A Week of Mondays Page 3

  The entire class turns toward the window as a giant black bird slides down the glass and drops to the ground outside.

  “¡Dios mío!” Señora Mendoza cries, holding her hand to her chest.

  “Is it dead?” someone asks, racing to the window along with a handful of other students.

  “It’s totally dead,” Sadie Haskins replies.

  And that’s all it takes for me to burst into tears.

  It’s Easy to Trace the Tracks of My Tears

  10:02 a.m.

  The bird is dead. And now I’m a blubbery mess. Which, when you think about it, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I didn’t even know the bird. He could have been a total douche bag. He could have been the kind of bird that steals hot dogs right off your plate. Or poops on people’s windshields and doesn’t leave a note.

  But it’s not every day you see something die right in front of you. And at the hands of a dirty classroom window. Really, the crow should have known better. There’s no way the windows of this prison are clean enough for a bird to mistake them for air.

  So, in other words, the bird was a moron.

  At least I don’t have to worry about the tears smearing my eye makeup. That ship has long since sailed.

  The good news is, Tristan seems really concerned about me. He wraps his arms tightly around my back and lets me cry into his chest. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I’m totally smudging up his white T-shirt.

  “Shhh,” he coos, in that sultry soft voice he usually reserves for the stage. “It’s okay. He didn’t feel anything. He died instantly.”

  He squeezes me closer and I can smell the piney scent of his aftershave. I can feel the contours of his chest muscles through his shirt. Tristan has what I like to call a sucker punch body. It’s the ultimate proof that looks can be deceiving. From the outside, he seems slightly on the scrawny side. His jeans and shirts always fit a little loose. His Adam’s apple protrudes from his neck and does this cute contraction when he swallows. But then he takes off his shirt and it’s like, BAM! Sucker punch! Right to the gut. His muscles aren’t huge but they’re defined. Like wowza defined. And his chest is completely smooth.

  “Viking DNA,” he likes to joke. “We Scandinavians are freakishly hairless.”

  At first it feels nice to be comforted by Tristan. I’m reminded of why I love him so much. He has such a gentle soul. A poet’s soul. And I’m certainly not gonna complain about being pressed up against his chest muscles. But then the sound of my own sniffling starts to echo in my ears and I’m reminded of our fight last night. And how I basically went from normal chill girlfriend to strung-out monster in thirty seconds flat.

  Tristan hates drama. This has never been a secret. He told me as much the day we met. It was actually one of the first conversations we had. We were at a party at Daphne Gray’s house. Tristan had just broken up with Colby, his girlfriend for all of six weeks, and everyone knew about it. Tristan had a long history of short relationships. Maybe that’s because he always dated the same type of girl over and over and then broke up with them for the same exact reason. It’s like someone who complains about never losing weight but eats an entire box of Oreos every night.

  I push away from Tristan’s warm, inviting chest and wipe away my tears. “I’m okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I have to remedy this. I can’t allow myself to become another melodramatic ex-girlfriend in Tristan’s life. Five months we’ve been dating. Five whole months. That’s longer than any of his past relationships. We even lasted through the summer, which, let’s face it, is like the kiss of death for high school romances. I have to prove once and for all that I’m still the same girl he fell in love with.

  “Señora Mendoza. Can I use the pass?”

  “En español,” she reminds me.

  “¿Puedo usar el pase?”

  She smiles. “Sí.”

  I grab the straw sombrero from the hook on the wall and bolt out the door. It’s time to clean up this mess. Starting with my face.

  Everybody’s Talkin’ at Me

  11:20 a.m.

  You would think a dead bird outside your Spanish class window would be the low point of your day, but it’s not. Things only go more downhill from there. Monday is an odd day, meaning we only have periods one, three, five, and seven. In fifth-period U.S. history, we have a quiz. A quiz I knew about. A quiz I totally forgot to study for due to my attention being elsewhere. Namely on my fight with Tristan.

