A Week of Mondays Page 31

  I carefully ease it open to find that it leads to the school’s security office, which is currently empty. Everyone must be at some kind of staff meeting. I hear whispers coming from the other end of the office and I quickly duck behind a file cabinet. A moment later, the girls are there. One of them—a tall brunette who is undoubtedly their leader—sits down at the desk and switches on the computer. I peer around the side of the cabinet to get a view of the monitor. She clicks the mouse a few times and suddenly a video feed of the soccer field is on the screen.

  Security cameras.

  The school must have them installed throughout the building.

  There’s movement on the feed and the girls start to giggle. The leader shushes them and points to the screen. Quietly, I take my phone out of my pocket, pull up the video camera, and press Record.

  “She’s walking onto the field now,” the leader says. “I told her that Avery would meet her out there in a few minutes. She thinks he wants to make out with her. Can you believe she actually thought someone like Avery Frahm would want to kiss her? She’s so freaking gullible.”

  My blood boils as the girls burst into laughter.

  This is what my sister has been dealing with? These horrible girls making her life miserable? No wonder she buries herself in those movies and books. She hasn’t only been turning to them for wisdom, she’s been turning to them for a distraction.

  “Like he would ever want to touch those hideous frog lips of hers,” one of the other girls chimes in, leading to another round of laughter at my sister’s expense.

  “Look,” the leader says, “she’s in the middle of the field. Activating the sprinkler system in five, four, three, two—”

  “This is all very entertaining,” I say, stepping out from behind the file cabinet.

  The girls jump. Two of them actually let out a shriek.

  The tall brunette takes charge, standing up from her throne to face me. “Who are you?” she asks rudely.

  “An interested party.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Well, why don’t you make yourself useful and go away. We’re busy.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “I can see that. You’re clearly very, very busy, and I’m sure your principal would be extremely interested to know just how busy you are.”

  Pink Miniskirt groans, like I’m wasting her time. “Do whatever you want.” She resumes her place behind the computer.

  It takes all of my strength not to reach out and smack her across the head, but I force myself to stay calm and keep my cool.

  “Oh, I will,” I say, taking a step toward her. I queue up the video. “And what I really want to do is push Send on the email I’ve drafted with this video attached.” I push Play and the girls’ voices are echoed back at them through my phone’s tiny speakers.

  “She’s walking onto the field now. I told her that Avery would meet her out there in a few minutes. She thinks he wants to make out with her. Can you believe she actually thought someone like Avery Frahm would want to kiss her? She’s so freaking gullible…”

  I turn the phone around and hover my finger over the screen.

  The leader stands up again. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to apologize to Hadley Sparks. Right now.”

  She shakes her head like this is all so juvenile. “That’s it?”

  I shrug. “Yup. That’s it.”

  She huffs. “Fine. Let’s go.” With a cock of her bony hip, she leaves the office, the other girls following closely behind her.

  “And if you ever mess with her again,” I call after them, “this video will also find its way to the police.”

  I send a quick text to my sister and then hurry over to the computer monitor. Through the feed, I can see Hadley checking her phone. She looks confused by my text, but thankfully starts walking toward the parking lot.

  A moment later, the girls exit through the doors of the gym. They strut out to the soccer field, like they own the whole darn thing. They reach the center of the field and search for Hadley, confused by her unexpected absence.

  That’s when I activate the sprinklers. It was nice of them to set up the controls for me.

  There’s no audio, but I can assume from their horrified faces and open mouths that screams are accompanying their mad dash for cover. But it’s so hard to run in those spiky-heeled shoes. Especially on grass. Especially on grass that’s now wet. The leader of the pack takes a nasty tumble as the other girls scurry past her.

  I switch off the computer monitor, pocket my phone, and disappear out the door I came in from.

  Hadley is waiting by the flagpole where I told her to meet me.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “I was just running a little errand.” I grin, and put my arm around my sister’s shoulders. “Wanna go knock off a candy store with me?”

  Wouldn’t It Be Nice

  8:16 p.m.

  “Okay, we have one more song for you tonight,” Tristan breathes into the microphone as he brushes away a damp clump of hair from his forehead. “This one is dedicated to the girl who got us this gig, and the new junior class president of our high school: the beautiful Ellie Sparks.”

  A tingle of excitement travels through my body as Whack-a-Mole launches into the final song of their set—“Mind of the Girl.” It’s the song Tristan and I first kissed to. The song that turned Tristan’s music from noise to art. The song that turned me into a fan.

  Watching him on that stage, hearing him say my name to a carnival full of people, listening to him sing the lyrics that I truly believe were written for me, it’s an amazing feeling. It wraps around me and squeezes me like a hug. It lulls me into a sense of security.

  Yet, as I listen to Tristan sing, I can’t help but think about all the other times I stood in the middle of this carnival.

  The first Monday, when I never saw the heartbreak coming.

  The second Monday, when I couldn’t believe it was happening again.

  The third Monday, when I still couldn’t fix it.

  The fourth Monday, when I thought I had.

