A Week of Mondays Page 18

  He doesn’t get in. Instead he closes the door, locking himself outside in the rain.

  “Owen!” I call to the closed door. “What are you doing?”

  I watch through the sporadic swoosh of the windshield wipers as Owen walks around the front of the car, bending down to examine something on the bumper. Then he gets back in, spraying water onto the dash with a flick of his hair.

  “Well, it’s definitely her license plate,” he murmurs to himself.

  “What was that about?”

  “But it’s certainly not her driving the car.”

  I roll my eyes. “Owen.”

  He twists his mouth in concentration as he peers around the interior of my car. “That doesn’t leave a lot of credible explanations, apart from the obvious one.”

  “Owen.”

  “The aliens have finally made contact. They’ve taken Ellie to their home planet for a series of very invasive, yet admittedly sexy, experiments and left a robot decoy in her place.”

  I sigh. “Ha ha. I get it. I don’t look like myself.”

  He continues to ignore me, working out his theory like a detective in a film noir. “It was a very advanced humanlike model, of course, as the alien race was clearly light-years ahead of Earth in the technology race. But the decoy evidently wasn’t given any instructions on the proper attire or mannerisms of the human it was replacing. So it simply Googled the word ‘teenager’ and came up with this”—he gestures to my outfit—“staggeringly unrealistic representation of the modern adolescent.”

  I groan and back out of the driveway.

  “Or maybe—” Owen says with a stroke of inspiration.

  “Owen.”

  “Yes, Ellie impersonator?”

  “If I tell you something, do you promise not to think I’m crazy?”

  “I would never make a promise so impossible to keep.”

  I turn left out of the subdivision and onto Providence Boulevard. “Something kind of strange has been happening to me.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I didn’t tell you about it yesterday but I told you the day before and now I want to tell you again.”

  “And,” Owen says, transitioning back into his detective voice, “it would seem the robot decoy—let’s call her Paral-Ellie—is malfunctioning. A faulty wire in its programming, perhaps? A circuit shorted by the rain?”

  “Can you be serious for a minute?”

  “Can you?”

  “I am being serious!”

  “It’s hard to believe that when you look like you just stepped out of a music video.”

  “I’m just … trying something new today.” I release a breath.

  “Clearly,” he says again.

  “I want to tell you this time because, I don’t know, yesterday it felt kind of lonely without you in it. I mean, in on it.”

  He reaches behind me, fiddling with the back of my top. “There has to be a control panel back here somewhere. If I can just pry it open and—”

  “I’m reliving the same day over and over!” I finally yell. “I wake up every day and it’s Monday. This Monday. Where it’s raining and you say ‘It’s really chucking it down out there’ and it’s school picture day and I have to give a horrible election speech and the cheerleaders are having a bake sale and lying about the ingredients, and a bird commits suicide outside my Spanish classroom, and Coach tries to psych me out with a curveball, and it’s the last night of the town carnival, and Tristan dumps me, and I’m going to get a ticket right”—I glance up to see the light turn yellow at Avenue de Liberation just ahead. I slam down on the accelerator, speeding through the intersection as the cameras start flashing—“now.”

  I peer over at Owen. He’s quiet but not looking at me. He’s staring at his hands.

  So I keep talking. “And I don’t know why. I mean I think I know why. And I’ve been trying to fix it and it hasn’t been working, so now I’m trying something extreme, because I don’t know what else to do.”

  He opens his mouth to interject but I cut him off. “And before you say anything, last night you had a dream you went skinny-dipping in the school pool with Principal Yates.”

  His mouth stays open but no words come out. We drive in silence for what feels like hours. Seasons change outside. The earth makes a complete rotation around the sun. And yet it’s still Monday.

  I turn in to the school parking lot and park in an empty spot, keeping the motor running. “Say something,” I urge him. “Please.”

  “He dumped you?”

  I scrunch up my face. “Really? Of all the things I just told you, that’s what you’re clinging on to?”

  He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream. “Sorry. No. I mean, I … why did he break up with you?”

  I slump against my seat. Elle, the bold, courageous music video star fades into the background as the shy, insecure Ellie makes a cameo. “I don’t know. He gives me a different stupid answer every day. But see, that’s what I have to do to fix it. To move on. I have to stop the breakup. It’s the only explanation.”

  He tilts his head, confused. “Why is that the only explanation?”

  “Because I made a deal with the universe!” I say, exasperated.

  “Is that like a deal with the devil?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. I told the universe if I could just have another chance, I’d get it right. And so now I’m stuck in this day until I get it right.”

  He glances dubiously at my outfit. “And this is getting it right? Dressing like a not-so-classy hooker?”

  I huff and open the car door, grabbing my umbrella from the backseat. “Never mind. Forget I told you.”

  His hand is suddenly on my arm. “Ellie, wait. I’m sorry.”

  His voice has softened. I turn back around and peer into his pleading green eyes.

  “Classy hooker,” he amends. “Very, very classy. I’m talking like a million dollars an hour.”

  I shake off his arm and get out of the car, popping open the umbrella. It’s time to get back into character. It’s time to rock this day. Hard.

