A Week of Mondays (13 page)

“Another pamphlet?” I ask incredulously.

“Have I given you one before?”

I sigh and pick up the brochure. This one reads:

Saying No to Drugs: A Guide for Teens

It shows a blurry photograph of a girl with her hand outstretched against an unseen stranger who's clearly offering her something illicit. The only part of the picture that's in focus is the palm of her hand.

This one is admittedly more artistic than the last.

As I stare at the brochure, I quickly realize what a massive waste of time this has been. This guy's not going to help me. Did he even go to guidance counselor school?
Is
there such a thing?

“Thanks,” I mumble, and stand up. “You've been a huge help.”

Mr. Goodman cracks a goofy smile and swipes at the air. “Aw, shucks.”

Clearly he doesn't have a pamphlet back there about the meaning of sarcasm.

Discouraged, I shuffle out of his office. If this man is helping shape the minds of America's youth, we're all doomed.

 

Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

2:02 p.m.

I've got it. I've finally figured it out.

I'm on a reality show.

Everyone I know must be in on it. My family, Owen, Tristan, Daphne Gray, even the counseling office receptionist who hands me a pass back to class. They're being paid to pretend this is real. There's probably hidden cameras set up all over the school. Then three months from now, I'm going to be a hit show on a major network.

It'll be called something snazzy like “Sparks Will Fly” or “Ellie's Island.”

Although that doesn't really explain the date on all those Web pages I checked. I highly doubt a reality show would hack into a government Web site just to fool me into believing some big, elaborate scheme.

Okay, let's think about this for a minute.

What if I really
am
repeating the same day—even if it's just a dream, or a result of over-the-counter painkillers gone bad, or whatever. Shouldn't I at least make the most of it? Shouldn't I use my knowledge of yesterday to improve today? That's the smart, opportunistic thing to do, right?

I think back to all the horrible things that happened the first time I barely survived this day. Obviously one thing stands out above everything else: the carnival.

Tristan barely even gave it a shot. We didn't get to do any of the things on my romantic fantasy date list. Maybe if we had, he'd realize that we aren't broken. That we
do
still work. He was too bent out of shape about the stage being empty and his band missing the opportunity to perform.

I cover my hand with my mouth to keep the gasp from escaping.

That's it.

That's what I have to fix. That's what set the whole night on the wrong track.

I glance down at the pass in my hand. Too bad it's stamped with a time. Otherwise, I might have been able to pull this off without getting into trouble. I'll just have to try really hard not to get caught.

I've never,
ever
ditched school in my life.

Like I said to Owen, I'm sugar and spice and all things nice.

And look how well that's turned out for me so far.

This is my moment. If I have any hope of winning back Tristan's affections and making him forget about that stupid fight, I have to do this.

If I succeed, it may not just save my relationship, it may save my whole Monday.

 

Worryin' 'bout the Way Things Might Have Been

3:09 p.m.

Success!

I am victorious. I have triumphed!

Playing tonight on the main stage (okay, the
only
stage) at the final farewell evening of the town carnival is …

Whack-a-Mole!

(Cue the applause and confetti!)

I'm actually surprised by how easy it was to convince the carnival manager to let Tristan's band play. Maybe he's in on the reality show, too. I arrived at the fairgrounds ready to desperately plead my case like the losing attorney in a crumbling civil suit, armed with one of the Whack-a-Mole demo CDs that I always keep handy in my bag for just this reason. I marched into the carnival's messy (and smelly) trailer office, introduced myself as the band's manager (which, okay, is technically not true, but you know, trivial), and started to zealously sing their musical praises.

The guy—a grubby planet of a man—stopped me before I even hit my stride and said, “Look, sweetheart, I don't care if you get up there and start banging on a bunch of pots and pans, as long as that stage isn't empty tonight.”

“So the spot is mine? I mean, theirs?” I asked, unable to believe my sudden change in luck.

“Sure, sure. Now get out of my hair, kid. I got a lot of work to do around here.”

I strode off, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. On the drive back to school, I put on something from my “World Domination” playlist—songs I usually reserve for a high test grade or when I win an especially brutal game of Sorry! against my dad.

I sing along to “Proud Mary” by Creedence Clearwater Revival at the top of my lungs as I turn into the parking lot of the school and find the same spot I vacated when I left.

I check the clock. Only a few minutes left of seventh period. I can do this. I can totally make this happen. I'll just wait until the bell rings, then I'll blend into the swarm of people exiting their last class.

It's the perfect plan, if I say so myself.

I don't know why I don't ditch school more often. I'm clearly amazing at it.

The song appropriately comes to an end right as the bell rings. This day is totally turning around. All it needed was a little nudge in the right direction. A small shift in perspective and everything falls into place.

Whack-a-Mole will play at the carnival tonight. Then Tristan, having just come off an onstage high, and I will have the romantic night I've dreamed about since I was ten.

I see the swells of students exiting the outer bungalows and heading toward the main building. I ease into the stream like a fish, glancing around to make sure no one gives me suspicious looks.

So far, so good.

I can't wait to find Tristan and tell him the good news. There's no way he can be mad at me after I landed his band this gig.

I will have to eventually figure out a way to explain to Ms. Ferrel, my English teacher, why I never showed up for class, and why I was unable to turn in my extra-credit paper, but that shouldn't be too hard. I'm a rebel now. I'll improvise!

I'm two steps away from the safety of the main building when a large hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Ms. Sparks,” a gruff female voice says. With butterflies already stirring in the pit of my stomach, I slowly turn around. Principal Yates is standing behind me, looking like an ogre among all these students. “I hope you have a very good reason for missing seventh period.”

 

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

3:18 p.m.