  The fifth Monday, when I refused to care anymore.

  But what about tonight? What will happen in less than thirty minutes? Will he do it all over again?

  Will he break my heart a seventh time? Does it even matter anymore?

  What do you want, Ellison? I ask myself. But it’s suddenly the most complicated question in the world. One that I’m not even sure I trust myself to answer.

  The music intensifies, leading into the chorus.

  On stage, Tristan is singing about my impenetrable mind, my bewildering thoughts, my inscrutable emotions. It’s no wonder they’ve been such a mystery to him. I can’t even figure them out myself.

  Frustrated and with tears stinging my eyes, I turn away from the stage and wander through the carnival. After many aimless steps, I somehow find myself back at that stupid horse race game. I pick the very last seat—the unlucky number thirteen—and sit down. I feed my dollar into the slot and wait for the game to begin.

  Someone drops onto the next stool and I turn to see that it’s Owen. He looks at me. I look at him. Neither of us speaks. And yet it’s like we’re both saying everything.

  No. Not saying it.

  Screaming it.

  For years we’ve communicated in silent words. Thoughts that we never had to say aloud, but this is a new conversation.

  This is a subject we’ve never broached before.

  And I can’t be certain that I even understand it.

  The buzzer rings, snapping us both out of the moment. I reach for the little red ball and with a practiced flip of my wrist, fling it up the ramp. It drops directly into the number three hole and rolls back down. I repeat the action, same position, same flick, same result.

  Again and again, I sink the ball into that coveted high-point slot.

  I must fall into some kind of trance, because suddenly Owen is shaking me, pointing at the horses. “You won!”

 
I blink and look up. There’s number thirteen, all the way at the finish line, a scattering of losing horses frozen in its wake.

  “I won?”

  “You won,” he confirms.

  The carnival employee comes over and hands me a giant stuffed turtle. “Here you go, little lady. Nicely done.”

  Before I can think, I turn and thrust the turtle into Owen’s arms. It’s so unexpected, he nearly drops it.

  “For you,” I mumble. “I want you to have it.”

  He frowns. “Me?”

  I reach out and pet the turtle’s soft head. “Slow and steady wins the race, right?”

  Owen laughs. “Not in your case.” He gestures to my winning steed. “That was pretty impressive. Have you been practicing?”

  I shrug. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

  “There you are,” someone says, and I tear my gaze from Owen to see Tristan walking over, the post-gig glow still radiating off his skin. “Where did you run off to?”

  I scuff my feet against the dirt. “Sorry. We were—I was just playing some carnival games.”

  “Cool,” Tristan says. “So, do you want to check out this carnival? Maybe ride the Ferris wheel?”

  I glance at Owen, immediately falling into his vibrant, pleading eyes. Another barrage of silent words comes charging in my direction, but I understand them perfectly.

  Say no.

  Stay here with me.

  Choose me.

  It’s only taken me a week to hear them, but that doesn’t mean I know what to do with them.

  That doesn’t mean I’m brave enough to face them.

  I flash Owen a friendly smile. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

  It seems to take forever for my response to reach him. Like bullets traveling in slow motion. When they hit, he hides the wounds well. But I’ve known him too long. I see through his façade, and the pain on his face ricochets back to me, making me feel like I’m the one who’s been shot.

  “Sure,” he mumbles. “Later.”

  Then he walks away, and I watch him drop the stuffed turtle into the nearest trash can.

  When You Change with Every New Day

  8:50 p.m.

  We lift into the air, the ground beneath us growing farther away with every passing second. I yelp and grab Tristan’s arm.

  He chuckles. “Are you afraid of heights or something?”

  “Maybe,” I squeak.

  He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”

  Falling is the best part.

  I snuggle up to him, trying to absorb his warmth, the surety of his embrace. But none of it seems to penetrate the surface. When we reach the top, the Ferris wheel stops and our little car begins to sway from the momentum.

  I try not to look down, but for some reason my eyes are drawn to the ground.

  Drawn to the people I left behind.

  They’re so small from up here. Indistinguishable. I can’t make out any of their faces. And that makes me want to cry.

  “Looking for something?” Tristan asks, peering over me.

  I shake my head and focus my attention back on him. On this. This was my fantasy from the very beginning. A romantic night at the carnival with the boy I love, ending in a moonlight kiss on the top of the Ferris wheel.

  I glance up.

  There’s the moon.

  I glance to my left.

  There’s the boy.

  It’s everything I wanted.

  So why does it feel so anticlimactic?

  “Ellie,” Tristan says, pulling my attention back. His voice is suddenly serious. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  My stomach drops. Here it is. The reality of this moment. The reality of every single Monday I’ve lived through.

  Tristan isn’t here to share some romantic moonlit kiss with me. Tristan is here for the same reason he’s always here: To end it. To crush my fantasy. To break my heart.

  “Yeah?” I ask, my throat suddenly bone dry. I close my eyes and wait for the words I’ve heard countless times. The same vague speech that leaves me feeling frustrated and so terribly empty.

