A Week of Mondays Read online

  Tomorrow I’ll wake up, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be alone again.

  I assume he’s fallen asleep, because for a long time there’s nothing but silence. I feel myself drifting off. I feel the darkness taking me under. I steel myself for what I know will happen next.

  The morning light will stream through my window. My phone—back together in one piece—will ding with Tristan’s first text message. I’ll knock over my water reaching for it. I’ll pick up Owen from school and everything—everything—will start all over again.

  I wait for it.

  I wait for it.

  I wait for it.

  And just as sleep pulls me under and the last glimmers of consciousness flicker out, I hear Owen say, “Then I won’t remember telling you that I’ve been in love with you since middle school.”

  The Way We Were (Part 5)

  Four months ago …

  You have no idea how fast news can spread in high school until you become that news. The Monday after Tristan kissed me in his bedroom and took me out for pizza, I became a different person. I became a known entity. My name didn’t matter. All that mattered was my new status: “Tristan Wheeler’s Girlfriend.”

  For the first half of the day, I thought I had put my clothes on backward, stepped in dog poop, broken out in hives, been the victim of a social media hack. Hundreds of explanations for the sudden attention flooded through my mind. None of them were the right one. Because never, in a million years, would I have ever guessed that dating Tristan Wheeler would attract this much attention. People whispered about me in the hallways, girls sized me up in the bathroom, I got at least twenty new followers on Instagram in a matter of hours.

  I felt like the mistress in a political scandal.

  I was grateful when school let out for summer break a month later. The sudden interest was unnerving me. I had started taking longer routes to class to avoid inquisitive eyes. I had stopped using the bathroom at school, convinced that girls were judging the sound of my pee.

  The entire time, I don’t think Tristan ever knew.

  This was his life. The attention was part of his existence. It never occurred to him that it wasn’t part of mine. And I never mentioned it. I dealt with it myself, in private. I didn’t want to be the girl who complained about her boyfriend’s popularity and its adverse effect on her.

  The first time I witnessed Tristan’s influence over people—namely girls—was the first Whack-a-Mole gig I ever attended. It was on the last night of school, at a small club two towns over that allowed minors inside before eleven p.m.

  The place was packed. I didn’t know how my entire school could fit into this cramped space, but somehow they managed.

  “You know you’re my good luck charm,” Tristan said to me backstage, a few minutes before they went on. He was tuning his guitar and I was sitting on a black drum case, fiddling with the metal snap, flicking it open and closed and open and closed.

  “You probably say that to all the girls you take backstage.”

  He stopped tuning and looked at me, his blue eyes serious. “I’ve never taken anyone backstage.”

  My fingers froze against the snap.

  “It’s true,” Jackson, the drummer, vouched. “You’re the first.” He patted my side, urging me off the case so he could pull something out of it.

  I hopped down. “Really?”

  Tristan flashed me his killer dimple. “Really.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want to be distracted right before a show. I wanted time to focus.”

  I walked up to him, tilting my chin up to look into his eyes. “Am I not a distraction?” I asked coyly.

  He bent down to graze his lips against mine. “You are the very best kind of distraction.”

  “Maybe you should kick me out then,” I murmured into his mouth.

  His hands fell from the strings and wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him. The guitar banged against my hip but I didn’t complain. “Never,” he said, and then he kissed me hard. I tasted the adrenaline on him. I tasted the excitement of the upcoming gig. He put it all into me, and the kiss left me feeling dizzy and breathless.

  “Okay, lovebirds,” Lance, the bass player, said. “We have a set to play.”

  Tristan released me and then instantly yanked me back. “This summer is going to be amazing.”

  I felt my throat go dry. I still hadn’t told him that I was signed up to work at Camp Awahili again this year, and that I would be gone for three months—basically the entire summer. I was supposed to leave the very next week.

  “About that—” I began, but I immediately knew it was the wrong time. I couldn’t lay this on him right before he went on stage. I’d never been a groupie before but some knowledge is just instinctual.

  He nuzzled my nose. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and pushed him away. “Now, go … you know … rock the house.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Rock the house?”

  “Yeah. Knock ’em dead. Punch ’em in the gut. Whatever it is you do up there.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Oh, I have much to teach you.”

  I flashed him a winning smile. “I’ll be in the back, trying not to plug my ears from all the noise.”

  “Hey!” Lance and Jackson said at the same time.

  Tristan held up a hand. “She’s joking. It’s an inside joke.” Then he gave me a playful warning look.

  I started to leave but Tristan grabbed my hand. “Wait. You can’t stand in the back. You have to be in the front.”

  Butterflies took flight in my stomach. No one had said anything about standing in the front. He just asked me to come to the gig. He didn’t say I had to be in the front row.

  “I don’t know,” I faltered. The idea of being up there, with all those people behind me, was terrifying. I got claustrophobic just thinking about it. “I’ll have a better view from the back.”

  “But then how will I know that you’re there?”

  I laughed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I want to see you. I want to look in your eyes when I sing ‘Mind of the Girl.’”