  And it’s not one of those essay-style quizzes you can just wing by being vague and witty. It’s ten multiple choice questions about the American Revolution, a chapter in our textbook that I did not read. I pretty much guess on every single question. I figure I have a twenty-percent chance of getting them right.

  After we’re finished, Mr. Weylan—hands down the oldest man alive (I think he actually lived through the American Revolution)—has us swap quizzes with our neighbors so we can grade each other’s.

  Needless to say, I bombed it. So much for my twenty-percent odds.

  I didn’t even get one question right.

  Now, the odds of that have to be pretty impressive.

  Daphne Gray—yes, the same Daphne Gray who threw the party where Tristan and I first met—scribbles a big fat zero on the top of my quiz, beside which she draws a smiley face.

  She tilts her head. “Better luck next time, Sparks.”

  You know that voice people use when they want you to know for certain that they’re being insincere? That’s Daphne’s voice as she slides the quiz onto my desk. Like it brings her immense pleasure to watch me fail.

  Here’s the thing. Before I started dating Tristan, girls like Daphne Gray didn’t even know my name. She never would have given me a second thought. Before that party at her house, Owen and I just kind of existed in our little universe, and that was fine with me. I’ve never been one of those girls who aspired to higher social status. Being popular wasn’t on my bucket list. But the moment word got out that Tristan and I were a couple, it was like someone dressed me up in a silly costume and shone a giant spotlight on my face. Suddenly people knew my name. They knew where I lived. They knew my class schedule.

  Girls like Daphne Gray suddenly took notice. And not in a good way. They noticed me the way a supermodel notices a pimple that’s just appeared on her face hours before a photo shoot.

  Now I constantly feel like I’m locked in a display case. Like one of those caveman exhibits at the museum that curious groups of kids walk by, laughing at the skimpy rabbit-fur clothing that hides practically nothing.

  I feel like I’m permanently trapped in the naked-at-school dream.

  As Mr. Weylan writes our homework assignment on the board—read chapters 3 and 4 in our textbooks—I carefully stow the quiz away in my binder under the divider tab marked “History” and the sub-divider tab marked “Tests and Quizzes.”

  I’ll have to figure out how to fix this later. Maybe I can convince Mr. Weylan to give me some extra-credit work. If I can speak loudly enough for his hearing aid to pick up.

  12:40 p.m.

  By lunch, I’m absolutely starving, but I’m way too nervous about the upcoming election speeches to keep anything down. I completely forgot to eat my peanut butter toast this morning and I find it crumpled at the bottom of my schoolbag, the peanut butter now creating an adhesive between my chemistry textbook and my extra-credit paper for English.

  Perfect.

  At least I had the foresight to store the note cards for my election speech in the interior Velcro-sealed pocket. The speeches are after lunch during homeroom, and I haven’t even so much as glanced at the notes all day. Remind me again why I agreed to be Rhiannon Marshall’s running mate. Because she asked? No, there had to be a better reason than that. I’d like to think that I was even halfway rational when I decided to say yes. Maybe something about college applications? It’s all a blur now.

  I pull the cards Rhiannon wrote for me out of my bag and slip them into the back pocket of my skin
ny jeans. I’ll review them a few times during lunch and everything will be fine.

  I’m a quick study.

  It’s the standing-up-in-front-of-fifteen-hundred-people part that’s making my internal organs do cartwheels.

  Ever since school started last month, I’ve been eating my lunches in the band room while Tristan and the guys rehearse. I try to practice my speech in there, but I’m way too distracted by Tristan’s sexy voice as he croons the lyrics to their most popular song, “Mind of the Girl,” and I eventually leave to find somewhere quiet.

  The library is my best bet. When I enter, Owen is leading the book club in a passionate debate about the major differences between the movie and book versions of The Book Thief. I steal up the stairs to the second floor and lock myself into one of the tiny soundproof booths where language arts students record the oral portions of their exams.

