A Week of Mondays Page 7

  “I don’t think this is the kind of party you have to be invited to. Or if it is, then I wasn’t invited either.”

  “I hardly doubt that.” All the breath in my chest left with the words, and I couldn’t manage to get any of it back. It was like my lungs were suddenly closed for business. Out of order. On strike. Please try again later.

  I ducked my head so he couldn’t see the blush that was inevitably making my cheeks glow like the alien’s finger in that ET movie.

  Thankfully he chose to ignore my humiliating comment. “So, this friend that you allegedly couldn’t find—”

  “Allegedly?”

  “Yes,” he said in all seriousness. “Allegedly. I have no proof that your alibi holds water.”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “Do you have a reason to be interrogated?”

  I laughed at this. I couldn’t help myself. “I’m a minor, so technically you can’t interrogate me without a legal guardian present.”

  “Are you saying I should call your parents?”

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  I’m 89.97 percent sure Tristan Wheeler was just flirting with me and I had to go and ruin it by talking about my parents?

  Seriously, what was wrong with me?

  Apparently I watch way too many legal dramas and not nearly enough normal teen dramas.

  “I should go,” I said, starting toward the gate. I needed to get out of there before I could embarrass myself any further.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Tristan said behind me. I froze, too afraid to turn around.

  “I’m not sure I should let you out of my sight,” he continued. “I’m still highly suspicious. And if the police find something valuable missing, I’d like to claim the reward when I turn you in.”

  The smile was impossible to stop. I turned around. “You’d turn me in?”

  He dipped his feet back in the water. “I might. You definitely have ‘shady character’ written all over you.”

  “And what about you?”

  He blinked in surprise. “What about me?”

  “You’re pretty suspicious-looking, too.”

  He leaned back on his hands, looking highly amused.

  “Exhibit A,” I began, “you’re out here alone. Exhibit B”—I gestured to the ice-cold water that his feet were submerged in—“you’re clearly a vampire.”

  He broke into laughter. “A vampire?”

  “That water has got to be close to freezing and you’ve barely even flinched. What other conclusion am I supposed to come to?”

  He tilted his head, considering my question. “Come here.”

  I balked. “What?”

  He patted the cement beside him. “Come over here.”

  My heart was galloping as I weighed my options. This was one of those moments, wasn’t it? When you feel like the rest of your life hinges on one decision, ten lousy footsteps, the lopsided-smiling invitation of a guy so hot he belongs in men’s underwear commercials.

  The way I saw it, I had two options: I could go over there, take the kind of leap my heart had never dared take before. Or I could run toward that gate, hop in my car, drive back to my house, hide under the covers with Hippo, and pretend for the rest of my life that I wasn’t the biggest coward to ever walk the earth.

  The decision was easy. My legs were the challenge. I had to bully them into walking. Scold them silently in my head until they finally moved. Until I was finally inching closer to him.

  I sat down, keeping at least a foot of space between us. Then I looked at him, like I was waiting for him to tell me what the rest of my life would look like.

  “Take off your shoes,” he commanded.

  I leaned over and stared into the pool. “You’re crazy.”

  “You asked me what other conclusion you were supposed to come to. I’m giving you another option.”

  I sighed and removed my shoes, holding my hands over the toes of my socks to hide the unsightly hole. Why oh why didn’t I pick out cuter ones?

  Maybe because I never, in a zillion quatillion years, thought I’d be sitting shoeless next to the cutest guy in our entire school.

  “Socks, too,” he ordered.

  “My feet will freeze. I have warm blood running through my veins. Unlike some people.”

  There was that smile again. But he didn’t say anything. He just stared intently at my socks.

  I slipped them off and stuffed them into my sneakers.

  Then suddenly Tristan Wheeler’s hands were touching me. Well, technically they were touching my jeans as he leaned over and rolled the hems up to my knees. But his fingers brushed my legs more than once and I prayed to God the shivers I felt on the inside didn’t show on the outside. I was also extremely grateful I had shaved my legs that morning.

  “Now,” he said, nudging my knee with the backside of his hand. “Stick your feet in.”

  I shook my head. “No way.”

  “Come on. Trust me.”

  That’s when I looked up at him. That’s when our gazes crashed together. It would be the first of many explosive collisions complete with fire and smoke and an electric vibration of the air around us.

  He didn’t look away.

  He could have. We both could have.

  But he held me tight with his eyes, like he was cushioning me, protecting me from the sheer slicing pain that would accompany the water as I slowly slid my bare legs into the pool.

  But the pain never came.

  The water was delicious. Warm and tingling and welcoming. I gasped in surprise.

  “There,” he said, looking mighty proud of himself. “The other conclusion.”

  “The pool is heated,” I whispered.

  “The pool is heated.”

  “You’re not a vampire.”

  “I am most definitely not a vampire.”

  THE SECOND MONDAY

  Let the Sunshine In

  7:04 a.m.

  When I was nine years old, I went to Camp Awahili for the first time. My family had just moved to town and I was starting a new school in the fall. They wanted me to get a jump start on making friends so they sent me to a local sleepaway camp. That’s where I met Owen.