  His words were like a vise squeezing around my chest. I wanted so badly to say yes to him. To give him everything he wanted. Everything he asked for. I’d already given him my heart. What else did I have to lose?

  “I’ll try to find a space up front,” I promised him.

  His smile brightened the whole room and I thought, Why do they even need stage lights with a smile like that?

  An emcee introduced them and they charged the stage like bulls. I scurried through the door that led back into the front of the club and watched them take their positions. I eyed the space in front of the stage. It was packed wall-to-wall with people—mostly girls. I would need a helicopter to even get there, and the thought of elbowing my way through was enough to make my legs give out.

  Making sure Tristan’s gaze was trained on the crowd, I sidled my way around the edge of the room until I reached the bar. I ordered a cranberry and soda water and clutched the tumbler like a life preserver.

  I was so nervous. Nervous for Tristan. Nervous for the guys. Nervous that I would hate the show, hate the way they sounded, and I’d have to spend the rest of our relationship lying to him.

  Then Jackson kicked off on the drums and suddenly the energy of the club changed. It was like someone had run a live wire through the whole room and it could blow us all to smithereens any minute. That was the anticipation. That was the thrill. That was the edge I lived on for the entire forty-five-minute set.

  Tristan was magic up there. He was so confident and charming, his voice throaty and masculine, his lyrics deep and poetic. His presence captured everyone in the room. Including me. All the way in the back.

  I don’t even remember the music. It was irrelevant. Tristan was the show, and I was a convert.

  As soon as the set was over and he emerged from backstage, he was surrounded. He could barely move.
Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted whatever they had just felt from that stage, but he came straight for me. He pushed and swam and waded through the bodies like they were nothing but tall weeds.

  When he reached me, he cupped both of his hands around my cheeks, stared deeply into my eyes for five long seconds before guiding my mouth to his.

  He kissed me.

  In front of everyone. In spite of everyone.

  I’d never felt more significant in my life.

  “I thought you were going to be up front,” he said, pouting.

  I laughed. “There was no room. I would have had to drive a tractor in there to hack through all of your adoring fans.”

  “You’re the only adoring fan I care about.”

  My knees gave out. It was a good thing Tristan’s hands were still holding me up.

  “I’ll stand in front next time.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  First thing the next morning, I called the director of Camp Awahili and told him I wouldn’t be coming this summer.

  THE SIXTH MONDAY

  I Look Inside Myself and See My Heart Is Black

  7:04 a.m.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  I must be dead.

  There is no other explanation. I’ve died and am now living in some kind of purgatory.

  Please, just let me out.

  Shut it down. Stop the ride. I want off. I can’t do this anymore. I take back everything I said about wanting another chance. I take back everything I said about everything. Just don’t make me do this again.

  What if I don’t open my eyes? What if I refuse to wake up? As long as my eyes stay closed, anything is possible, right? Owen is still lying next to me. The text message that I just received is a wrong number. The sun is shining outside my window.

  Today is Tuesday.

  The universe is not a cruel, devious prankster who thinks it’s funny to trap poor, innocent teenagers in the same horrific day over and over and over.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  Don’t do it, I scold myself. Whatever you do. Don’t open your eyes. Let’s just go on pretending.

  I open my eyes. The space next to me is empty. I search for a stray strand of Owen’s hair, a crease in the pillow, a lingering scent. Something to prove he was there. To prove that last night happened.

  But there’s nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  My life is one big meaningless cycle of nothingness.

  See, some nagging voice in the back of my head says. This is why you don’t open your eyes.

  I shut off my ringer, roll over, and try to go back to sleep.

  Maybe I can sleep through the rest of the day.

  Maybe I can sleep through the rest of my life, which coincidentally is the same thing. My life is this day. There’s no escape.

  I’m trapped here forever.

  What did I ever do to deserve this? Was it the candy bar I stole from the supermarket when I was six? The four dollars and eighty-five cents in fines that I’ve owed to the library since last year? That time I lied to my teacher about our dog being sick so I could get an extra day to finish my paper?

  We didn’t even have a dog. And now I’m paying for it.

  My dad knocks on the door and sticks his head in. “Ells? Owen is on the landline for you.”

  Owen.

  My mind instantly flashes back to the Ferris wheel. To his lips brushing ever-so-slightly against mine. And then, to that thing he said just before I fell asleep. Was that real? Did that really happen, or was I dreaming?

  I push the memory from my mind. I can’t deal with that right now.

  “He said he’s been calling your phone but it goes straight to voice mail,” my dad goes on. “Are you sick?”

  “No,” I correct. “I’m dead.”

  My dad huffs out a laugh. “You look pretty alive to me.”

  “It’s an illusion.” I pull the pillow over my head. “I can’t go to school. Call Owen and tell him he needs to find another ride.”

  “What about softball tryouts?” my dad asks, disappointed.

  I pound the pillow with my fist. “I’m not going to those either.”

  “But it’s your chance at varsity.”

  I tear the pillow from my face. “You know what, Dad? Maybe I don’t care about making varsity. Maybe I don’t want to play softball. Maybe I don’t want to do anything. Maybe all I want to do for the rest of my life is lie here.”

