A Week of Mondays Page 30

  She gives me a dirty scowl and stomps off down the hallway.

  “Hey,” Tristan says, his fingers lacing through mine. “Are you coming to the band room for lunch?”

  “No,” I say apologetically. “I’m going to the book club meeting.”

  His face scrunches in confusion. “We have a book club?”

  I playfully bump his hip with mine. “Yes, we have a book club.”

  “When did you join it?”

  “Today.”

  He still seems baffled by this turn of events. “But have you even read the book?”

  I nod. “Actually, I have, but you can walk me to the cafeteria. I’m going to grab something to take to the library.”

  Not only does Tristan walk with me, he even waits in line with me and pays for my turkey sandwich.

  “So, you’re sure you don’t want to come?” Tristan says, putting his wallet back into his jeans.

  I smile and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m sure. Thanks for the sandwich.” I start to walk away but then turn back. “Oh, one more thing. You may want to visit the carnival manager down at the fairgrounds. I heard a rumor that he’s looking for a band to play tonight.”

  I wave goodbye and disappear into the hallway just as I hear a loud clatter behind me. That would be Sophia’s tray tumbling to the floor and her chocolate pudding finding its way down the front of her future boyfriend’s shirt.

  I check my phone.

  12:49 p.m. Right on time.

  You gotta hand it to Cole Simpson. He may be a giant knobhead, but he sure is punctual.

  12:51 p.m.

  “What did I miss?” I say, as I approach the group of tables pushed together in the center of the library.

  Owen stops midsentence and gawks at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t this book club?” I ask, sliding into the chair next to him.

  “Yeah, but aren’t you—”

  “I’m joining,” I say, looking around at the seven other members. “If that’s okay with all of you?”

  Everyone nods back in response. I turn to Owen. “Is that okay with you, Owen?”

  “Of course,” he blubbers. “We were just talking about the reasons the film wasn’t as good as the book, but since you haven’t read it, I guess you can observe—”

  “I personally think the movie didn’t work because we lost the powerful impact of Death as a narrator,” I launch in, instantly igniting an impassioned debate among the other book club members.

  I glance at Owen and give him a wink. For some reason, he can’t seem to close his mouth.

  “Don’t you have a speech to practice?” he whispers to me a few minutes later.

  I grin. “I thought I’d stir up some trouble here first.”

  “I thought you spent your lunches in the band room now.”

  “Trust me, this is much more exciting.”

  “More exciting than hanging out with rock stars?”

  “Oh, infinitely more exciting.”

  Owen barks out a laugh. The rest of the book club stops their discussion and stares at us like we’re from another planet. I duck my head into Owen’s arm and stifle a fit of giggles.

  For the first time in a long time, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  Break On Through (to the Other Side)

  1:33 p.m.

  “Running for vice president of the junior class, here’s Ellison Sparks, Sparks, Sparks.” Principal Yates’s voice reverberates through the gym and Rhiannon gives me a little shove.

  “Where are your notes?” she hisses.

  I pull the note cards from the pocket of my dress and tap them against my hand. Then I step up to the microphone and clear my throat.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Ellison Sparks,” I begin, looking down at the index cards. The truth is, I’ve given this speech three times already, I don’t really need the notes. I pretty much have the whole tedious thing memorized.

  I find Owen in the bleachers. He’s back in the front row. He gives me an encouraging nod, and I let my gaze drift to the rest of the faces staring back at me. The hundreds and hundreds of people who didn’t even know my name until I started dating the lead singer of a local rock band.

  I glance back at Rhiannon. She gives me another one of her perfected dirty politician looks.

  Why am I even standing up here? Why did I ever say yes to her?

  Was it so I could write down another impressive statistic on my college applications? Was it because I’m just incapable of saying no to pushy tyrants like Rhiannon Marshall?

  Or is there possibly another reason?

  “Don’t just stand there,” I hear Rhiannon growl through her teeth. “Talk.”

  I clear my throat again and peer back down at my notes. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I return the cards to my pocket.

  “Hi. I’m Ellison Sparks,” I begin again. “Although most of you probably know me as Tristan Wheeler’s Girlfriend.”

  A few sniggers from the crowd. I find Tristan sitting four rows from the back and flash him a smile. He gives me that delicious dimpled grin in response.

  “I admit, as far as titles go, it’s not a bad one to have. Especially if you’ve seen him without his shirt on.”

  The sniggers instantly turn into catcalls. Principal Yates shoots me a look, while from somewhere behind me Rhiannon hisses, “What are you doing?”

  I ignore them both.

  “And although that is an accurate title—I am, indeed, Tristan Wheeler’s Girlfriend”—I look to Owen but he’s suddenly more interested in something next to his feet than my speech—“it’s also not my only title.”

  The room falls silent. I take that as a cue to keep going.

  “I figure if I’m going to ask you to vote for me, if I’m going to ultimately represent you for the rest of the year, then you should probably know more about me than just who I make out with in the hallways.”

  Another round of whoops breaks the silence.

