p.m.

  “Thanks so much for coming out tonight! We’re Whack-a-Mole and if you like what you hear, please follow us on Instagram!”

  I stand in the back of the crowd, keeping one eye on Tristan and one eye on my phone. I’m trying not to appear too interested in what’s happening on the stage because I don’t want to break Commandment #3: Thou shall always appear busy and important. So far the commandments seem to be working like a charm. Tristan texted me twice to make sure I was going to the show.

  I didn’t text him back, per Commandment #4, and I made a point of getting here late, arriving right as the band was taking the stage. But I made sure to make eye contact with him and flash him a coy smile (Creature of Mystery!), so he’d know I’m here.

  The band
launches into their second-to-last song of the set, “Fall Down,” and I feel my body automatically start to pulsate to the beat. It’s like an instinct now. I stop myself and glance down at my phone, scrolling through my Instagram feed to keep myself distracted.

  Too clingy, huh, Tristan?

  Well, look at me now. I’m barely even listening!

  About halfway through the song, I click over to Whack-a-Mole’s feed and check their follower count. After spending the summer as their unofficial publicist, I just can’t help myself. They’ve already gained fifty-three new followers tonight. That’s pretty solid.

  I thumb through their feed and freeze when I see a picture of Tristan and Daphne posing together like a cozy little couple. He has his arm wrapped around her tiny waist and their heads are tilted toward each other. They must have taken this right before Whack-a-Mole went on. If I squint, I can see the Ferris wheel in the background. This is what happens when you’re late to your boyfriend’s gig. He takes photos with skanky boy-stealing cheerleaders!

  I close the app and stuff my phone into my pocket.

  “Thou shall never act or appear jealous. Thou shall never act or appear jealous,” I whisper to myself, shutting my eyes and trying to ignore the hot fire pokers jabbing at my rib cage.

  Tristan belts out the final lyrics of the song’s bridge and I melt in relief. Only one more song after this and then it’s over. Then he’s all mine. Tonight is the night. My fantasy carnival date is finally going to happen. I’ve set everything in motion. I’ve played by the rules. I’ve followed the commandments. And now I can finally reap the rewards.

  I glance around the crowd. For some reason it seems even more packed than last night, which I know is impossible. It probably just feels bigger because I’m standing in the back, so I can see everyone. Yesterday I was so focused on the stage right in front of me, I hardly noticed anything else.

  There’s a couple a little farther ahead of me, watching the show with mild interest. She’s slim with black hair and pale skin. He’s tall and wearing dark jeans and a gray sweater. I instantly recognize the signs of a first date. The fidgety hands that want to touch. The space between their two bodies that grows smaller, then larger, then smaller again. The game of pivoting heads when you try to steal peeks at the other person without getting caught.