A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

  Monday, September 26.

  The tingling in my stomach turns to full-grown schizo butterflies.

  How is that possible?

  Did the update mess up her phone, too?

  I grab the device from her and turn it around in my hand, studying the construction from all angles. It’s a completely different model than mine. Then I stare intently at the screen, blinking several times.

  The date does not change.

  What on earth is going on?

  “Excuse me,” Daphne says hotly, snatching the phone back. The bell rings, ending fifth period, and even though the entire class leaps out of their seats, I can’t bring myself to move.

  The screen of Daphne’s phone is ingrained in my mind.

  Monday.

  It’s still Monday.

  But it can’t be Monday.

  I dive for my bag and rifle around until I find my own phone. I turn it on and stare at the calendar app.

  Monday, September 26.

  I go to CNN.com, Yahoo.com, even Time.gov, which is run by the United States government. Every single one of them confirms what my brain does not want confirmed.

  Today is Monday, September 26.

  But things happened yesterday. A lot of things. Awful things. The banana bread and the election speeches and the softball tryouts and Tristan’s messages.

  My fingers fly across the screen until I find the texts from this morning.

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

  Tristan: Let’s talk today.

  It was the exact same thing he texted me yesterday.

  Yesterday.

  Also Monday.

  I hastily scroll up, searching for the identical messages, but there’s nothing. All I find is the text from Sunday afternoon, when he invited me to his house to hang out. Before we had the big fight and I threw a garden gnome at his head.

  Ellie, we had a fight.

  Those were Tristan’s words to me today. Monday. He swore he never broke up with me. He acted like yesterday never happened.

  And now that I think about it, everyone has been acting like yesterday never happened.

  My dad asked me about softball tryouts.

  Owen offered me fortune cookies.

  Mr. Henshaw said it was an “odd day” even though everyone knows Tuesdays are even days.

  That bird hit the window.

  Mr. Weylan gave us the same quiz.

  But I was there. I lived through that dreadful day. It was real. I didn’t just make it all up. I don’t think I could have made up a day that awful if I tried. Stephen effing King couldn’t have dreamed up that horror.

  But if today is Monday, then what happened to yesterday?

  Where did it all go?

  Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

  12:40 p.m.

  What if Daphne was right? What if it is drugs? What if I’ve been drugged and I don’t even know it? I shouldn’t have taken that ibuprofen last night. It was probably laced with hallucinogenics or something. I once saw a documentary about a batch of ibuprofen that had to be recalled because they found traces of meth in it. Meth!

  Come to think of it, how long have I had that bottle in my medicine cabinet? Does ibuprofen ever go bad?

  My head is suddenly swimming. When I look up at the clock I notice that lunch is already half over. I leap out of my seat and shuffle to the door.

  Mr. Weylan seems to notice my lingering presence for the first time and startles when I approach. “Oh, oh,” he fumbles, collecting himself. “Ellison. Did you have a question?”

  I smile politely. “No, Mr. Weylan. Thank you.”

  He blinks back at me through those massive bottle-glasses of his.

  I head straight for the library and burst through the doors just as Owen is making an impassioned case about the narrator of The Book Thief. He sees me and smiles. “Are you finally joining book club?”

  I don’t answer. I grab his arm and yank him out of his chair, pulling him up the stairs and barricading us in one of the tiny recording booths.

  “Um…” Owen says warily.

  “Something is happening to me.”

  “Okaaaay.” He elongates the word like he’s afraid if he ends it too soon, I might snap.

  “I think I might have brain damage.”

  He cracks a smile. “Well, I could have told you that.”

  “I’m serious, Owen,” I say, and he schools his face. “I’m losing it. I’m going crazy. Today, I woke up and it was yesterday. I mean, yesterday is actually today. It’s the same stupid day. It’s happening all over again. Everything. The fortune cookies. The history test. The school pictures.”

  He can’t hold his serious face any longer. He breaks into a knowing grin. “Did you finally watch Groundhog Day like I’ve been telling you to do for years?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “No. Listen to me. I. Am. Losing. My. Mind.”

  He’s so much taller than me, he has to bend down to get eye-level. “Your pupils are a bit dilated.”

  “Because I’m freaking out!”

  Gurgloomph.

  Owen gives me a strange look. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was that your stomach?”

  “No.”

  Gurglooooeeeooomph.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  I think back to the pieces of bread I toasted this morning. The peanut butter is probably smeared all over the bottom of my bag again.

  I look away. “Not technically.”

  “Well, there’s your problem.” He grabs me by the wrist, opens the door, and leads me back into the library. The entire book club has stopped their discussion and is now staring at us.

