A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

I groan. I don’t really want to rehash it, but I know Owen won’t leave me alone until I spill. “His phone.”

  “You had a fight about his phone?” Comprehension flashes on his face. “Oh. Let me guess. He has an Android operating system and you have Apple. It’s a compatibility issue. You’ll never get along. You may as well just end it now.”

  I give him another slug. “No. It was what was on his phone.”

  He cocks a scandalized eyebrow. “Now I’m really interested.”

  “Not that, you perv. Snapchats. From girls. While we were trying to watch a movie.”

  He shrugs. “So?”

  “So?!”

  “He’s a musician. In a semipopular local band.”

  I exhale loudly. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Well, you know, minus the ‘semipopular’ part. And I know. I know. It was something I told myself I’d have to deal with when we started going out. And normally, I’m able to suppress it. But last night, I kind of just snapped.”

  “You Snapchat Snapped?”

  Owen finds this incredibly amusing. I do not. He wipes the smile from his face. “Sorry. Good joke. Bad timing. Withdrawn.”

  “Anyway,” I go on, “we got into a huge fight. I told him I didn’t like the attention he gets from girls. He accused me of overreacting. It went on and on and then I threw a garden gnome at his head.”

  Owen’s jaw drops. “You did what?”

  “It wasn’t a heavy one,” I say, defending myself. “It was mostly full of air. It didn’t even hit him. I missed. It hit the paved walkway and broke.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for your softball tryouts today.”

  I feel myself deflate. “Now he wants to talk.”

  Owen sucks in air through his teeth. The sound puts me on edge.

  “I’m doomed, aren’t I?” I ask. “He’s going to break up with me, isn’t he?”

  He takes a beat too long to answer. “No.” Then after seeing my doubtful face, he repeats the word with more conviction. “No! It’ll be fine. He probably just wants to talk about … you know … replacing his garden gnome. His mother is undoubtedly pissed that you broke it.”

  This makes me laugh. It feels good. I’m suddenly glad I confided in Owen.

  “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys fades away and “Do You Believe in Magic” by the Lovin’ Spoonful comes on. Owen turns up the volume.

  “Do you really think it’ll be okay?” I ask. Despite how much I love this song, my voice still breaks with uncertainty.

  “Do you believe in magic?” Owen asks me in return, half speaking, half singing the question.

  “Thanks, that’s reassuring.”

  His eyes light up. “Oh! Speaking of!” He digs into his backpack by his feet and produces two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies. “I was so distracted by your shambled life I almost forgot about our Monday morning ritual.”

  Owen buses tables at the Tasty House Chinese restaurant on Sundays for extra cash. And he makes a lot of it. I think it’s his irresistible baby face and the boyish charm he turns on when he refills water glasses. Customers set aside additional tips just for him. He’s been bringing us fortune cookies on Monday mornings ever since he started working there.

  “Choose your tasty fortune,” he trills.

  I admit, the familiarity of the gesture does wonders for my frayed nerves. I hover my hand over the two cookies, wiggling my fingers majestically, before finally opting for the one on the left. Owen unwraps the remaining one and cracks open the crisp shell.

  “If your desires are not extravagant,” he reads aloud from the tiny piece of paper tucked inside, “they will be granted.”

  He snorts and crumples up the fortune, tossing it into my backseat. “My desires are always extravagant.” He pops the pieces of cookie in his mouth and chomps down. “Your turn.”

  I unwrap mine and bust it open. The small strip of paper reads:

  Today you will get everything your true heart desires.

  Owen leans in to read over my shoulder. “That sounds promising.”

  I fold up the paper and slip it into the side pocket of my door. Then I throw the car into drive and pull onto the street. “I sure hope so,” I mumble.

  But Owen is barely listening. He’s too busy singing along—completely off-key—to the song. “I’ll tell you about the magic. It’ll free your soul.”

  You Better Slow Your Mustang Down

  8:10 a.m.

