A Week of Mondays Page 25

“Are you closing the account?”

  “No. I just want all my money.”

  She doesn’t seem to follow. “Did you experience any dissatisfaction with our bank?”

  “Nope. Just want the money.”

  She gives me another dubious look before punching a few buttons on her keyboard. “How would you like it? Hundreds? Twenties?”

  “I’ll take singles,” I say. I glance at Owen. “Then we can roll in it like gangstas!”

  He gives his head a sad shake in reply.

  The teller does little to hide her annoyance as she begins counting out three thousand two hundred and forty-nine dollars of my hard-earned money in one-dollar bills. I shoot Owen a toothy grin and stuff the cash into my bag. “Let’s go.”

  Our first stop is the supermarket to stock up on sustenance. We push the cart down the aisle and dump every single junky, chemical-filled, sugar-bloated food we can find—all the things my parents never allow me to eat—right into the cart.

  As we wait at the checkout line, I grab every cheesy gossip magazine on the rack and toss them onto the conveyor belt. The majority of them have the same story on the cover—a famous heiress is marrying some middle-class former intern of her father’s company. Apparently they met when her dad forced her to work a bunch of low-wage jobs in order to earn her trust fund and the intern was assigned to be her chaperone. The tabloids are calling it the role-reversal Cinderella story of the decade.

  Owen grabs boxes of candy and gum from the impulse shelf and overturns the contents onto the conveyor. “See?” I ask. “Isn’t this fun?”

  “That depends. We aren’t going to get tattoos next, are we?”

  My eyes light up. “Ooh!”

  “No,” Owen say sternly.

  “It’ll be gone by morning!”

  “So why suffer through the pain?”

  “Good point.”

  We skip the tattoos and instead spend the rest of the afternoon driving around town, eating junk food until we nearly throw up. I bought purple dye at the supermarket, and like the fugitives that we are, Owen helps me dye my hair in a gas station bathroom. But we don’t really follow the directions too closely and my hair ends up looking more green than purple.

  We spend the rest of the evening pigging out on appetizers and desserts at the fanciest restaurant in town. At first they didn’t want to seat us, but I slipped the hostess a wad of singles and suddenly it wasn’t a problem.

  “Can we be serious for a minute?” Owen asks from across the white linen tablecloth.

  I bring the empty sundae bowl to my lips and tip back my head, slurping down the last melty gooey drops of ice cream. “There’s nothing more serious than this sundae,” I say, setting the bowl back down. Several people are staring at us, but ask me if I care.

  Owen laughs and reaches out with his napkin to wipe chocolate syrup from my face.

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I! It was amazing.”

  Owen gives me a harsh look, and I plant my hands in my lap and give him my most somber-looking face. “Yes, Owen?” I ask in a deep, serious voice.

  “What is this about?”

  “What is what about?”

  He gestures around the restaurant. “This? This day. The junk food and the hair and the driving like a maniac and the—”

  “I told you,” I interrupt. “There are no consequences! So I can do whatever I want!” I yell this last part, attracting even more attention.

  Owen cringes. I have a feeling he’s not fully getting the whole “no consequences” thing because he still seems way too concerned about what people think of us.

  “You can keep saying that all you want,” Owen says, keeping his voice frustratingly low. “But I know you, Ellie, and none of this stuff is you.”

  “That’s the whole point!” I don’t know why, but there’s a sudden sharpness to my tone. Why is he trying to ruin all the fun with his stupid serious questions?

  “What’s the whole point?”

  “Being someone else!” I shout. “Not having to be yourself anymore.”

  “What’s wrong with yourself?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Everything! I’m too dramatic. I’m too clingy. I’m too jealous. I’m not a Creature of Mystery. I’m not a cool cucumber. I’m a skank who Tristan only asked out because I’m desperate to get into his bed!”

  That, apparently, was a bit too far. A man in a crisp dark suit approaches our table. He doesn’t look pleased by my commentary.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave the restaurant. You’re disrupting the dining experience of our other guests.”

  “And!” I shout to Owen. “I’m disruptive!”

