A Week of Mondays Page 8
I reach into my glove box and pull out the cleaning cloth.
“So why are you listening to an emergency-only playlist?” Owen asks. “Did you and Tristan have a fight or something?”
I stare at him in disbelief. Is he kidding? Is he trying to make light of my tragic state? Well, it’s not very funny and I don’t appreciate him turning the worst night of my life into a joke.
I open my mouth to tell him exactly this when I notice he hasn’t changed his clothes since yesterday. He’s wearing the same loose-fitting black jeans and the same gray T-shirt over a long-sleeve thermal.
“Did you sleep in your clothes?” I ask.
“No, why?”
“Did your mommy forget to do your laundry?”
He looks at me like I’m the crazy one.
“Anywaaaay,” he says, completely ignoring my insult. “You can’t tell me you had a fight. I refuse to believe that. You two agree on bloody everything.”
“We do not—” I start to argue, but the overwhelming sense of familiarity in this exchange is freaking me out, so I put the car in Reverse and back out of the driveway. I had planned to show him Tristan’s text messages and ask for a guy’s opinion on the matter, but if Owen is going to be an insensitive jerk about this, I won’t talk to him.
As I reach the stop sign at the end of Owen’s street, the Beach Boys song comes to an end and “Do You Believe in Magic” begins. Baffled, I look down at my phone. The shuffle feature is definitely buggy. I knew I shouldn’t have installed that new update the other day. Everyone knows you’re supposed to wait at least three days for them to fix all the bugs.
I swipe down to access the notifications window, checking to see if they released another update to fix the last one, and that’s when I notice that my phone is still displaying yesterday’s date.
Monday, September 26.
What the…?
Jeez, that update really screwed everything up. My whole calendar is wonky!
“You know you only have to legally pause for like a second at a stop sign.”
I glance up at the empty street in front of us and toss my phone into the compartment under the radio, easing on the accelerator and pulling onto Providence Boulevard.
Owen turns up the volume and starts singing along.
“Owen,” I say carefully, turning my windshield wipers up a notch. “Have you ever had déjà vu?”
“Only all the time,” he says, reaching down into his bag. “Oh, I almost forgot.” When he sits back up, I let out a stifled gasp when I see the two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies in his hand.
“W-w-what are you doing?” I stammer.
“Choose your tasty fortune!” he says, like it’s nothing. Like we didn’t just do this whole thing twenty-four hours ago.
“Wait,” I protest. “I thought you only worked at the Tasty House on Sundays.”
“I do.”
This is going to be a strange day, I can tell.
I reach for the cookie on the left, but then remember that’s the one I picked yesterday, so I grab the one on the right and drop it in my lap.
As I drive, Owen nosily unwraps his cookie and snaps open the shell.
“If your desires are not extravagant,” he reads aloud, “they will be granted.”
I swerve the car to the side of the road and slam on the brakes.
“Whoa. Drive much?” Owen complains.
“Let me see that!” I swipe the piece of paper from his hand and read it.
If your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted.
No. It’s not possible.
I toss his fortune back and hastily unwrap mine. My hands are trembling as I break open the cookie and pull out the message.
My lips feel heavy and numb as I read.
Today you will get everything your true heart desires.
But … it can’t. It’s … what are the odds of this happening? A gazillion to one? I don’t know, I’ve never actually studied fortune cookie statistics. Is that even a thing? Is this fortune cookie factory simply printing the same two fortunes over and over again? But Owen and I have never gotten these fortunes before.
“Did the Tasty House change fortune cookie distributors?”
Now Owen is looking at me like I need to be locked up. “Noooo,” he says slowly.
Maybe their printer malfunctioned and printed a billion duplicate cookies.
“Is this a joke?” I ask, waving the fortune at him. “Did you do this?”
“Do what? What are you talking about?”
“This fortune. I already got it. I…” My voice trails off and I dive my hand into the pocket of the door. I grapple around, feeling for the tiny piece of paper I crumpled up and stuck in there yesterday. The one with the same exact message on it. It has to be in here.
But all I feel is the smooth, clean interior of the compartment. As if it disappeared into thin air. As if yesterday morning never even happened.
Suspicious Minds
8:11 a.m.
“Did you ever get around to watching the season premiere of Assumed Guilty?” Owen asks.
I cringe. With the horrific day I had yesterday, it totally slipped my mind. “Not yet. I will soon, though. I promise!”
After Tristan and I have reunited and I’m back in a state of gorgeous boyfriend bliss.
Owen bangs his fist on the dashboard. “Bollocks! You need to get on that.”
I scowl at his reaction. “I know, I know. And please stop saying ‘bollocks.’”
“You missed the best episode.”
“I know,” I repeat, growing annoyed. He doesn’t have to keep telling me it’s the best episode. I already feel bad enough.
Owen points to the intersection ahead. “Yellow light.”
What?
I glance at the street sign. Avenue de Liberation. It’s the same dang intersection.
This time I know I can beat that stupid light. I have to beat it. I have to prove that I’m not going crazy. That the world is not stuck on some weird Repeat button. That today is different.