I take it all back. I'm not a rebel. I'm not even a radical. I'm barely an agitator. I'm not cut out for the criminal life. I buckle too easily under pressure. I would fare miserably in prison. And an interrogation room? Forget it. I'd squeal the moment the police officer straddled his chair.

Case in point, Principal Yates does nothing more than pin me with an accusing gaze before I totally crack.

“I'm sorry,” I blubber. “I'll never do it again, I swear. It was a onetime thing.”

I pray that Principal Yates will take pity on me as a first-time offender.

“One time or no,” she says regretfully, “I have to punish delinquency. As a matter of principle.”

I feel the strong desire to crack a joke,
A matter of principle. 'Cause you're the principal?
Get it?
But I hold my tongue.

Probably the smartest thing I've done all day.

“Detention after school today,” she concludes. “3:30 to 4:30.”

My mouth falls open. “What?! No, but you can't. I have softball tryouts. I have to go. My dad will be crushed if I don't make varsity.”

She gives me a disapproving look. “I guess you should have thought of that
before
you left school grounds without permission.”

3:20 p.m.

I run to Tristan's locker, knowing I'll beat him there since he's coming from the math hallway on the other side of the building. When he appears around the corner, the entire world brightens. It's like Tristan brings warmth and energy and light wherever he goes. I want to start singing
“Here comes the sun!”
at the top of my lungs, but obviously I refrain.

He sees me and a small hesitant smiles works its way onto his lips. Does he look happy to see me? Or is he still angry about our fight?

You know what? It doesn't matter. Because after he hears what I have to tell him, everything will be forgiven
and
forgotten. All will be fixed.

He walks toward me like he's in one of those slow-motion scenes in a high school movie, all hair and swagger. It's hard to miss the stares he gets from other girls as he passes. I certainly notice, even if Tristan doesn't appear to.

See, Ellison. He doesn't care what other girls think. He only cares what
you
think. Why can't you just believe that?

I do. I believe it. I'm done with this insecure jealousy nonsense. It's highly inconvenient.

“Hey,” he says when he approaches. “I was hoping I'd see you here.”

“Well,” I say, giving my hair a playful toss. “Here I am.”

He looks uncomfortable, his gaze shifting to just over my shoulder.

“I thought we could continue our conversation. You know the one we started before first period.”

Suddenly there's a huge boulder in my throat. The day comes spiraling back to me. The whole, awful, cringeworthy day. Like I'm being sucked back down the space-time continuum and plopped right back where it all began.

“Of course,” I say breezily. “But first, I have some good news.”

His eyebrow cocks. “You do?”

I can't hold it in any longer. The words bubble out of me. “I got you guys a gig!”

He tilts his head to the side like he didn't hear me correctly. “A gig?”

“Yes!” I squeal. “Tonight!”

He's still not getting this. “You did? Like a real gig?”

“That depends,” I reply coyly. “Do you consider the main stage of the town carnival a real gig?”

“WHAT?!” Tristan screeches. “Are you serious?”

I shrug, like it's no big deal. Just fulfilling my basic girlfriend duty. “Yeah. I heard there was a last minute cancellation so I went down to the fairgrounds and talked to the manager. It took some convincing but once I told him how awesome you guys are—”

My words are cut off because my feet are suddenly no longer on the ground. Tristan has wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me into the air. And now the room is spinning.

“Ellie!” he shrieks, causing at least a dozen people to turn and look.

Good. Let them look. Let
this
be the image they remember me by. Easy-breezy-adored-by-her-boyfriend Ellie. Not bumbling-like-an-idiot-election-speech Ellie.

“This is amazing!” He sets me down and looks right into my eyes. “
You
are amazing.”

I feel an intense urge to kiss him. Just tip forward and fall into his beautiful pink lips. It would be the most perfect moment for a kiss. While this sizzling energy of excitement is streaming between us. While he's looking at me like I'm the goddess of awesome sauce. While his hands are still wrapped around my waist.

But I can't. Not after what happened last night. He has to kiss
me
. He has to make the first move. I have to
know
that this has worked.

I keep my eyes locked on his. I keep my lips curled in a loose smile. I keep my body language open and accessible. I even lean forward just the slightest bit.

And then …

Sigh.

He closes the space between us. He presses his warm lips against mine. His hands urge my body close, closer, closest. Until we're tangled up in arms and tongues and passion.

If there's one thing that Tristan does better than singing, better than pounding out awesome guitar solos, better than walking down hallways in seeming slow motion, it's kissing. I swear he could teach a workshop or something.

When he pulls away, me and half the hallway are in a state of post-smooch bliss. It's as if the pheromones are seeping out of my pores and infecting everyone within a half-mile radius.

He rests his forehead against mine and whispers, “You're the best, Ellie. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

I close my eyes and bask in his words. The fireworks and celebratory trumpets are blaring in my head so loudly, I barely hear the school secretary's voice as she drones over the intercom system. Something about the results from today's election.

But I don't dare pull out of this cocoon of reunited relationship bliss. I can't even bring myself to care when she announces that Rhiannon and I lost by an even bigger landslide than yesterday.

Because I've already won.

 

Daydream Believer

3:30 p.m.

Detention is not as bad as I thought it would be. It's
worse
. I imagined it would be more like
The Breakfast Club
, where we get to sit in the library and talk about our feelings. But no. We're forced to work. We actually have to spend the whole hour picking up trash around the school. It's humiliating.

When this reality show is over, I'm going to have a serious talk with the producers.

Because this is unacceptable.

When the clock finally inches its way to four-thirty, I drop the trash bag I'm carrying into the nearest bin and make a mad dash outside to the softball field. I don't even have time to change, which means I'm not only going to have to convince Coach to let me try out, but I'm also going to have to convince him that I can run bases in ballerina flats.