  “Please, miss. If you don’t remove yourself from this table, we’re going to have to remove you ourselves.”

  This makes me laugh. Like really, really laugh. The idea of me being physically manhandled by restaurant security is too much.

  “Oh yeah?” I snap to the man in the suit. “I’m sure you’ve got, like, five burly men with earpieces in the back just waiting for something to do.”

  The man in the suit—who I assume must be the manager—motions to someone behind me. Before I can crack another joke, I’m actually being lifted out of my seat by at least three pairs of hands. They jostle me through the restaurant and stand me up on the curb outside. Owen walks out a moment later carrying both of our bags. He doesn’t look happy.

  “Well, that was fun.” The sarcasm is practically dripping down his chin.

  I sigh. “Just shut up, okay? I don’t want to fight again.”

  Confusion flashes over Owen’s face. “Again?”

  Uh-oh. I’ve said too much. I was really hoping to keep our fight last night to myself.

  I start walking toward the parking lot. “What should we do next? Rob a convenience store?”

  But Owen is suddenly in front of me. “Why did you say ‘again’?”

  “Forget it.” I try to sidestep him, but he blocks my path.

  “No, I won’t forget it.”

  The electric rush of this day seeps out of me, deflating me like a balloon. “Fine.” I huff out an exaggerated sigh. “We had a fight. A big one. Okay?”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. And the day before. But yesterday was the big one.”

  The conflicted expression on Owen’s face pains me. “What was it about?”

  “The Ferris wheel? Tristan? I really don’t know. One minute we were fine, joking around, and the next you were accusing me of being on Mute.”

  “On Mute?” he repeats.

  “Yeah. You said when I’m around Tristan I play dead.”

  Owen averts his eyes, almost embarrassed. “I said that?”

  “Yup.”

  “What about the day before that? What was that fight about?”

  I sigh. “Book club, I guess.”

  He scoffs incredulously. “Book club?”

  “Yeah, you accused me of having read the book or something.”

  “And?” he prompts. “Did you read the book?”

  I press my lips together and look toward the fairgrounds. From here, I can just see the top of the Ferris wheel, all lit up and spinning. Tristan’s band won’t be playing tonight. I didn’t go get him the gig and I never had the conversation with Owen about it for Daphne to overhear. The stage will be dark tonight.

  “Ells?”

  “Yeah, I read the book, okay? I read all the books.”

  Owen rubs at his eyebrow. “You read all the books for book club but didn’t want to join?” He laughs at this last part, and I admit it’s kind of amusing. As far as dirty little secrets go, mine ranks somewhere near the severity of a hidden stamp collection. “Why would you do that?”

  I scuff the ground with the toe of my shoe. “I don’t know. I wanted to read them. They sounded good.”

  “But you didn’t want to join because it would get in the way of your time with him.”

  Owen is not a
sking this as a question. He’s stating it as a fact. Because he knows me so well. Too well sometimes, it seems.

  “What does it matter now?!” I yell. “He’s going to break up with me and I’m going to wake up tomorrow and you’re not going to remember any of this and I’ll have to start all over again.”

  My voice breaks and I can feel the tears welling up again.

  I’m so tired of crying.

  I’m so tired of losing.

  I’m just so tired.

  Suddenly Owen’s arms are around me. His shoulder is cradling my forehead. His chin is resting atop my crazy, greenish-purple hair.

  His shirt absorbs my tears. His strong arms absorb my shudders.

  The Owen that I’ve known for nearly half my life—my best friend—absorbs a little piece of my heartbreak.

  “Maybe this is it?” he whispers into my ear as he gently strokes my back. “Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll be Tuesday.”

  “It won’t,” I say miserably. “I’m stuck in this day forever.”

  I can feel his chest rising and falling in short breaths. I can feel his heart pounding under my cheek.

  “Maybe,” he begins again, “we should go to the last night of the carnival. You know, just in case you’re wrong.”

  I sniffle and lift my head. Our eyes lock together in a way they’ve never done before. It’s the kind of look that changes things. Things you never thought you wanted to change.

  Owen reaches down and brushes the wetness from my cheeks. His face is only inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my lips.