  As I pull to a stop at the corner of Owen’s street and Providence Boulevard, I lean forward and scowl up at the gray sky. “I really hope it stops raining before the carnival tonight. Tristan and I are supposed to have this big romantic date and the rain will totally ruin it.”

  Owen ignores my lamenting. He usually does when Tristan is the subject line. “Did you ever get around to watching the season premiere of Assumed Guilty?” he asks.

  I avert my eyes in shame. “I have it DVR’d,” I offer as if this redeems me, even though I know it doesn’t.

  Assumed Guilty is our favorite legal drama. We usually watch it live and text each other during the commercials, but last night I missed our weekly screening party because I was busy throwing fairy-tale creatures at my boyfriend’s head.

  Owen bangs his fist on the dashboard. “Bollocks! You need to get on that.”

  “And you need to stop saying things like ‘bollocks’!”

  “You missed the best episode.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll watch it tonight,” I promise.

  “You just said you’re going to the carnival tonight.”

  “I’ll watch it after.”

  Owen looks out the rain-splattered window. “No you won’t,” he mumbles.

  I don’t think he meant for me to hear but I do. And the guilt punches me in the stomach. Just another thing on my overly crowded plate that I can’t keep up with. The truth is, ever since I started dating Tristan at the end of last year, I haven’t had a ton of extra time to do much of anything, including keep up with Owen’s and my busy television schedule. Tristan’s band had almost nonstop gigs this summer and I volunteered to help with promotion. It only made sense. I’m more organized than any of the band members. When I found out they didn’t even have a mailing list, and Jackson, the drummer, asked me how to “tweet the Instagram,” well, it was just easier to do it myself than try to explain the art of Internet marketing to a group of musicians who call themselves Whack-a-Mole.

  But hanging out with Tristan and his band meant I had to pass up my usual summer job as a counselor at Camp Awahili with Owen.

  “Sorry,” I tell him again because I don’t know what else to say. And I really do mean it. I hate letting Owen down. “Wanna give me a hint about what happened?” I ask, trying to appeal to one of his biggest weaknesses: dishing out spoilers. Owen loves being the one who spoils surprises. I think it makes him feel omniscient or something. But don’t ever try to do it back to him. He’ll rugby-style tackle you to the ground before you can even utter a single syllable. I made this mistake a while back when his copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows got lost in the mail and I was able to read it first.

  “Did Olivia finally get it on with that death row inmate?”

  Owen crosses his arms. “Nope. You’re not getting any spoilers from me.”

  “C’mon. Just a little sneak peek. How about I say something and you blink twice if it’s—”

  “Yellow light,” Owen interrupts, nodding to the stoplight ahead of us.

  I look up, quickly gauging the distance to the intersection of Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation. My foot hesitates between the gas and the brake pedal. “I can make it.”

  Owen shakes his head. “You’ll never make it.”

  In a split decision, my foot plunges down on the accelerator. “Totally going to make it.”

  We sail through the intersection just as the signal turns red and I’m momentarily blinded by the flashes of light that surround the car like paparazzi stalking a celebrity.

 
“Told you,” Owen says smugly.

  “What was that?”

  “Red light cameras.”

  My chest hiccups. “You mean I’m going to get a ticket in the mail now?”

  “Yup.”

  “But I was already more than halfway through the intersection!”

  “Apparently not.” His voice is light. Almost singsongy.

  “Great,” I mumble. “Just what I need today.”

  He nods toward the door where I stashed my fortune. “Maybe that’s what your true heart desires.”

  “Yeah, my true heart desires to be grounded.”

  He cringes. “Your true heart is kind of a masochist.”

  They Call Me Mellow Yellow (Quite Rightly)

  8:24 a.m.

  Five minutes later, we pull into the school parking lot. I must have spent too long idling in Owen’s driveway griping about my fight with Tristan, because the only spots left are in the farthest row. It’s not until I open the car door and see a splotch of rain hit my cardigan that I remember I don’t have an umbrella.