  “The truth is, we are never just one thing. We all have many titles and many labels, but far too often, we get trapped inside a single definition. The Teacher’s Pet, the Rule Follower, the Cheerleader, the Athlete, the Princess, the Basket Case, the Criminal … the Rock Star’s Girlfriend. Whether we wrote that definition or whether it was given to us, it somehow becomes our only identity. We get so lost in it that we forget about all the other pieces that make up who we are. I know I’ve been guilty of falling into this very trap. But in addition to carrying the title of the Girl Who Dates Tristan Wheeler, I also proudly claim the title of the Girl Who Knows the Lyrics to Every Rolling Stones Song.”

  This elicits more cheers.

  “The Girl Obsessed with Legal Dramas,” I go on. “The Girl Who Makes Playlists to Match All of Her Moods. The Girl Who Starts Fights in Book Club. The Girl Whose Lips Look Like a Photo from a News Story About Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong Whenever She Eats Almonds.”

  The audience hoots with laughter. It gives me the fuel I need to keep going.

  “The Girl Who Still Sleeps with a Stuffed Hippo. The Girl Who Sings in the Shower. The Girl Who Watches Too Many Documentaries That Make Her Paranoid About Stuff That Will Never Happen … Probably.”

  Even Principal Yates snickers at this one.

  I take a deep breath. “The Girl Who Would Repeat the Same Day Over and Over Again Until She Got It Right. Because I’ve recently discovered that I’m also the Girl Who Never Stops Trying to Fix Things.

  “And that’s what I intend to do for you as your representative. I intend to fix things. I won’t stop until I get it right, because that’s just the kind of girl that I am. I see problems and I simply have to find solutions. For instance, there is a serious shortage of palatable food options in our cafeteria.”

  Judging from the reaction in the bleachers, my peers agree with this assessment.

  “So how do I intend to fix this? I’m going to work with the administration to get local restaurants to sell items
from their menus at our school.”

  The students erupt in cheers. Well, everyone except Rhiannon, who I can feel seething behind me.

  “Also, I’ve seen how many of you come out to Whack-a-Mole’s shows. Some of you are willing to drive over a hundred miles to see them play. And yet, we’ve never had a rock concert here at our school. That’s why, if I win, I’ll be starting a semiannual Battle of the Bands night.”

  They seem to like this idea even more.

  “So among the countless titles I already have, I’m standing here now, asking you to help me add yet another to my list. With your vote today, I would be honored to also be the Girl Who Won the Junior Class Vice Presidential Election. Thank you.”

  The students erupt in applause. Some of them even stand up, although admittedly I think that’s only Owen and a few book club members. I find Tristan once again. He’s not clapping or stomping his feet like so many others. He looks utterly stunned, like he has no idea where I just came from.

  I step away from the mic and join the other candidates. Rhiannon looks like she can’t decide whether to applaud me or stab me. I give her a hearty pat on the back that makes her stumble forward. “They’re all yours.”

  1:55 p.m.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom, and I deliver my ballot to the teacher’s desk. Owen is waiting for me in the hallway.

  “So, when did you become Tony Robbins?” he asks, falling into step beside me.

  I shrug in response. “I had some time to practice.”

  “Seriously, that was some speech.”

  “Thanks. Did you vote for Rhiannon and me?”

  “No,” he replies in all seriousness.

  “No?”

  “I wrote your name in for president.”

  I stop walking. “You did what?”

  “You don’t deserve to work under that fascist dictator.”

  “Owen,” I whine. “That’s a waste of a vote. That’s one less ballot we’ll have.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to vote my conscience. And I can’t conscientiously vote for Rhiannon Marshall to be in charge of my after-school activities.”

  I laugh and keep walking. “You’re such a dork.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he counters. “Wait, why are we walking toward the guidance counselor’s office?”

  I pause and point up at the ceiling. Right then, the school secretary’s voice comes over the intercom system. “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office. Ellison Sparks to the counseling office, please.”

  “That’s why,” I say.

  Owen stares at me in bemusement. “How did you do that?”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “Remember when we were kids and we used to practice our psychic abilities?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pull open the counseling office door. “I guess mine have finally kicked in.”

  2:02 p.m.

  “Hello! You must be Ellison!” Mr. Goodman says, offering me the chair across from him. “Great to see ya. Really swell. I’m Mr. Goodman. But you can call me Mr. Greatman, if you want.” Har. Har. Swat. Swat. “Just joshin’ ya! So how ya doing? Ya holding up okay?”

  “I’m great, Mr. Greatman. Just swell!”

  He brightens at my enthusiasm.

  “Good to hear it! Good. To. Hear. Now, let’s get down to business. Junior year. It’s a toughie, am I right? Or am I riiight?”

  Wink. Wink.

  “It sure is! Wow. This day alone has been a trial, let me tell ya.”

  “And don’t forget about those colleges. It’s time to start thinking about your future.” He forms his hands into pistols and shoots them at me. “Pow! Pow!”