  Tristan takes a deep breath. “I woke up this morning feeling like something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Everything just felt … off. I didn’t know if it was our fight last night, or something else, but I quickly realized that this feeling wasn’t new. It’s been building and building for the past five months.”

  Wait, what?

  This isn’t the speech. This sounds nothing like the speech. I almost want to interrupt him and feed him the right lines, put this night back on track, but I stay silent.

  “I came to school thinking I was going to end it,” he goes on. “You and me. I couldn’t see any reason for us to be together anymore. I didn’t really know why. It was just a feeling. It was like we were broken somehow and I didn’t know how to fix us. But then something happened today. You were … I don’t know how to explain it … you were so different. You were … radiant. Everything about you. And I realized, maybe the problem was, I just couldn’t see you before. I couldn’t see how much you shine. All on your own. But now I do. I see it. I see you.”

  I wait for him to say more. There has to be more.

  “Hold on,” I say, confused. “You mean you’re not breaking up with me?”

  He laughs. “No. The opposite. I wanted to tell you how happy I am that we’re together.”

  A thrill ripples through me.

  I can’t believe it. I did it. I actually did it. I stopped Tristan from breaking up with me. I didn’t need any tricks or how-to books or fishnet stockings. I just needed to be me.

  I suddenly feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, who had the ruby slippers on her feet the whole time. She was just too focused on other things to notice.

  I turn to Tristan. He’s wearing that irresistible smile that’s pulled me in so many times.

  He rests his palm on my cheek. He guides my mouth to his. He kisses me. The way only Tristan can kiss me.

  Six days ago, this was all I wanted.

  Six days ago, this was my fantasy.

  But a lot can happen in six days.

  For the past five months, Tristan has been the music I couldn’t live without. He’s been the song stuck in my head, playing over and over again. I’ve spent this entire week trying to keep the music going. Trying to keep him in my life.

  But now, when I kiss him, I no longer feel the lips of the boy who wrote a song for me. Who shouted the lyrics from a stage for the world to hear. I only feel the lips of the boy who told me goodbye six times. Who broke my heart night after night. Who wanted the music to stop.

  It wasn’t until I showed him who I really was that he decided to stick around.

  I couldn’t see how much you shine. All on your own. But now I do. I see it. I see you.

  But there’s someone down there who’s seen me all along. Who didn’t need me to prove anything to him.

  I was so blinded by the spotlight shining on Tristan, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. Tristan’s music was turned up so loud, it drowned out everything else. It was the only thing I could hear. The only thing I wanted to hear.

  But it was never my kind of music.

  It was a temporary soundtrack. A placeholder until I could find the real song.

  I gently push against Tristan’s chest, tearing my lips away from him. Tears are streaming down my face.

  “What’s wrong?” The concern in his voice is raw and real.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I blurt out.

  “What? The Ferris wheel?”

  “No. I mean, us.”

  “What?”

  The ride shudders back into motion and we start our descent toward the ground.

  “It took me an entire week to show you the real me,” I tell him, “because I was afraid. I didn’t think I could be myself around you. I didn’t think you’d like who that was.”

  “And you wer
e wrong,” Tristan argues. “I do.”

  “I know.” I let out a tiny sob. “But it’s too late.”

  “Too late?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”

  “You and me. We don’t work.”

  Comprehension floods his features. “Wait. Are you breaking up with me?”

  Our bucket reaches the ground and the ride stops to let us off. I turn to take in Tristan’s baffled, distraught face. “I’m sorry,” I say with genuine sympathy, “but I have to stay true to how I feel.”

  I lift the bar and hop off. It feels good to be on solid ground again.

  I start running. I don’t stop until I get to my car. I start the engine and turn on the radio. The “Top of the World” playlist is still streaming from my phone.

  It’s Owen’s favorite.

  I turn up the volume. “Ruby Tuesday” by the Rolling Stones blasts through the speakers. It gives me the courage I need.

  The Stones always do.

  “She would never say where she came from,” I sing along as I put the car in Drive and pull out of the parking lot. “Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone.”

  As I drive away, I catch a glimpse of the fairgrounds disappearing in my rearview mirror.

  I think I’m done with carnival rides for a while. I need something a little more stable.

  Build Me Up Buttercup

  9:15 p.m.

  Seven minutes later, I pull into the Reitzmans’ driveway and throw the car in Park. I run up the walkway and bang on the door. Owen’s mother answers a moment later.

  “Where’s Owen?”

  “He went to the carnival,” his mother says, confused. “I thought he was with you.”

  “He was. I mean, he is. I mean, I hope he will be.”

  Owen’s mom gives me an odd look.

  “I mean, I’ll go find him,” I say, backing away. She watches me curiously from the doorway as I stumble to my car.

  I get in and close the door.

  Where could he be?

  Did he really stay at the carnival?

  I pull out my phone and send him a text message.

  Me: Where are you?

  There’s no answer. Well, I guess I’ll wait here. I mean, he has to come home eventually, right?