  “You don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?” I call to Owen. He’s already out of the car, tilting his head back to catch rainwater in his mouth.

  “I thought you’d bring one,” he says without looking at me.

  I groan. “I didn’t.”

  “Ouch. And with school pictures today?”

  Dang it. I’d already forgotten about that. To be honest, I’m more worried about seeing Tristan than I am about my picture. Drowned Rat is not exactly the look I was going for when I give my big apology speech.

  Speech.

  Crap! I have to give my election speech today, too. This day is so not turning out the way I’d hoped. So much for good vibrations.

  I grab my schoolbag from the backseat and hold it up as a shield above my head. “You don’t seem too worried about your school picture.”

  He shrugs. “I’m a dude. My hair always looks good.”

  I hate to admit it, but it’s true. Owen could go through a car wash in a convertible and still come out the other end looking like he spent an hour in front of the mirror. Guys have it so much easier.

  I lock the car and walk around to his side. Owen laughs at my makeshift umbrella. “Run for it?” he suggests.

  I nod, and we take off into the rain.

  8:42 a.m.

  “Say ‘Two more years!’” the overly cheerful photographer chirps.

  I give a weak smile and she takes the picture.

  Why do people tell you to say stupid things when they’re taking your photo? I mean, beyond the age of three when you’re required to say “cheese” to ensure you’re not scowling or sticking out your tongue.

  Does this woman seriously think I’m going to say “two more years” for my school photo? Does she not realize what the word “years” would do to my lips? It would make me look like I was sucking face with an octopus.

  “Lovely,” she lies, and then calls, “Next!”

  I scoot off the stool and walk to the other end of the cafeteria where the rest of Mr. Briggs’s chemistry class is waiting. Of course we would be the first group called in for photos. I didn’t have a single spare moment to go to the bathroom to fix my hair. By the time Owen and I made it in from the rain, the first-period warning bell was already ringing and I had to head straight to class.

  I manage to catch a peek at the photographer’s viewfinder as I pass, and oh my God, it’s more horrifying than I thought. My eyes are totally bloodshot from the rain. My makeup has smeared. My hair looks stringy and limp, like a kindergartner attached it to my head with Elmer’s glue.

  Fortunately I won’t see Tristan until next period, and I should have time to duck into the bathroom and touch up before then. I need to look perfect when I see him. Or, at the very least, presentable.

  9:50 a.m.

  As soon as the bell rings, I jam my earbuds into my ears and scroll through my playlists until I find the one I want. “Mood Altering Substances.”

  The soothing sound of Donovan crooning “Mellow Yellow” floods into my ears and I feel myself relax somewhat. I keep my head down as I navigate through the crowd toward the girls’ bathroom, but a tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I spin around to find—

  Oh, please no.

  This is not happening. It was not supposed to go down like this. I was supposed to look breezy and happy-go-lucky and, above all else, nonfrightening when I first saw him today. Not like I just walked out of the House of Horrors.

  I rip my earbuds out and do my best to sound cheerful. “Tristan!”

  God, he looks gorgeous today. His dark blond hair is all tousled and oh-so-touchable. He’s wearing the faded loose-fit jeans and black leather jacket combo that I love. Although to be fair, he pretty much wears that every day.

  He’s staring at my face like he’s trying to decipher an ancient Egyptian scroll. “Are you trying out for the play?”

  Ouch.

  I dab uselessly at the skin under my eyes. “No. I was just … it was the rain. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I was on my way to the bathroom to clean up.”

  Remember. You are drama free. You are the embodiment of chill.

  “I mean, not that I care,” I add quickly. “What’s a little rain, right?”

  “Right,” he agrees, hitching the strap of his guitar case up his shoulder.

  “I just hope it clears up before tonight.”

  Confusion is back on his face. “What’s tonight?”

  I wince inwardly. Did he forget?

  “The town carnival?” I remind him. “Tonight’s the last night.”