  I do my best imitation of someone being shot in the heart. It cracks him up. His laugh could easily be confused with a donkey’s bray. I wake up from the dead and laugh along with him.

  “Okay, time to get serious,” he says, wiping the amusement from his face by pantomiming a windshield wiper. “Us trusty guidance counselors have been assigned to meet with every student in the junior class to talk about the next two years. Have you given any thought to where you want to apply?”

  “Not yet,” I say with a sigh, “but I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”

  Something Tells Me I’m into Something Good

  3:20 p.m.

  I close my locker and check the clock on my phone. Two minutes and counting.

  I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Maybe it’s because today is the day I actually care about what happens.

  I tap my fingers anxiously against the screen of my phone, willing the time to move faster.

  “Hey!”

  I pop my head up to see Tristan walking toward me with his usual sexy swagger. “That was some speech you gave today. You were amazing up there.”

  I grin. “Thanks.”

  “I also wanted to say thank you for the tip about the carnival. I was able to get us the gig for tonight! By the way, how did you know that—”

  I shush him when I hear the ding of the announcement system. I bite my lip and knead my hands together as the school secretary starts to speak.

  “Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today’s election.”

  This is it. Judgment day.

  “First off, the cheerleaders would like to thank you for supporting their bake sale today. They raised over one thousand dollars! Also, a reminder that the auditions for the fall musical will start tomorrow afternoon. The deadline for signing up to audition is four o’clock today. This fall, the drama department will be bringing us the hit musical Rent!”

  My heart pounds in my chest.

  “And finally, here are the results from today’s election.”

  Tristan grabs my hand. I listen intently as the results of the freshman and sophomore classes are read first.

  “For the junior class, we had a bit of an unusual situation.”

  Unusual?

  That can’t be good. Unusual is never good.

  “There was an abnormally high number of students who utilized the write-in feature of the ballot this year. After tallying up the votes, including the write-in additions, we can now confirm that your new junior class president is…”

  Tristan squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

  “… Ellison Sparks!”

  I drop Tristan’s hand.

  What?

  Tristan lets out a whoop and picks me up, swinging me around. When he sets me back on my feet he’s beaming, but I’m scowling in confusion.

  “You won!” he exclaims.

  “B-b-but how?” I stammer. “I didn’t even run for president.”

  “Enough people wrote your name in. Everyone wants you to be their president.”

  “They do?”

  “The people have spoken,” Tristan says in a deep movie-trailer voice. He gazes at me with something in his eyes that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. I don’t even recognize it at first, but after a moment I’m pretty convinced that it’s pride.

  “President Sparks,” he says ceremoniously. “I like the way that sounds.”

  He leans toward me, his dimple practically glowing. I feel myself being pulled into his gravity, his energy, his atmosphere.

  Our lips touch just as I hear someone screech my name. It’s not a pleasant sound. It ranks somewhere up there next to nails on a chalkboard and metal grinding against metal.

  Tristan and I both look up at once. Rhiannon Marshall is barreling down the hallway like a fireball in one of those highly unrealistic explosion scenes. This is the part where Tristan and I are supposed to start running so we can dive in slow motion under a car and avoid being blasted to bits.

  But neither one of us moves.

  “How dare you!” Rhiannon shrieks when she reaches me. “How dare you swoop in and steal my presidency.”

  Tristan steps in front of me, opening his mouth to speak, but I gently push him aside. “I didn’t steal anything, Rhiannon,”
I say calmly. “The students voted for me.”

  “You sabotaged me. You rigged this election.”

  Her accusation stuns me. “And exactly how did I do that?”

  Her face turns every shade of red as she angrily fumbles for a comeback. “I may not have an answer to that right now, but trust me, there will be a full investigation. I will get to the bottom of this.”

  I nod. “You do that. Let me know what you find out.” I close my locker door with a decisive slam and walk away.

  Tristan jogs to catch up with me. “Don’t worry about Rhiannon. She’s all talk.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Where are you going?” Tristan asks. “Isn’t the locker room the other way?”

  “To the auditorium,” I tell him. “The auditions for the school play are tomorrow. I’ve decided to sign up.”

  Tristan sputters to a halt. “The play? But you hate singing in front of people.”

  “Actually,” I say, stopping in front of the signup sheet and scribbling my name under the role of Maureen, “it turns out, I kind of like it.”

  An alarm goes off on my phone. I check the screen and turn to Tristan. “I gotta run.”

  He looks flustered. “What? Where are you going? Should I come with you?”

  I shake my head. “That’s okay. I got this.”

  He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. “Should I come over later, then?” He’s using that seductive voice. The one that not only usually melts me, but melts all my resolve as well.

  “You should get ready for your gig,” I point out, untangling myself from him. “I’ll see you at the carnival tonight, okay?”

  Before he can respond, I’m already halfway down the hallway.

  Wooly Bully

  3:55 p.m.

  By the time I pull into the parking lot of the middle school next door and hop out of my car, the buses have left and the parent pickup line has mostly emptied. I park the car and run to the side door of the building, the one I saw the girls exit from.