  One night, a girl from my bunk accidentally left our cabin door open and every blood-sucking mosquito within a fifty-mile radius was invited to a free, all-you-can-eat sleeping-children buffet. I woke up the next morning with bites all over my face, including on both eyelids. My eyes were so swollen, I couldn’t open them for half of the day.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  When I hear the text message ding on my phone the next morning, I’m afraid to open my eyes. I’m afraid that it’ll be just like that horrific morning at camp. Not because I was attacked by hungry mosquitoes but because I was up half the night crying, and that never bodes well for your face in the morning.

  I sigh and drag my eyes open. Surprisingly, they offer little resistance.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  Who’s messaging me this early? It’s probably Owen asking how I’m feeling.

  Well, I can tell him right now: like someone ran over my heart with a truck.

  There’s no way I’m going to school today. I can’t face everyone. Not after what happened yesterday. It all comes back to me in a tidal wave. The rain, the school picture, the speech, the puffy lips, the election results, and then—a sob hiccups in my chest—Tristan.

  Everyone has to know by now that he broke up with me. At our school, that kind of news can never stay buried for long.

  So, nope. Definitely not going back there.

  I wonder how long I’ll have to fake sick before the whole thing blows over and people stop talking about it. A week? A month? I better be ready to fake the plague, if necessary.

  I reach for my phone, knocking over a cup of water in the process.

  That’s strange.

  I don’t remember getting water last night.

  I swipe the screen and the air
catches in my throat when I see Tristan’s name.

  He texted me?

  Oh, holy Smurf poop.

  My fingers are suddenly useless fat sausages as I try to select the message so I can read it. When I finally get it open, I see that he didn’t send me only one text, he sent two!

  Tristan: I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  Tristan: Let’s talk today.

  I bound out of bed like a superhero breaking through a glass ceiling and let out a triumphant whoop!

  He changed his mind! He wants to get back together! Happy, happy day!

  I text him back, choosing my reply carefully.

  Don’t seem too eager, Ellison. Remember, play it cool. Cool as a cucumber, that’s me.

  Where does that phrase even come from? Are cucumbers inherently cool? Imagine how much cooler they’d be with sunglasses on.

  I giggle at the image as I type my response.

  Me: Sure. Meet you at your locker before class?

  A minute later, he replies.

  Tristan: OK.

  Huzzah! This is it! My second chance. The one I begged and pleaded for last night as I drifted off to sleep in a sea of my own tears like Alice, in Wonderland. Thank you, Universe. I will not fail you this time!

  I shower quickly and then stand in front of my closet, taking in the rows of color-coordinated clothes. If I thought yesterday’s clothing decision was stressful, this is something else entirely.

  What do you wear on the day your boyfriend wants to get back together with you?

  It has to be something stunning that doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard.

  I finally opt for a pair of jeans, an off-the-shoulder sweater, and flats.

  As I fashion my hair into a loose high bun, I keep looking at my phone, double-checking to make sure those messages are real.

  I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  Let’s talk today.

  There’s nothing else that could mean, right? Why would you want to talk to your ex-girlfriend the day after you dumped her, unless you changed your mind?

  The words do feel familiar, though. Didn’t he text me the exact same thing yesterday after our fight?

  I’m about to scroll back up to check yesterday’s messages, when I notice the time.

  Yikes!

  I gotta go. If Tristan and I are meeting before first period, I can’t be late. I need to allow plenty of time for him to confess his undying love for me. How long do reconciliation conversations usually take? Two minutes? Three? I mean, it’s not like there’ll be a lot of resistance on my part. I’ll just stand there quietly, listen to what he has to say, nod in all the right places, and then when he gets to the “Do you want to get back together?” part, obviously I’ll pretend to think about it for a few seconds because, you know, cool cucumber and everything, and then I’ll say something totally casual and uneager, like “Sure. I guess so.”

  I place my phone in my schoolbag, pausing when I notice a stack of textbooks next to my bed.

  Did I do homework last night? In the middle of my emotional breakdown?

  I let out a gasp.

  Do I do homework in my sleep?

  That would be like the best superpower ever!

  I grab the textbooks and the water-soaked pile of paper on top and stuff them into my bag. Then I hurry down the stairs.

  So what if he used the same words as yesterday? That’s Tristan. There’s always some hidden poetic meaning in everything he does. Like song lyrics. You repeat the chorus several times throughout because it has the most significance. I think it’s romantic. The same words that drove us apart are now bringing us together again.

  7:46 a.m.

  When I enter the kitchen, I hear the bang of a cabinet door and see my mom glaring evilly at my father, who’s deeply absorbed in another Words With Friends game on his iPad.

  They still haven’t made up? That must have been some fight.

  Hadley looks up from her cereal and the book she’s reading the moment I walk in. “Did he call?”

  Huh?

  I don’t remember telling Hadley about the breakup last night. Actually, I distinctly remember not telling her. Why would she ask that? Did she hear me and Owen talking from her room? She was probably listening at the wall with a water glass held up to her ear, the little snoop.