  I break free from Owen’s grasp but he doesn’t stop walking. “C’mon, Looney Toons, we’re taking you to get something to eat.”

  I follow Owen obediently out of the library and down the hall. We get to the cafeteria just as the lunch lady shuts the metal grate, closing all access to the food line. Not that it’s a huge loss. The culinary selection in this place leaves much to be desired.

  A voice comes over a speaker. I immediately recognize the grating, shrill squeaks of Daphne Gray. “This is your last chance to support the cheer team and buy some delicious homemade goodies!”

  Owen turns his attention to the table set up in the corner where Daphne is speaking into a microphone under a sign that says BAKE’N’CHEER.

  “Bake sale,” he says, grabbing my wrist again and pulling me toward it. “Bingo. Come on, my treat. I’ll buy you some banana bread.”

  I pull to a halt. “Oh no. Nuh-uh. I’m not putting anything they make into my mouth.”

  Owen gives me a disapproving look. “Ellie. You need to let go of this grudge you have against cheerleaders. They’re just normal people.”

  “Normal people who poison you!”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday Daphne Gray told me there were no almonds in the banana bread and guess what! Almonds! My lips totally inflated!”

  “Yesterday was Sunday.”

  “No! Yesterday was today!”

  “You’re losing it.”

  I sigh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “It’s the stress,” he diagnoses. “You’ve been taking on too much lately. Are you nervous about the speech?”

  Speech?

  What speech?

  Oh, flub. The election speech. I have to do it again!

  This is officially my worst nightmare. The universe is punishing me. But for what? Not studying for my history test?

  Really, Universe? I’m the best you could do? You couldn’t find anyone more devious to torture?

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.

  I think I’m hyperventilating. I’ve never hyperventilated before, but I suddenly sound like a woman in labor.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Owen assures me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Where are your speech notes?”

  I p
at my back pocket but come up empty. “I … I threw them away.”

  He blinks rapidly. “Why would you do that?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Because I already gave the stupid speech yesterday!”

  “Okay,” he says, “take deep breaths. It’s going to be fine.”

  “How is it going to be fine? I don’t know what to say. I’m going to die up there. Again!”

  I have to sit down. No. I have to run. I have to get as far away from this death trap as possible. I glance at the cafeteria doors, watching the hundreds upon hundreds of students filing into the gym on the other side of the hallway. Then I glance at the back door, the one that leads to the parking lot.

  Yup. I’m so getting out of here.

  I turn to leave but a bony, pale hand is suddenly on my arm.

  “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Rhiannon Marshall’s steely blue eyes are trained on me.

  I barely have time to hand Owen my bag before Rhiannon is dragging me out the door. Toward my second demise of the week.

  I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

  1:33 p.m.

  “Running for vice president of the junior class, here’s Ellison Sparks, Sparks, Sparks, Sparks.” Principal Yates’s voice echoes in my ears as I step up to the microphone. The room is blurring in and out of focus. I look for Owen. He gives me an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up from the front row.

  I’m doomed and we both know it.

  I stand speechless and motionless, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe this is all a really bad dream. Maybe I’ll wake up in my bed and it’ll be Tuesday morning.

  I squeeze my eyes tight.

  Wake up, wake up, wake up!

  I hear tiny snickers spread through the crowd. This time, they’re not laughing at my blown-up lips, they’re laughing at me.

  I snap my eyes open. I’m still in the gym. The entire student body is still staring at me with expectant eyes. I find Tristan in the crowd. He’s looking very concerned. If I fainted, would he run up here? Would he carry me to the nurse’s office, knocking people out of his way like some war hero action film star?

  I clear my throat. “Hello,” I say. My voice sounds high and squeaky. I try a lower register. “Hello.”

  Whoa. Too low.

  “Hello.” Third time’s a charm.

  They’re already chuckling. I’ve barely even said anything. High school is the worst.

  “I’m Ellison Sparks and I’m running for junior class vice president.” I rack my brain trying to remember the speech Rhiannon wrote, but for the life of me, I can’t recall one horrible word.

  “Um,” I say haltingly. “I’m Ellison Sparks and I’m running for junior class vice president.”

  Crap. I already said that.

  Guffaws from the peanut gallery.

  “I’m sorry,” I continue shakily, “but this whole day has just been really, really weird.”

  Silence.

  Huh.

  They stopped giggling.

  I keep going. “Have you ever felt like you’re just stuck in the same exact day? Like yesterday never even happened?”

  I glance around. Some people actually seem interested. Tristan leans forward. Behind me, Rhiannon is hissing through gritted teeth. “What are you doing?”