  Even in the dead silence of this little cell, I still can’t seem to concentrate. I stare numbly at my index cards, but the more I try to focus on Rhiannon’s neat handwriting, the more the letters blur and swim in my vision. I’m able to make out words like “vision” and “commitment” and “campaign,” but I can’t, for the life of me, make them fit together into any coherent thoughts.

  What am I going to do? I can’t even read the stupid speech! How am I ever supposed to give the stupid speech?

  Eventually, I give up and proceed back downstairs. I sit atop one of the tables and wait for Owen. When book club wraps up, he comes over and slides onto the table across from me, swinging his legs like a little kid sitting on a too-high stool.

  “You should join book club,” he says, holding up his tattered, dog-eared copy of The Book Thief. “And by the way, I totally stole this book.”

  I stifle a laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you only pretend to be a rebel. Deep down inside, you’re just like me.” I bat my eyes. “Sugar and spice and all things nice.”

  Owen pulls a half-eaten sandwich from his bag, unwraps it, and holds it out to me. The smell of the tuna makes my stomach turn and I breathe through my mouth. “No, thank you.”

  “You haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know things.”

  I cross my arms, demanding a better explanation.

  “You never eat when you’re nervous.”

  “Who says I’m nervous?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he tries to shove the sandwich into my face again. I turn away and gag.

  “You have to eat something,” he says. “You can’t get up in front of the entire school on an empty stomach. What if you faint?”

  “At least then I won’t have to give this speech.” I flash a smile and fan myself coyly with the index cards still clutched in my hands.

  Owen reaches out and snatches them. “Let me see those.” He flips through a few cards and makes a horrified face. “Did you write this? It’s horrible!”

  I pretend to be insulted. “What if I did?”

  He hands the cards back to me. “You didn’t. You would never write anything this bland.”

  I flip through the cards. “Is it really bland?”

  “This speech makes vanilla look like the flavor of the month.”

  “Rhiannon Marshall wrote it.”

  “Ah, see, now that explains everything. Why didn’t you write your own speech?”

  I shrug. “I dunno. She offered to write it and I agreed. Besides, she’s the one running for president. I’m only her VP. It’s kind of her platform.”

  “Yeah, but it’s your face everyone has to look at while you give this awful speech. I mean, it reads like she copied it from the Most Overused School Election Speeches book.”

  “That book doesn’t exist.”

  He taps the cards in my hand. “It does now.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. Two minutes and counting. My heart races. “Did you know that the number-one fear in America is public speaking?”

  “What’s number two?”

  “Death.”

  He bursts out laughing, eliciting a few glares from students trying to study. “Are you saying that the average American would rather drive off a cliff than give a speech?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  The bell rings and I glance up at the speaker, like a convicted witch looking at the stake that’s about to burn her.

  “Well, you’re not dying today,” Owen says, sliding off the table and standing in front of me. “Not on my watch. Let’s go.”

  I slump forward, resting my head against his chest. His body tenses for a moment, as though I took him by surprise, but then he relaxes and pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine. You’ll give the world’s most clichéd speech, everyone will fall asleep, and then it’ll be over.”

  I lift my head and look up at him. “Owen?”

  He smiles. It’s not his usual goofy smile. It almost looks forced. “Yeah?”

  “You’re absolutely horrible at pep talks.”

  And then it’s back. The boyish grin I’ve come to love. He bows like a gentleman in a Jane Austen novel. “Glad I could be of service.”

  Yummy Yummy Yummy

  1:12 p.m.

  Gurgloomph.

  Owen stops walking halfway to the gym. “What was that?”

  I play it off. “Nothing.”

  “Was that your stomach?”

  I walk past him. “Gross. No.”

  Gurglooooeeeooomph.

  “It was!” He says this like he’s freaking Sherlock Holmes solving the murder of the century.

  “I’ll eat after the speech,” I promise him.