  I slam the car door with the sole of my boot, take a deep breath, and stride purposefully toward the building, trying to ooze confidence and sex appeal with every step.

  I don’t care what Owen thinks. He’s just … just … a stupid boy who can’t handle the fact that the best friend he’s known since he was nine is growing up. Maturing. Becoming a stronger, more vitalized woman.

  Little Ellie is gone.

  Today, and every day after, belongs to Elle.

  “Wait!” Owen shouts, jogging to catch up to me. I can hear the crinkle of plastic in his hand. “You forgot to choose your tasty fortune!”

  “Don’t need it. Don’t want it. Don’t care!” I call over my shoulder, and strut off into the rain.

  Born to Be Wild

  8:25 a.m.

  Owen finally catches up with me at my locker while I’m checking my hair and makeup for my fourth school picture of the week.

  “Okay, so let’s say you’re telling the truth.” He leans against the locker next to mine.

  I flick a stray hair away from my face. “I am telling the truth.”

  “Right. So that’s how you knew about my dream last night?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Because I told you in another version of this day?”

  “Yup.”

  “So we’ve had this conversation before?”

  I apply a fresh coat of red lipstick and press my lips together with a smack. “Well, not this exact conversation but similar.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where was the conversation?”

  “In my room. After Tristan broke up with me. You saw me crying at the carnival and climbed through my window.”

  “Last night? Or last Monday? Or … whatever.”

  I hesitate. “No. Two nights ago.”

  “And he breaks up with you every night?”

&nbs
p; Not tonight, I think confidently.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He looks over both shoulders, checking for eavesdroppers, and then whispers, “So when did I tell you about the skinny-dipping dream?”

  I start walking toward my chemistry class. Owen falls into step beside me. “The first night before this all began. You were trying to cheer me up and it worked.” I giggle at the memory.

  Owen’s face suddenly turns ashen. “I swear, Ellie, if you tell a living soul, I will murder you in your sleep and make it look like a mafia hit.”

  My giggle turns into full-blown laughter. “That’s exactly what you said the first time.”

  He grins. “What can I say? Alternate me is a smart guy.”

  I shake my head. “So I’ve heard.”

  8:42 a.m.

  “Say ‘Two more years!’” the photographer’s shrill voice calls from behind the camera.

  I strike the sultriest pose I can manage, channeling my inner Marilyn Monroe. I don’t smile. Smiling is for children. I angle myself on the stool, pull my curled hair over my shoulder, thrust my chest out, and contort my mouth into one of those duck faces people post on Instagram. I always thought those looked so ridiculous, but when I peer at myself in the viewfinder, I’m surprised by how much I like it. I look sophisticated and sassy. Like someone you don’t want to mess with.

  “Very … nice,” the photographer says unconvincingly.

  That woman really needs to learn how to lie better. Especially given the nature of her job.

  Not that I care one bit about what she thinks. She wants me to look like America’s sweetheart girl next door so she can sell a thousand prints to my relatives.

  Well, not today, lady.

  9:50 a.m.

  When the end of first period rolls around, I head straight for Tristan’s locker. He’s already there, grabbing his Spanish textbook. He looks up as I approach, blinking rapidly as he tries to figure out who I am. The recognition doesn’t register on his face until I’m two paces away from him.

  I can see his Adam’s apple contract as he swallows. “Ellie?”

  I grab him by the elbow, slam his locker closed, and drag him to the room marked JANITOR’S CLOSET. As soon as the door shuts behind us I push him against it and dive for his lips. I kiss him harder than I’ve ever kissed him before, pressing my body into him so he can feel every inch of me.

  He grabs my arms and pushes me back. “Ellie?” he asks again. “What are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I kiss him again, forcing my tongue into his mouth. I reach under his shirt and run my hands all over his smooth, toned chest.

  He lets out a deep groan and then his hands are on my back, running up and down, twisting around my waist, clutching at the fabric of my top.

  The bell signaling the beginning of the next period rings but neither of us even flinches. We’re way too absorbed in this kiss.

  As I pull away, I bite down on his lower lip, raking my teeth against it before letting it snap back into place.

  The look on his face at that moment is priceless. A mix of confusion, breathlessness, and arousal. His pupils are the size of quarters. His hair is mussed. His mouth is stained red. I wipe the lipstick from his lips and chin.

  “Did you want to talk about something?” I ask, playing with the hem of his shirt.

  He looks like I’ve just asked him to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity. “Huh?”

  I run a black-polished fingernail down the front of his shirt. “In your text you said you wanted to talk. What about?”

  “I…” he fumbles, blinking rapidly. “I don’t remember.” Mesmerized, he loops a finger through one of my curls, watching it snake around his finger. “God, where did you come from?”

  I shrug. “Maybe I’ve been in here all along and you just haven’t noticed.”

  The heart-stopping grin is back, the single dimple lighting up this dark closet. Then he reaches out, grabs my hips, and yanks me to him. I tip my head back, letting him bury his mouth in my neck.

  Screw the Girl Commandments. One minute with Elle and my relationship is already back on track.

  Keep Me Hanging On

  9:59 a.m.