  I look to Owen, who gestures for me to keep going.

  “Like we’re just running on an invisible hamster wheel and nothing we do makes any difference?”

  I catch sight of Mrs. Naper, the psychology teacher. She’s smiling and nodding emphatically.

  “That’s how I feel today. Like I’ve done this all before and I already know the outcome.”

  I swallow. I’m still surrounded by rapt silence. I’ve somehow managed to snag their attention.

  “You won’t vote for me and Rhiannon.” I point behind me to our opponents. “You’ll elect them. At least that’s how it happened before.”

  Now I think I’ve just confused everyone.

  Wrap it up, I scold myself.

  “But I hope today—this version of today—you’ll do it differently. Thank you.”

  I step away from the mic as the crowd breaks into tentative applause, like they’re not sure whether to clap or write me off as a wacko.

  “Well done, Ellison,” Principal Yates says, equally hesitant.

  I step back in line with the other candidates. I think all I’ve managed to do today is baffle everyone. It’s a political tactic I don’t think I’ve ever seen before, but at least I wasn’t laughed out of the gym this time. At least I’m not hiding in the girls’ bathroom right now.

  I don’t know about you, but I consider that a vast improvement.

  1:45 p.m.

  After the speeches are concluded, we’re sent back to our homeroom classes to cast our votes. I open my bag to pull out a pen and spot the peanut butter toast on the bottom, smashed between a textbook and the paper I spilled water on this morning.

  My extra-credit English essay.

  I get a sudden niggling suspicion about something.

  I open the interior Velcro pocket and hesitantly slip my hand inside. My stomach seizes as I pull out the carefully paper-clipped stack of index cards.

  The speech Rhiannon wrote for me.

  The one I had ripped up and tossed into the trash in the girls’ bathroom.

  Yet, here it is. Fully intact in my bag. Exactly where it was yesterday.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I stuff the cards back into the pocket. The bell rings. I quickly fill in the “Marshall/Sparks” bubble on my ballot and deliver it to the teacher’s desk.

  I’ve barely made it two steps into the hallway when the school secretary comes over the loudspeaker.

  “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office. Ellison Sparks to the counseling office, please.”

  Oh, thank GOD.

  Someone to talk to! Someone who is trained in the vastly complicated wasteland that is the teenage mind.

  I take off at a run. I barge into Mr. Goodman’s office and collapse into the chair.

  “Hello! You must be Ellison!” His voice is just as annoyingly chirpy as it was yesterday … or today … or whatever. “Great to see ya. Just really swell. I’m Mr. Goodman, but you can call me Mr. Greatman, 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 sigh dramatically and launch into my story. “No. I’m not. Not at all. Look, I really need to talk to someone and you’re the closest thing this school has to a shrink. You see, this morning I woke up and it was yesterday. I mean, it was today, but it was the same day as yesterday. I’ve been reliving the same Monday twice. And I don’t mean that every day feels like a Monday. I mean it’s the exact same day. Down to the stupid red light ticket that I got! And I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the ibuprofen I took last night that may or may not have been ibuprofen because I saw this documentary once about ibuprofen that’s not really ibuprofen and I thought, ‘What if my bottle of ibuprofen is one of those bottles that’s not really ibuprofen?’ Because who knows how long I’ve had that bottle in my medicine cabinet. I don’t know how long it takes for ibuprofen to turn into meth. And it’s not like I take a lot of ibuprofen. I’m not one of those hypochondriacs who thinks she’s dying all the time or that every headache is a brain tumor, but I do take ibuprofen occasionally, because you know, everyone has headaches. But I think whatever was in that bottle is causing some kind of crazy chemical reaction in my brain. I mean, it’s totally possible that today doesn’t really exist. That I’m not really here. That I’m sitting in a comatose state in my room, dreaming this whole thing up. But I don’t know, do you feel real?”

  I pause and suck in a huge breath. I think I just used up all the oxygen in the school.

  Mr. Goodman blinks hard at me. He takes his glasses off and gives his eyes a rub. I stare at him expectantly, waiting for his words o
f wisdom. Waiting for him to tell me that what I’m going through is perfectly normal. In fact, in this month alone, he’s seen three kids with the same exact problem.

  “Well,” Mr. Goodman begins, returning his glasses to his face. “This is a very interesting … um … dilemma you’re facing. A real toughie.”

  He swivels around in his chair and faces the giant display of pamphlets on the back wall. He scans them with his index finger, plucking an orange one from the bottom row and sliding it across the desk at me. “This should do the trick.”

  “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.