  He grabs my elbow and steers me into the cafeteria. “No, you’ll eat now.”

  “There’s no time!”

  He points to a table in the corner where a group of scantily clad cheerleaders are counting money in a cashbox under a giant handmade banner that reads BAKE’N’CHEER!

  “Grab something quick,” Owen commands. “Something with a lot of sugar in it. It’ll give you enough energy to get through the speech.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I remind him. I had dropped my bag off at my locker after we left the library, opting to bring just my phone and my index cards with me.

  “My treat.”

  I eye the sign skeptically. “Bake’n’Cheer? Is that like Shake’n Bake? Or Bacon Bits?”

  But Owen is not yielding. He practically drags me over to the table. “Hold up,” he says to one of the girls with her back turned to us. She’s packing up individually wrapped Rice Krispies Treats and putting them into a box. “You have one more customer.” He turns to me. “Pick something.”

  The girl spins around, looking extremely inconvenienced, and I see now that it’s Daphne Gray. I didn’t recognize her from the back because, in their uniforms, all cheerleaders pretty much look alike.

  She gives me a once-over, jabbing the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “We’re closed.”

  Here we go again.

  I really don’t have time for this right now. I tug at Owen’s sleeve. “See, they’re closed. Let’s go.”

  “C’mon,” Owen pleads to Daphne. “One more sale. It’ll help you earn enough money to”—he squints at the small printed sign on the table—“buy new pom-poms.”

  I fight back a groan.

  Owen is completely oblivious to the battle waging between Daphne and me. Why are boys so clueless when it comes to girl drama?

  Daphne sighs. “Fine. What do you want?”

  “What looks good, Ellie?”

  I scan the table. “Does the banana bread have almonds in it? I’m allergic.”

  “Not like deathly allergic,” Owen adds. “Her lips just get all swollen and apelike. It’s pretty funny actually.”

  Daphne doesn’t look amused. “No.”

  Owen snatches up a piece of banana bread. “Great. We’ll take it.” He hands her a dollar and unwraps the bread, stuff
ing a piece into my mouth.

  “Oweh,” I complain as I chew and swallow. “I can feed myself, thank you very much.”

  He hands me the bread and I take another small bite. I admit I do feel better with something in my stomach. As we walk across the hallway to the gym, I peer hesitantly through the open doors. The bleachers are almost full. I can feel the banana bread rising back up in my throat.

  “I can’t do this,” I tell Owen, shoving the bread back into his hand. “I’m gonna throw up.”

  A moment later, I feel a hand on my arm. “There you are!” Rhiannon says in her usual clipped, imperious voice. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She drags me into the center of the gym, and I turn back to see Owen taking a seat in the front row of the bleachers.

  “Did you practice your speech?” she asks.

  I falter and then ultimately decide that with Rhiannon, it’s easier if I just lie. “Yup.”

  We position ourselves next to the other candidates and I scan the crowd for a friendly face.

  Why does everyone look like they’re scowling at me?

  My gaze lands on Tristan. He gives me an encouraging smile and I feel my stomach settle.

  Talk to him, I tell myself. Give the speech to him. Forget about every other face in this room.

  “Calm down, everyone!” Principal Yates, a plump woman with an unfortunate unibrow, booms over the speaker system. “Calm down.”

  A hush falls over the room. It’s punctuated by sporadic coughs and the sound of students fidgeting on the uncomfortable wooden bleachers.

  “We’re excited for this year’s class election speeches!” Principal Yates says, with such fervor it’s clear she’s expecting a burst of raucous applause to follow, but it’s like crickets chirping out there.

  She clears her throat. “We’ll hear a short speech from each vice presidential and presidential candidate, starting with the freshmen and ending with the seniors.”

  I find Tristan in the audience again, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down at his phone. So I glance at Owen in the front row. When I catch his gaze, I notice he looks panicked. His eyes are open much wider than usual and he’s staring slack-jawed back at me.