  I’ve only been looking forward to it since I was ten years old. Okay, so I didn’t actually know Tristan when I was ten. He moved to our town freshman year. The carnival comes to town every year for two weeks. I’ve been going to it since I was a kid, and when I was ten I saw this couple there who looked so head-over-heels in love with each other, I kind of became obsessed with them. I followed them around all night, tracking their date like a private investigator.

  I looked on whimsically as they held hands in line for the rides. I smiled a goofy smile as he won her the biggest stuffed animal at the ring toss game. I swooned when they sat down to share a milk shake and he reached across the table to cup her face in his hands, like he was trying to hold her together. I got a crick in my neck following their progress on the Ferris wheel (a ride I’ve still never gone on due to my paralyzing fear of heights). Then, when their car paused at the top and they shared a moonlight kiss, all I could think was I want that.

  I want to be in love like that.

  To this day, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed.

  But until five months ago, I’d never actually had a boyfriend to go to the carnival with.

  “We’re still going, right?” I ask, cringing at how whiny my voice sounds. Maybe I really am turning into a drama queen.

  He nods, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere. “Sure. Sounds fun.” He clears his throat. “So, that thing. Last night. I thought we could talk about it.”

  Oh God, he wants to do this now? Here? While I’m looking like this?

  I take a deep breath. Time to defuse a bomb. “Yeah, I wanted to talk about it, too. Look, I’m so sorry about that. I completely overreacted. It’s all my fault. And I’ll totally buy your mom a new garden gnome.”

  This makes him smile and I feel my throat loosening.

  Am I doing it? Am I smoothing things over?

  I charge on, talking so fast I barely even know what I’m saying anymore.

  “I was hungry. And tired. And stressed about the election today. I really think that’s what it was. You know, I’m not usually like that. I’m usually totally fine with all the girls. I mean, I am fine with all the girls. I mean, not like for you to make out with them or anything. But you know, talking to them and doing your … rock star thing.” I raise my hands in the air and wiggle my fingers to illustrate my point.

  Wait. Did I just do j
azz hands?

  Moving on.

  “I wish we could forget the whole thing and pretend like it didn’t happen. And—”

  “Oh, yeah,” he interrupts, his expression shifting to something unreadable. “I forgot about that.”

  “What?”

  “The election. That’s today, isn’t it?”

  Is he still hung up on that part? How fast was I talking?

  “Yes. There’s a school assembly during homeroom. I have to give my speech.”

  He taps his fingers against the strap of his case. “Huh.”

  Huh?

  What does “huh” mean?

  “So do you think we can do that?” I ask, pressing on. “Forget this whole thing ever happened and start fresh? I’m really, really sorry.”

  The bell rings.

  “We better get to class,” Tristan says.

  Was that a yes?

  He grabs my hand and interlaces his fingers with mine. The warmth of his flesh does more to calm me than any song in any of my stupid playlists. I want to live inside those beautiful strong hands of his. Sometimes when I watch him strum his guitar on stage, or when he’s practicing with the band, I get lost in the movement of his fingers. Like I’m in a trance.

  And don’t get me started on his wrists.

  As we walk hand in hand toward Spanish class, I almost manage to forget the atrocity that is my face. That is, until we step inside the classroom and Señora Mendoza does a double take in my direction. Then she shakes her head, as if to say, “Kids these days! Who can understand them?”

  We take our usual seats in the back row as Señora Mendoza starts conjugating the future tense of the verb ver on the whiteboard. I pull a piece of notebook paper from my binder, scribble “Are we good?” and slide it onto Tristan’s desk.

  He glances down, then winks at me, causing my heart to puddle on the floor. “Yeah,” he whispers.

  But there’s something about the way he turns his attention back to the front of the class—the speed at which he breaks eye contact—that makes me doubt the sincerity of the word. Am I being paranoid or has he suddenly taken a very unusual interest in Spanish verb conjugations?

  Then just as Señora Mendoza is in the middle of saying “Nosotros veremos”—we will see—a loud thunk startles me out of my thoughts.