I floor the accelerator. Owen grips the door handle.
“Um…” he says.
I sail through the intersection just as I’m attacked by a barrage of flashing bulbs.
Dang it!
I swore I’d make it. That’s two red light tickets in two days. My parents are going to kill me.
“Ouch,” Owen says, cringing.
“Shut up,” I snap.
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Withdrawn,” I mumble.
8:25 a.m.
How did I manage to be late again? It must have been the time I spent on the side of the road freaking out over my fortune cookie. I told Tristan I’d meet him at his locker before class and now I’ll have to go straight to class. He’ll think I stood him up.
On second thought, maybe that’s a good thing. A little hard-to-get might actually work in my favor. At least I won’t seem eager.
Cool as a cucumber.
Owen forgot his umbrella again, too, so we make another run for it.
Tuesdays are even days so I head straight for my second-period class—calculus with Mr. Henshaw. I burst through the door just as the bell is ringing and slide into my desk.
“Excuse me,” a haughty voice says, and I look up to see Daphne Gray standing there in her cheerleader uniform, with her hands on her hips. “You’re in my seat.”
Wait, Daphne Gray isn’t in my calculus class. The girl can barely count.
I glance around the room. Actually, I don’t recognize any of these people.
“Ellison,” Mr. Henshaw says, staring strangely at me from the front of the classroom. “If I remember correctly, you’re in my second-period class.”
“This is second period,” I say, but there is no confidence in my words.
Isn’t it?
Daphne leads the room in a round of laughter.
“Today is an odd day,” Mr. Henshaw says.
It most certainly
is.
What on earth is going on around here? Tuesdays have always been even days. Since I started going to this school. Did they suddenly change it up this year?
“This is my first-period algebra class,” Mr. Henshaw continues.
Daphne clears her throat. “Ahem. My seat.”
I slowly stand and pull my bag over my shoulder.
“You should get to your first-period class.” Mr. Henshaw enunciates “first-period” as if I might actually be hard of hearing.
As I make the walk of shame to the door, I hear Daphne hide the word “drunk” under a cough, causing the whole class to erupt in laughter again.
I race down the hall and up the stairs to chemistry. When I get there, all the students are filing out of the classroom, chattering noisily.
“Okay,” Mr. Briggs calls out, clapping his hands. “Can we keep it down? There are classes in session.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, shoving my way to the teacher.
“School pictures,” Mr. Briggs says. I can tell he’s trying to decide whether or not to reprimand me for being late. But then Aaron Hutchinson starts playing drums on a nearby row of lockers and Mr. Briggs scowls and darts away, deeming that the more heinous crime.
School pictures?
But we did that yesterday. Are they doing retakes already? I thought they waited at least a few weeks for that. Maybe something happened to the photos. Maybe the photographer lost the memory card and now we have to redo them.
As I stand in line in the cafeteria, waiting to get my picture taken for the second time this week, I’m suddenly reminded of my hair. It’s a disaster.
Again.
“Say ‘Two more years!’” the photographer trills as I sit down on the stool.
My mouth falls open in shock just as she snaps the photo.
“Lovely! Next!”
As I’m shuffled away, I steal a peek at the camera’s viewfinder again. This time I look like a dying fish. Tack on the scariness of the hair and smudged makeup and I’m a dying zombie fish.
So there goes that. I don’t think I can count on the memory card being lost a second time. I guess I’m destined to be the laughingstock of the yearbook.
9:50 a.m.
As soon as the bell rings, I make a beeline to the girls’ restroom. Priority number one is to fix my face before I see Tristan. I can’t get back together with my hot boyfriend looking like a zombie fish.
But I’m startled when I see Tristan standing outside my classroom.
He’s waiting for me?
Well, well, well, how the tables have turned. I guess my little no-show act worked like a charm.
“Hey,” he says, sidling up and falling into step beside me.
“Hey,” I say back. Very cucumber-like.
I can feel him peering at me out of the corner of my eye, studying my face. “Are you trying out for the school play?”
I slow. Did he really ask me that a second time?
“No, it’s raining again. Remember?”
He looks momentarily confused before saying, “You didn’t show up this morning. I waited at my locker.” He sounds like an injured puppy. My heart does a little quickstep in my chest. He’s sad that I stood him up.
Oh, this is so happening right now.
“Sorry.” I coat the word with a smooth nonchalance. “I was running late. Had to head straight to second—er, first period.”
He nods. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I hoped for that to sound coy and flirtatious, but he clearly doesn’t interpret it that way.
Tristan inhales sharply. “You’re still mad.”
I feign innocence. “About what?”
“About last night.”
“Mad? No. A little confused maybe.”
“Yeah,” he says, running his hand over the back of his neck. “Me, too.”
Ah-ha! Confusion! Confusion equals second-guessing equals regret equals we are so getting back together.
But the third-period bell is about to ring, so let’s move it along.
“What are you confused about?” I ask, hoping it will encourage him to spit it out already.
He sighs. “About some of the things you said last night.”