  Obviously we’re late to Spanish, but no one seems to notice. They’re all huddled around the window staring at the dead bird that’s lying on the grass outside.

  Oh right, I forgot about the douche bag bird.

  Again.

  Tristan and I are able to slip into our seats at the back of the classroom before Señora Mendoza continues her lesson. A lesson I’ve heard three times already.

  If I can’t conjugate this verb by now, there’s no hope for me.

  In history, I once again ace my test and revel in Daphne’s cold, dead eyes when she hands my graded quiz back to me. And I don’t miss the pointed, disapproving look she gives my outfit when she does so.

  Sorry that I’m just better than you in every way, Daphne.

  At lunch, Tristan asks if I want to join him in the band practice room. “Nah,” I say, “I think I’ll sit in the cafeteria today.”

  “Then I think I’ll join you,” he replies.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I murmur, leaning dangerously close to his mouth.

  “I know,” he says, diving forward to kiss me. “I want to.”

  Victory has never tasted so sweet.

  We get several stares in the cafeteria. Probably because Tristan rarely ever comes in here. I can feel Daphne Gray seething at us from her perch at the bake sale table as Tristan sits sideways on the bench, one knee on either side of me, his arms hanging loosely around my waist.

  He brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can kiss the hollow part between my shoulder and collarbone. “I like this new look of yours,” he whispers into my skin, sending shivers through my body.

  I grin and take a bite of my turkey sandwich. “I thought you might.”

  He pulls away, running his eyes over my outfit. “Where did you even get those boots? They’re so…” He searches for a description.

  “Punk rock chic?”

  Tristan lets out a growl. “That’s so freaking hot!” Then his lips are on my shoulder.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the bake sale table. Daphne looks like one of those cartoon characters with steam coming out of her ears and red spirals where her eyes are supposed to be. I flash her a goading grin.

  She mumbles something to one of her fellow cheerleaders and huffs out of the cafeteria. I feel pretty darn smug right about now. Everything is going exactly according to plan. Elle was just what the doctor ordered. By tonight, there’s no way Tristan will ever break up with me. Plus, his infatuation with me has seemingly made Daphne Gray so ill she had to leave the cafeteria.

  I admit it wasn’t my end goal, but it’s a nice bonus.

  “So,” I say, taking another bite of my sandwich.

  “Hmm?” Tristan murmurs into the bare skin of my shoulder. It’s like his lips have been surgically attached to my body. Just wait until I get his band the carnival gig later. He starts kissing down my arm.

  “What do you think I should wear to the carnival tonight?”

  “This,” he says, tightening his arms around me.

  I think about the romantic date I had planned for tonight. The one I’ve been fantasizing about since I was ten.

  “I was hoping we could play some of those cheesy carnival games.”

  His lips return to my neck. “Whatever you want.”

  “And maybe ride the Ferris wheel.”

  Tristan moans into my skin. “That sounds hot.”

  I giggle and pull away from his mouth. “You think everything sounds hot.”

  He pulls me back to him. “With you, everything is hot.”

  Wow. Who knew all it took was a change of clothes and a little attitude adjustment? I should write to that author of The Girl Commandments and tell her not to bother with those stupid rules. Or better yet, I should write my own dating guide book.

&
nbsp; Step 1: Be confident and wear sexy clothes.

  Step 2: There is no step two. That’s it.

  Step 3: See Step 1.

  I had no idea guys were so easy. If I had only known this earlier, I could have saved myself four days. I think about all those teen girl magazines and self-help books and dating gurus who make men out to be so complicated and hard to decipher. I mean, I hoped this new sexy, self-assured temptress thing would work, but I had no idea it would work this well.

  Suddenly, there’s a faint alarm going off in my head.

  Is it possible this is working too well?

  I quickly squash the thought down.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Ellie. This is what you wanted. What you’ve been trying to accomplish for four days.

  It’s true. This is what I wanted. Exactly what I wanted.

  So why do I feel like something’s missing?

  Before I have a chance to analyze the thought further, there’s a towering, burly figure hovering over us.

  “All right, lovebirds. Break it up.”

  I peer up to see Principal Yates glaring down at me. She does a double take at my outfit.

  “I would expect more from you, Sparks,” she says before stomping away.

  Tristan catches my eye and we both stifle a laugh.

  “Don’t you have a speech to give in, like, ten minutes?” he asks, his foot finding mine under the table.

  “I thought I’d wing it.”

  His eyebrows shoot up.

  “What?”

  “I’ve dated you for five months, Ellie. You don’t wing things.”

  “I can wing things.”

  “You’re not a winger.”

  I take a sip from my juice. “Well, maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl with a tray walking from the food line to a table at the far end of the cafeteria. I know that girl. I saw her yesterday in this very cafeteria. She’s the new girl. The one who gets tripped by Cole Simpson.

  Just as the thought enters my mind, I see the scene begin to unfold. Cole, sitting at a table not too far away, nudges one of his buddies, telling him to watch. He positions his foot against his backpack, ready to kick it out in front of her.

  My eyes dart to the girl. She’s peering around anxiously, looking for a place to sit. She’s walking right into his trap.