A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

  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.

  Just as I suspected, the tryouts are winding down when I finally make it out to the field, huffing and puffing from my sprint.

  “Coach,” I pant, my hands on my knees. “I’m here. I’m ready to try out.”

  He gives me a once-over, taking in my jeans and sweater. “Sparks,” he begins in that you’re-not-going-to-like-what-I-have-to-say tone. “I—”

  “Please,” I beg him before he has a chance to finish. “I have to do this. I have to make varsity this year. My dad…” I pause to catch my breath. “… is counting on me. I’m ready. I can do it.”

  I watch pity and compassion cloud his expression as he glances at the girls coming in from the outfield. “I’m sorry, Ellie. But the JV team still needs a good fielder like you.” He slaps me on the back and turns away. “There’s always next year.”

  I wouldn’t bet on it, I want to say in return as I trudge off the field. There may not even be a tomorrow.

  It’s the Same Old Song

  8:12 p.m.

  Jackson beats his drumsticks together four times, kicking the next song of the set into gear. The space around the stage is packed with people writhing to the music. I’ve never seen Tristan look so radiant before. He’s practically glowing up there, and his glow makes me glow. It’s a contagious glow. Especially when I think about how I’m the reason he’s up there. It’s because of me that he got the gig. Sure, I got detention as a trade-off and I wasn’t able to turn in my extra-credit paper for English, but seeing him up there, crooning into the mic, sweat dripping down his forehead, pounding on his guitar like he’s going to blow the strings right off—well, it’s worth it.

  I stand in the front row of the massive crowd and let my body be moved by the music. Tristan catches my eye for the third time since the set started and I beam back at him, bobbing my head to the beat. When we first started dating and he took me to a gig, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d never been to a live rock show before. Most of the musicians I love are dead or no longer performing. I stood in the back and watched everyone. Like a sociologist observing an indigenous tribe with crazy, archaic rituals. That’s how it felt. It was so foreign to me. So intimidating. And yet so fascinating at the same time. I was a stranger in a strange land with even stranger customs.

  I lingered in the back and played scientist. I loved watching the people almost as much as I loved watching Tristan. The way they responded to him. The way they all absorbed the beat of the song, like they’d contracted a rhythmic airborne virus. Half of these people had undoubtedly never heard his music before, yet they were pulsing to it like it was their own heartbeat.

  That’s what Tristan’s music does to people.

  It moves them.

  Literally.

  I fell in love with Tristan while he was on that stage. I fell in love with how effortlessly he won them all over.

  By the second show, I was right there in front. A convert. A member of the tribe. I wore the sacred uniform, I danced the secret dance, my mouth learned how to form the ritualistic sounds.

  I became a true fan.

  I admit, Whack-a-Mole’s music is still not my favorite in the world. The guitars are a little too rough. The bass lines a little too piercing. The melodies a little too hard to follow. But I’ve learned to appreciate it. At least it doesn’t sound like noise to me anymore. That’s probably because I know all the lyrics by heart now and can sing every single song in the shower.

  The song finishes with a climactic drum riff leading up to Tristan’s solo on the guitar. The crowd goes nuts. I jump up and down, clapping wildly and screaming with the rest of the diehards.

  “Okay, we have one more song for you tonight,” Tristan pants into the mic, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from his forehead. “This one is dedicated to the girl who got us this gig. Thank you for being so freaking awesome, Ellie Sparks.”

  The band launches into the song and I immediately recognize the slow openi
ng riff of “Mind of the Girl.” It’s one of their newer songs—an upbeat punk pop track—and it was an instant fan favorite the first time they played it. Tristan wrote it the week after he met me.

  And now he’s playing it.

  That has to be a good sign, right?

  That has to mean that I’ve successfully changed the outcome of this day. How can he dedicate a song to me—a song written about me—and still plan on breaking up with me?

  The heavy guitars drop out and Tristan steps up to the mic, softly breathing the first verse into the mic.

  “She.

  She laughs in riddles I can’t understand.

  She.

  She talks in music I can’t live without.”

  Holy crap, he’s hot up there. He’s like a rock god. His hands caressing the strings of that guitar, his forehead glistening with sweat (do gods sweat?). Every girl in this crowd is ogling him, wishing she could be the one he comes to when he steps off that stage. And yet it’s me—ME!—he’s hanging out with tonight. I’m the one who gets the man when the god puts his guitar away.

  Or at least I hope I still am.

  I hope that yesterday was just a fluke. That today will end differently. With Tristan and me kissing at the top of that Ferris wheel.

  Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe. It’s been five months and I still feel the need to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Pretty much every girl in our school has been in love with Tristan since the moment he moved to this town freshman year. Since before he even formed his band. There was just something about him. I don’t know if it was his confidence, his laid-back, worry-free attitude about everything, his looks, but people just felt drawn to him. Even the teachers. There’s something simply magnetic about Tristan Wheeler.

  Most new kids walk into their first day at a new school with fear hunching their shoulders and uncertainty diverting their gazes to the floor. But not Tristan. He walked down that hallway like he already owned it. He stepped into my first-period class like he’d already aced it. With his guitar strapped to his chest and his dark blond hair falling into his eyes. When he pronounced his name to the teacher—Tristan Wheeler—I swear I heard even the walls sigh.