  “No,” I say dismissively, hoping my tone clearly conveys that I do not want to talk about this with her. Especially after she completely eavesdropped on my life.

  I walk to the fridge and pull out the bread, popping two pieces into the toaster.

  My dad glances at me over the top of his iPad, his face pulled in concentration. “I need a word that starts with T and has an X, an A, and preferably an N in it.”

  My mom bangs another cabinet closed.

  “What are you looking for?” my dad asks.

  “Nothing!” she snaps. “I’m not looking for anything at all. Why would I possibly be looking for something I have no hope of ever finding? At least not under this roof!”

  Slowly, I turn from the toaster and stare at my circus of a family. There’s something weirdly familiar about this conversation.

  “Craydar,” Hadley says knowingly, interrupting my thoughts.

  I glare at her. “What?”

  “It’s when a guy can tell whether or not a woman is cray cray just by looking at her. Maybe you set off Tristan’s craydar and that’s why he hasn’t called.”

  “No,” my dad says, shaking his head disappointedly at the screen. “I don’t have a Y or a C.”

  I squint at Hadley. “You don’t know anything about anything. And stop looking at Urban Dictionary. Mom, I told you—”

  CLANK!

  My mom has just slammed a frying pan onto one of the burners.

  I have to get out of here. This place is even more unbearable than yesterday.

  I force my toast out of the toaster, slather it with peanut butter, and wrap it in a paper towel. “I gotta run,” I tell no one in particular.

  “Ellie,” my dad says, stopping me as I’m halfway to the door.

  Great. He’s going to ask me how softball tryouts went yesterday. I was really hoping to avoid this conversation until later. Much later. Like when I’m fifty.

  “Yeah?” I reply unassumingly.

  “Are you ready?”

  I tilt my head, confused. “For what?”

  Now he looks confused. “Softball tryouts.”

  Wait, what?

  Has he completely forgotten about the conversation we had right here in this very kitchen? I swear he plays that game way too much. It’s starting to affect his brain.

  “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “Making varsity your junior year would be huge. The state schools would definitely take notice of that.”

  Now I know he’s lost it. Isn’t that exactly what he said to me yesterday? I glance around the kitchen to see if anyone else seems to have noticed that Dad is losing his marbles. I mean, I know forty-four is old, but I didn’t think it was that old. Hadley has gone back to her book and my mom is rummaging loudly through the fridge for something.

  I make a mental note to Google the signs of dementia later today.

  My dad sets his iPad down. “I remember when my varsity baseball team made it to the state championships. Standing on that pitching mound, I’d never been so nervous in my life.”

  What is this? Some kind of joke?

  Why is no one else fazed by the fact that my dad has launched into the same boring story he told yesterday?

  I can’t deal with this. Not right now, anyway. Parental breakdowns will just have to wait until I smooth things over with Tristan. “Great story, Dad,” I interrupt before he has a chance to really get going. “But I have to run.”

  My mom slams the butter tray down on the counter. It makes the same cracking sound.

  “Is something wrong?” My dad turns his attention to her.

  “No,” Mom barks as she cuts a piece of butter and drops it
into the frying pan. “Why would anything be wrong?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “She’s gone mom-zerk,” Hadley says, glancing up from her book.

  My dad excitedly reaches for his iPad again. “Ooh. I wish I had a Z!”

  Then my mom storms out of the kitchen, leaving the burner on and the butter melting in the pan.

  I stare openmouthed at the scene before me. Talk about déjà vu. It’s like my family is rehearsing a scene in a play. They perform the lines and the exits exactly as they did yesterday.

  Wait, are they rehearsing for a play? Is this some family bonding exercise they’re doing without me?

  Whatever, this is too weird. I have to get out of here. I practically run to the door, nudging it open and tumbling into the garage. I hop in my car, rev the engine, and squeal out of the driveway. I cannot drive away from that house fast enough.

  My family is certifiably crazy. Or as Hadley would say, “certifiably cray cray.”

  If You Believe In Magic, Don’t Bother to Choose

  7:54 a.m.

  Why is it raining again?

  And why did I forget to bring an umbrella again?

  I have a weather app for this very thing. It might help if I, you know, checked it once in a while.

  I select my “Psych Me Up Buttercup” playlist from my phone again, hit Shuffle, and turn the volume up.

  “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys starts to play as I turn left at the end of my street. That’s weird. There must be something wrong with the shuffle feature. This is the same song that came on first yesterday. Good thing I happen to really like this song. I sing along at the top of my lungs as I turn onto Owen’s street and pull into his driveway.

  “Wow. It’s really chucking it down out there,” he says when he opens the car door. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He drops his backpack on the floor and settles into the passenger seat. “You only put the Beach Boys on after something bad happens.”

  A shiver passes through me. Isn’t that what he said yesterday, too?

  He shakes his damp hair out and I watch the tiny drops of rain splatter across my dashboard like they’re moving in slow motion.

  Is it just me being anal or did those drops land in the exact same spots yesterday?