A Week of Mondays (6 page)

“Yeah. I did. Back when my biggest problem was a B minus on a calculus test and my sister's Urban Dictionary obsession. My life is over now.
Over
. I can never show my face out there ever again.”

Now the tears are falling for a third time. Gosh, who opened the floodgates today?

I don't understand. Yesterday my life was amazing. And just like that, it's turned into total cow plop.

I grab for another paper towel and dab at my nose.

“Let me see,” Owen says.

“What?” I turn, and before I can react, Owen's hands are on my cheeks, holding me still. His face lingers close to mine. Closer than I think we've ever been before. I glance down. His eyes are determinedly focused on my swollen lips, his brows knitted in concern. I'm actually surprised by how warm his hands are. Did he stick them in his armpits before he came in here, or are they always that warm? I've known him for seven years. How come I've never noticed the temperature of his hands before?

“I think the swelling's going down,” he assesses, sounding remarkably like a doctor.

His eyes drift up and, for a brief moment, land on mine. I can see the tiny flecks of brown in the green. I never noticed
that
before either.

It's weird, yet oddly not weird, to be this close to Owen.

And then it feels weird that it's
not
weird.

Owen suddenly seems to become aware of our proximity and steps back, his warm fingers sliding from my face.

“Thanks,” I mumble lamely, and look away.

He takes an exaggerated deep breath and glances around the bathroom. “So
this
is what it looks like in here?”

“Does it live up to your fantasies?”

He scowls. “Only pervs fantasize about the girls' bathroom.”

“So you're calling yourself a perv?”

He flashes me a mischievous grin.

And just like that, we're back to being us.

“I don't get it,” I complain. “What is it about the girls' bathroom that's so enticing? It's not like we come in here, strip off all our clothes, and dance naked together.”

“Shhh,” Owen whispers desperately. “You're ruining it.”

“People
pee
in here. Among
other
things.”

“La la la!” Owen sings, covering his ears. “I'm not listening!” He waits to make sure I've finished talking and then slowly lowers his hands.

“Sometimes I come in here and it smells
so
bad it's like a rhinoceros took a huuuuge—”

“LA LA LA LA!”
His hands fly to his ears again.

I laugh. Owen watches me, his face breaking into a beatific grin as his hands lower once more.

“What?” I ask, tilting my head.

“You're laughing.”

I scoff. “Yeah, because you're acting like an idiot.”

“Mission accomplished.”

 

I Can't Help Myself

1:50 p.m.

The bell rings and Owen ducks out of the bathroom before anyone wanders in. I take a few minutes to collect myself. The swelling hasn't completely gone down but it's definitely chilled out a bit, thanks to the Benadryl. Now it just looks like I'm addicted to lip-plumping gloss, as opposed to looking like I just got out of the ring of a heavyweight boxing championship.

If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.

I comb my fingers through my hair, trying to give it a bit of lift. It's still limp and yarnlike from my jaunt in the rain this morning. But really, the only thing that needs help right now is my attitude.

Owen is right. I need to snap out of it. Change my mood.

I remove the index cards from my back pocket, rip them in half, and toss the pieces ceremoniously into the trash can, watching them scatter like giant snowflakes against the black liner, landing among the other discarded items.

Rhiannon's speech. In the trash where it belongs.

I swipe on my phone and press Play on the song that I so rudely dismissed.

The Association continues cheerfully crooning about Windy and her stormy eyes, and I try to let the music lift me. Eyeing the door to make sure it doesn't burst open, I even bounce a few times along with the bubbly tune. I once watched a documentary about how dancing actually has the ability to alter people's emotional states. For a minute there, it seems to be working. I can feel my heart lightening.

Then I hear the school secretary's voice come over the loudspeaker. “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office.”

I stare up at the ceiling and throw my hands in the air. “Really?”

How on earth did I end up on the universe's hit list today?

Just like that, my mood slumps again. I turn off the music and slip my phone back into my pocket. Then I wait for the seventh-period bell to ring. If I have to go back out there, it's not going to be during rush hour.

1:56 p.m.

“Hello! You must be Ellison!” The guidance counselor jumps from his chair as I walk in and sit down across from him. He's a ruddy-faced middle-aged man who is wearing an actual bow tie. He offers me a seat before noticing that I've already taken one. He attempts to slyly turn his outstretched hand into a hair check. “Great to see ya. Really swell. I'm Mr. Goodman. But you can call me Mr.
Great
man, if you want.” He guffaws at his own joke and then swats it away with his hand. “Just joshin' ya! So how ya doing? Ya holding up okay?”

“I'm fine,” I mumble.

“Well, that's good. Just swell. Really swell. Now, let's get down to business. Junior year. It's a toughie, am I right? Or am I
riiight
?”

Did he just wink? I think he just winked.

Now he's staring at me, expecting me to answer. I worry he might actually hold that disturbing clownlike grin until I reply.

“Yep,” I say, forcing a smile. “A toughie.”

He chuckles heartily, his trimmed mustache actually oscillating.

“And don't forget about those colleges! It's time to start thinking about your future.” He says “your future” in an obnoxious chewed-up baby voice. Then he makes two pistols with his fingers and shoots them in my direction. “Pow! Pow!”

Am I supposed to play dead?

“That's actually why I called you in here,” he continues, growing serious. “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?”

“Uh,” I stammer. “Not really.”

“Well, ticktock, ticktock! Time's a runnin' out.”

He opens a file on his desk and skims it with his finger. “Let's see here. Well, well, you've been a busy bee—4.0 GPA, three AP classes this year, junior varsity softball, running for vice president, honor society.” He closes the folder with a pat. “I don't know how you do it. When do you ever find time for yourself?”