  Comprehension flashes across his face. He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Ah. Is this about a boy? Is this about Tristan?”

  Pillow. Face.

  My father lets out a sigh. “Well, I’m sorry if you’re having … boy trouble, but that’s no reason to miss school. Junior year is incredibly important when it comes to colleges, and you can’t let a little crush ruin your chances at a good future.”

  “I’m not going to school,” I mumble into the fabric. “Ever again.”

  “Well,” my dad says, “if you’re not sick—”

  “I am sick. I’m very, very sick.” It’s not a lie. Clearly something is horribly wrong with me. It’s just not something that’s diagnosable on WebMD.

  My dad stands up. “Okay. I’ll bring you some toast and soup, and I’ll call your coach and talk to him about rescheduling.”

  7:59 a.m.

  My parents argue downstairs. An untouched bowl of soup and plate of toast are sitting on my nightstand. I try to fall back asleep but it’s pointless. The universe isn’t even merciful enough to give me that.

  For the rest of the day, I lie in my bed with “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones playing on Repeat, and watch the minutes tick by on my phone.

  8:02 a.m.—Owen gets in the car and says, “It’s really chucking it down out there.”

  8:11 a.m.—I run the red light at Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation and get a ticket.

  8:42 a.m.—I take a horrible school picture.

  9:58 a.m.—A kamikaze bird dive-bombs Señora Mendoza’s classroom window.

  11:20 a.m.—History quiz on the American Revolution.

  1:22 p.m.—I give the world’s blandest election speech.

  2:10 p.m.—Mr. Goodman gives me another brochure. Pow! Pow!

  3:25 p.m.—Coach tries to fool me with a curveball.

  Round and round it goes.

  I get three text messages from Tristan and five from Owen. I don’t read or respond to any of them. What’s the point? It won’t make one bit of difference tomorrow.

  4:34 p.m.

  I hear the front door slam and my sister trudges up the stairs. She’ll be soaking wet but I still have no idea why. I count her footsteps down the hall and then she disappears into her bedroom.

  I turn on my TV and flip through the recordings on my DVR. The season premiere of Assumed Guilty is at the top of the list. It’s the episode Owen has been bugging me to watch for the past five days. I press Play.

  Owen was right. The episode is pretty amazing. It’s about a woman named Simone Hudson whose identity gets stolen by this other woman who looks uncannily like her. The real Simone Hudson ends up suing the fake Simone Hudson for stealing her identity, but then in a fourth-commercial-break twist, the fake Simone Hudson countersues the real Simone Hudson, claiming she was actually the victim of the identity theft, not the other way around. The fake Simone Hudson’s attorney does such a convincing job at arguing her side that by the end of the episode, you actually have no idea who the real Simone Hudson is.

  The episode is so intense that by the time it’s over, I feel breathless and light-headed. How scary would it be if someone stole your identity and then turned around and claimed that you actually stole theirs? Both Simone Hudsons had birth certificates and social security cards and passports with their names on them. Obviously one of those sets of documents was fake, but which one? And does it even matter? How do you really know that you’re you? Is it because your
name is on a piece of paper?

  I reach for my bag and pull out my wallet. I stare at my driver’s license for a good five minutes, studying the girl in the picture and the text printed next to it.

  Ellison Beatrice Sparks.

  546 Briar Tree Lane.

  5′4″.

  109 lbs.

  Birthday: July 15.

  The picture certainly looks like me, and that’s definitely my name and my birthday and my address. But what if it’s not me? What if the real me is out there somewhere living some other life? At some other school?

  I bet that Ellison Sparks has it all figured out. I bet her boyfriend never broke up with her in the first place. I bet she never almost kissed her best friend on top of a Ferris wheel. She’s probably not even afraid of heights.

  I bet, for her, it’s Tuesday.

  I watch the episode again. When it’s finished, I watch it again. I search for clues, something to help me figure out my own twisted existence, but I only end up more confused.

  Eventually I lose track of how many times I’ve seen the episode. All I know is, it’s dark outside my window now. My mom comes knocking at my door to tell me that Tristan is here and wants to talk to me.

  “I don’t want to see him,” I tell her. “He’s just here to break up with me.”

  An hour later, my phone vibrates nine times in a row. I glance at the messages.

  Tristan: I’m sorry to have to do this by text.

  Tristan: But you won’t answer your phone or talk to me.

  Tristan: I don’t think I can do this anymore.

  Tristan: Us, I mean.

  Tristan: Something is broken and I don’t know how to fix it.

  Tristan: I don’t know if it can be fixed.

  Tristan: I’m sorry. It breaks my heart to do this.

  Tristan: I wish I didn’t feel this way. But I do.

  Tristan: And I have to stay true to what I feel.

  I shut off the phone and toss it onto the floor.

  I’m about to press Play on the remote to watch the episode of Assumed Guilty yet again when someone knocks on my door. It’s my sister.

  “I was about to put on a movie. Do you want to watch it with me?”