  “If I’m wrong,” I say softly, “I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.”

  Then we both break into uncontrollable laughter.

  It’s Been a Hard Day’s Night

  8:05 p.m.

  “We have a winner!”

  Owen leaps into the air and pumps his fist. “Oh yeah! Who’s the man? That’s right, it’s ME!”

  I laugh and once again stare incredulously at the five rings resting on the five bottle necks. A group of spectators have gathered once again, and it suddenly dawns on me that this was the crowd I had to push my way through that first night, when Tristan broke up with me and I ran away in tears. Owen seemed to appear out of nowhere to ask me what was wrong. But it wasn’t out of nowhere. He was playing this game.

  “Someone’s been practicing,” the employee comments.

  Owen stops dancing and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Nah, I think it was just beginner’s luck.” He turns to me and points at the prizes. “Which one do you want?”

  “I think you know which one I want.”

  We share a knowing smile before he turns back to the booth. “We’ll take the poodle.”

  The employee hands me the stuffed dog and we push our way through the onlookers. I lead Owen to the horse race game and take a seat at number four this time. Owen tries his luck at number five. “Let’s see if your skills transfer,” I challenge.

  We feed our dollars into the machine and the buzzer rings. As soon as the little red ball is released, I grab it and send it rolling upward with a subtle flick of my wrist. It sinks right into hole number three. My horse moves three paces forward.

  “Aha!” I cry out.

  Owen looks up at the horses. “Did you win already?”

  “No. I just finally managed to get the stupid ball into the stupid hole. It’s all in the wrist.”

  I sink three more balls into holes two and three over the course of the race, but I still don’t win. At least I’m not in last place this time when the buzzer rings. I consider that an improvement.

  “I don’t like this game,” Owen complains, getting up to leave. I glance at the scoreboard. Horse number five is still at the starting line.

  I laugh. “I guess your skills don’t transfer.”

  “Let’s go do something else.”

  As we make our way through the aisle of carnival games, I catch sight of a slender raven-haired girl standing alone near a concession stand. I immediately recognize her as the new girl who just moved from L.A.

  “Sophia!” I call out and she turns around, but there’s absolutely no recognition on her face.

  “It’s me. Ellie. We met at lunch, remember?”

  It’s clear she doesn’t remember, and then it dawns on me. That wasn’t today. That was yesterday, when Tristan and I were practically entangled in the cafeteria. I stopped her from getting tripped by Cole Simpson and she came and sat with us.

  “Sorry,” she says, “are you in one of my classes?”

  I’m about to mumble “Never mind” and get out of there, when a guy in dark jeans and a black sweater appears holding a cotton candy and a soft pretzel. It’s the same guy I saw her holding hands with during Tristan’s show a few nights ago. He gives Owen and me a once-over as he hands Sophia the cotton candy.

  “Thanks,” she says, and when she looks at him, I see the same doting expression I saw the other night. Not last night—last night she was alone—but two nights ago.

  Then a startling realization hits me.

  This is the guy she spilled food all over in the cafeteria. She only met him because Cole Simpson tripped her with his bag. Yesterday, I stopped that from happening and she came to the carnival alone. Today, I wasn’t around to prevent it, and they’re here together.

  Is it possible that something good actually came out of Cole Simpson being a total jerk?

  “Well, it was nice to meet you…” Sophia says, fishing for my name.

  “Ellie,” I say, then point at Owen, “and this is Owen.”

  “I’m Sophia, and this is Nate. Maybe we’ll see you around school?”

  I nod. “Yeah. See ya.”

  I watch them walk away, shoulders brushing. Nate reaches over and tries to steal a piece of Sophia’s cotton candy. She giggles and pulls it away, but he snags it anyway. She does the same thing with his pretzel.

  “Friends of yours?” Owen asks.

  I shake my head. “Just someone who I thought needed help, but it turned out she didn’t.”

  A few more seconds pass and Owen asks, “So, are we going to stalk them, too?”

  I laugh and punch him on the arm. “Shut up.”

  “I’m just asking so I can be prepared. I should warn you, though, I left all my spy gear in my other pants.”