I scowl, not understanding the question. “What do you mean? I do all of that for myself.”

He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Do ya?”

What is that supposed to mean?

“Look,” he says with a sigh. “I saw your election speech, and to be honest, I think you might be a
tad
overloaded.” He puts a funny accent on
loaded
making it sound like
looded.

“I'm fine,” I say, somewhat snappishly. “Today has just been a little rough.”

He shrugs and turns toward a massive display of pamphlets that covers the entire back wall of his office. He plucks a green one from somewhere in the middle and sends it sliding across the desk to me, like an air hockey puck. “Why don't you take a gander at this when you get a chance?”

I reach out and hesitantly take it. On the front it reads:

You 101: A Guide to Acing the Hardest Subject of All

and it features a picture of a preppy-looking girl walking through a field with her arms outstretched, like she's welcoming an alien spacecraft.

Okaaaay.

“Great,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “This is
super
helpful. Thank you, Mr. Goodman. Uh …
Great
man.”

He guffaws and does the lame swat move again. “Go on and get out of here, ya little scamp.”

He doesn't have to tell me twice.

2:14 p.m.

The receptionist in the counseling office gives me a pass to seventh period. I pop into the library to print yet another copy of my extra-credit paper as the first two were destroyed by water and peanut butter. Then I suffer through the last hour of English class.

After the final bell of the school day rings, I swing by my locker to drop off my stuff before heading to the locker rooms to change for softball tryouts. I keep an eye out for Tristan but he's nowhere to be seen.

Is he avoiding me? Or just busy?

I haven't spoken to him since lunch, and after that horribly embarrassing speech I gave (if you can even call it a speech) I'm worried he'll want nothing to do with me.

The school secretary comes over the speaker system while I'm stuffing my schoolbag into my locker. “Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today's election.”

I drum my fingers anxiously on the edge of the locker. Not that I'm expecting anything. Not that I even have the right to expect anything after that humiliating experience.

“First off,” the secretary continues, “the cheerleaders would like to thank you for supporting their bake sale today. They raised over one thousand dollars!”

Well, I'm glad my poisoning wasn't for nothing.

“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
!”

Rent
! Oh, I love that musical! I've sung “Take Me or Leave Me” in the shower so many times, my shampoo bottle probably knows all the words by now.

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

I stand up a little straighter and tilt my ear toward the ceiling. She announces the results of the freshman and sophomore classes before finally getting to the juniors.

“In a landslide victory, claiming a whopping 89 percent of the vote, the junior class president and vice president are Kevin Hartland and Melissa O'Neil!”

I slam my locker door closed.

Everyone knows that Mondays are the armpit of the week, but I'm telling you, this one really takes the cake.

3:35 p.m.

Coach slaps a batting helmet onto my head and gives me a friendly pat on the back. “Look, I know you field like an all-star,” he says, “but your batting average last year was not up to varsity standards.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing a bat. “But I've been practicing all summer. I'm better this year.”

Okay, this isn't
technically
true. My dad and I did go to the batting cage a few times in June, but I spent most of my time with Tristan and his band. Coach doesn't need to know the specifics though. I just need to wow him right here, right now.

I need a win today. Any win.

“I'll have Rainier pitch you a few. Show me what you can do.”

I step up to the plate and take a few practice swings.

Focus, Ellie
, I tell myself.
You don't get another chance. This is it.

Jordan Rainier, the starting varsity pitcher, winds up and delivers me a fastball. I smash it easily. It goes sailing above the third baseman's head and drops to the ground. I let out a sigh of relief.

“Good,” Coach calls from the sidelines. “Again.”

Another fastball.
BAM!
Another solid hit.

Coach signals to Jordan, tapping the inside of his elbow twice and then tugging at his ear. “One more fastball,” he tells her.

Jordan winds up and the ball comes hurtling toward me, slowing just as it flies over the plate. I swing a second too soon, nearly stumbling from my missed swing.

That wasn't a fastball. That was a changeup. He tricked me.

I hear Coach clucking his tongue. “Listen to the ball, Sparks! Not my voice!”

I nod. “No problem.”

He signals to the pitcher again. I try to tune it out.

Listen to the ball.

Jordan coils up again. I watch her body language, noticing the shift in her stance as she unwinds. It's different from the last three pitches. A curveball. But curving which way?

The ball comes at me, blindingly fast. I blink, missing the trajectory. I swing at air as the softball whizzes by my left ear. I bash the ground with my bat.

That's okay.
I hear my dad's voice in my head.
You've got the next one.

But Coach claps his hands twice. “Good work, Rainier.”

“Can I have one more try?” I beg. “Please?”

He shakes his head regretfully and I can tell the news is not good. “The JV team still needs a good fielder like you.” Then he slaps me on the back and turns away. “There's always next year.”

 

The First Cut Is the Deepest

7:02 p.m.

As I make my way to the fairgrounds, I blast “Ticket to Ride” by the Beatles over my car stereo. It's not on any of my playlists but it seems appropriate.

The house was quiet when I left. Both my parents were still at work and my sister had been locked in her room since I got home from school. I was grateful for the calm. I didn't want to have to explain to anyone—least of all my dad—that I had bombed my softball tryouts … and pretty much every other aspect of this day.

I park my car and check my hair and makeup in the mirror. I decided to start from scratch. I showered and picked out an entirely new outfit. I'm ready to save my relationship. If a romantic night at a carnival can't convince Tristan he's still in love with me, then I don't know what will.