“Me?” I blurt out. I can’t help it. The idea that I had anything to do with the events of last night is preposterous. I was the one standing there speechless while he was the one who destroyed everything we had in a matter of minutes. “You’re the one who broke up with me.”
Wow. He really is confused. I can see it all over his face. He stops walking. “Broke up?” he sputters. “Ellie, we had a fight.”
“Yeah,” I say helplessly. “And then you broke up with me?”
“No, I didn’t. I was upset, sure. But I never said I wanted to break up.” His eyes fixate on a spot above my head, like he’s trying to remember the exact conversation.
Meanwhile, I remember the conversation perfectly, and he said …
Wait a second.
My pulse sputters to a stop. My mind is reeling. Did he ever actually say the words “I want to break up?” Or anything remotely similar?
I replay his words in my head.
I can’t do this anymore.
This isn’t working.
Something is broken and I don’t know how to fix it.
Holy crap on a stick. Did I completely make this up in my head? Did I misinterpret the whole thing? Was it really just another fight?
Did I cry myself to sleep for nothing?
“So you didn’t break up with me?” I ask slowly, unsure if I can trust the words coming out of my mouth.
He takes way too long to answer. “No…” It sounds like he wants to add more, but he falls silent.
And then I very eloquently say, “Oh.”
Oh?
The worst night of my life has been revealed to be an illusion and all I can say is “Oh”?
“But I still think we should talk about—”
Just then the bell rings. We look at each other and then make a dash to Spanish class. Señora Mendoza gives us a sour look as we slip into our seats, but thankfully she doesn’t say anything.
I glance at Tristan out of the corner of my eye and he gives me a conspiratorial half smile. I feel relief fill me up and I expect it to lull me into a state of calm. But for some reason it doesn’t. It’s like taking a deep breath but never being able to exhale.
It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything is totally completely fine.
Isn’t it?
Why do I still feel so uneasy? Like there’s something I’m missing?
I tear a piece of notebook paper from my binder and quickly scribble “Are we good?” then slide it onto Tristan’s desk.
He gives me an adorable wink and whispers, “Yeah,” just as Señora Mendoza says, “¡Nosotros veremos!” in her bright, bubbly tone.
My head whips to the front of the room.
Didn’t we conjugate this same verb yester—
But the thought is cut short as a massive black blur crashes against the classroom window.
Oh, I Believe In Yesterday
There’s only one rational explanation. The local crows have formed a suicide pact. I saw a documentary about this once. Not with birds, obviously, but with people. A bunch of lonely souls get together and decide to commit suicide around the same time.
I’m no avian expert, but I imagine it works the same with birds.
I mean, how else do you explain two birds crashing to their deaths against the window of my Spanish class?
It’s either that or they really hate the sound of Señora Mendoza’s voice.
Fortunately, this time I don’t burst into tears. I got that little problem under control. But I do feel pretty queasy when Sadie Haskins confirms that the bird is dead. Tristan looks to me, almost like he expects me to start crying again, but I hold it together.
See, I’m improving already.
Reining in the drama.
In history, Mr. Weylan actually hands out the exact same quiz as yesterday. When is this poor old man going to retire already? It’s kind of embarrassing.
Although I guess what’s really embarrassing is the fact that I still don’t get all the questions right. I remember some of the correct answers from yesterday’s quiz, but I’m ashamed to say I don’t get a hundred percent today. And neither does Daphne Gray, whose test I have to grade again. I try to share a conspiratorial eye roll with her when we trade back papers. Something that says, “Can you believe this guy is allowed to keep teaching?” but I must not convey the sentiment properly, because she just stares blankly back at me. Like she can’t understand why I even exist.
She hands me my test with a big 76 percent marked on the front. Well, it’s an improvement, at least. Let’s hope old man Weylan also managed to forget yesterday’s results and uses these instead. Or better yet, let’s hope he forgets again tomorrow. I’ll surely be able to ace it by then.
“Homework for tonight,” Mr. Weylan announces in his wobbly voice as the class comes to an end. He turns and writes something on the whiteboard. His handwriting is so shaky it’s barely legible.
For Tuesday: Read chapters 3 & 4.
I let out a snort and Daphne turns her dark cat eyes on me. “What?”
“He assigned us the same thing yesterday. And he got the day wrong.”
Not that I did the assignment anyway. I was too busy getting ambiguously broken up with.
“Um, are you on drugs?” she asks in response.
First I’m a drunk. Now I’ve apparently upgraded to drug addict.
No, I want to reply, equally snotty, but then I look around the room and notice that everyone is furiously writing down the assignment. Like the mistake doesn’t even faze them.
It’s right then that a tingle starts in the pit of my stomach. Like a quiet murmuring of some foreboding truth.
I turn back to Daphne and whisper, “Isn’t today Tuesday?”
She shakes her head at me, clearly believing I really am on drugs. “No, it’s Monday.”
“But,” I argue, my voice lacking confidence. “It was Monday yesterday.”
Daphne sighs, like she really doesn’t have time for this. She digs her phone out of her bag, swipes it on, and shoves it in my face. She points to the time and date stamped at the top.