  I start walking. “You’re obnoxious.”

  “I’ll tell you right now, though,” Owen says, trying and failing to sound serious. “There’s no way that Nate guy can rock the ring toss as well as me and Dr. Johnson.”

  “Halloway,” I correct him. “And about that, are you going to tell me how you did it or what?”

  Owen shrugs. “I told you. Beginner’s luck.”

  “No way. I don’t believe you. You have to have been practicing. Do you have, like, a ring toss game set up in your basement or something?”

  He guffaws. “Um, that would be weird.”

  I grab on to his arm and give it a petulant tug. “Then tell me!”

  “Nope.”

  “Owen!”

  He playfully yanks his arm from my grasp, trying to get away, but our hands catch, and for a moment we’re just standing there, both staring down at our tangled fingers, wondering what to do next. Wondering who will let go first.

  “There you are,” a voice says, breaking into the bubble that seemed to have formed around Owen and me. My head whips up in surprise and I see Tristan standing in front of us. His eyes are locked on our intertwined fingers.

  I pull my hand free and let it fall to my side.

  Tristan clears his throat. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

  I take a step sideways, away from Owen. “Here. At the carnival.”

  “I figured,” he says. His voice is so monotone. Like a blank white wall with no pictures. “You weren’t answering your phone or any of my texts so I thought I’d try to find you here.”

  “My phone is busted.” I keep my voice equ
ally flat.

  Tristan’s gaze darts between me and Owen. “Can we, um, talk?”

  I turn to Owen. “I’ll just … give me a minute?”

  “Sure. Whatever.” I don’t miss the irritable edge to his words as he walks away.

  Tristan nods his head toward a nearby bench—the same bench where he first broke up with me, where this crazy Alice in Wonderland of a week started. “Do you wanna sit down?”

  “No, I’ll stand.”

  Tristan shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. “Okay. Um. I’m not sure where I should start. I just came by to talk to you about something, and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re breaking up with me,” I say impatiently. “What’s your lame excuse this time?”

  I am so not in the mood to stand here and listen to this same babbling speech all over again. I figure I better just move things right along.

  Tristan flinches, looking completely taken aback. “Uh…” he stammers.

  “I’m too clingy? We’re not a match? Something is broken. What?”

  “Something is broken,” Tristan says, sounding relieved that I plucked the words right out of his head. “I’m just not sure what it is.”

  “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re the one who’s broken?”

  For a moment, Tristan is completely speechless. Then he appears to gather his thoughts. “I just don’t want any drama in my life.”

  “Oh, right!” I say, like I’m having some big epiphany. “The drama!” My voice is loud enough to attract the attention of passersby. I can tell the attention—and my volume—is making Tristan uncomfortable. So I keep going. “You and your drama queens! You don’t want any drama. You just wanna sail through life on the smoothest, glassiest sea. And as soon as you get one inkling of an incoming wave, you jump ship. Sayonara, baby. Isn’t that right, Tristan?” I practically spit his name.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but only a stutter of air comes out.

  But I’m just getting warmed up. “Well, I’m sorry. Sometimes life is dramatic. Sometimes relationships are dramatic. You go out with all these girls and then you end up dumping them for the exact. Same. Reason. Every time. They’re too crazy. They’re insane enough to actually want your undivided attention. What a novel concept! Here’s a hint for you. Girls don’t like it when you Snapchat with other girls! Girls don’t like it when you flirt with other girls right in front of them. This is not rocket science. We are not rocket science! Did it ever occur to you that maybe you bring out the crazy in these girls? Did it ever occur to you that maybe they’re dramatic because of you? No. Of course not. You’re too busy picking them apart, finding reasons not to be with them anymore, and then trying to pass those reasons off as ‘feelings’ so you can claim to just be ‘staying true to what you feel.’ I’d be willing to bet that if you actually dated the kind of girl you think you want to date, you’d get bored with her in a matter of minutes and dump her anyway. So how is this, Tristan?” I raise my voice another few decibels, shouting for the whole carnival to hear. “Is this dramatic enough for you?”