A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

  This conversation certainly went downhill fast.

  “I…” Tristan stammers. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  I flash him a mischievous smile, like this is all some big fancy surprise I’ve been cooking up for months. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough! Gotta run!” I give him a peck on the cheek. “Have fun at practice.”

  Then I book it down the hall, feeling Tristan’s eyes follow me the whole way.

  At least I’m holding his attention. That’s gotta count for something, right?

  Light My Fire

  12:42 p.m.

  I swing by the cafeteria to grab some food. No more giving important speeches on an empty stomach. I’ve learned that lesson twice.

  The cafeteria is a madhouse. This is why I never eat in here. Even before Tristan and I started dating and I began eating my lunches in the band room while he practiced, I always ate in the library.

  This place is like an introvert’s worst nightmare. If the sheer number of people stuffed into one place is not enough to make you cry inside, the roving, judging eyes should do the trick.

  I pay for my prewrapped sandwich and bottle of juice (hands down the safest options), and make a beeline for the exit. The less time I spend in here, the better for my complexion.

  I’m halfway to the door when a loud clatter echoes across the unforgiving tile. I turn to see a slender girl with creamy skin and raven-colored hair sprawled out on the floor, the contents of an overturned lunch tray scattered around her.

  The entire lunchroom stops to stare and I hate myself for doing the same thing. When the girl pushes herself up, I’m able to see her face but I don’t recognize her. I bet she’s new.

  I cringe inwardly. Falling flat on your face on your first day of school? Ouch.

  Has that happened the past two days as well? It must have. I just didn’t know about it because I wasn’t here to see it.

  I notice Cole Simpson—a guy with a permanent spot in detention—high-fiving some of his idiot friends. He was probably the one who tripped the poor girl.

  I take a step toward her, vowing to help her up and introduce myself, but I notice she’s already getting assistance from some guy who was sitting at a nearby table. As he bends down to help her scoop up her food, I see that the front of his shirt is covered in the chocolate pudding that was previously on her tray.

  Well, he seems to have everything under control. I tuck my juice under my arm and set off for the library.

  When I arrive, Owen is giving his same impassioned argument about Death as a narrator in The Book Thief, and I head up the stairs to the recording booths again.

  This time, I’m determined to get this speech right.

  I flip through the cards, reading each one carefully, and, for the first time, really absorbing what they say. Owen was right. This speech is pretty awful. But it’s not like I’m about to sit down and rewrite it twenty minutes before I’m scheduled to give it.

  The speech could use some punching up, though. It’s terribly vague. It really needs to include more specific ideas about how we’re going to improve the school, instead of just a lackluster promise to do it.

  I take a bite from my sandwich and keep reading. I have to admit, I’m slightly less sick at the thought of standing up in front of the entire school today. Having already done this twice and having failed both times, I find it considerably less intimidating. Maybe public speaking really does get easier with practice.

  I’ve just finished reading the entire stack of cards twice when the door to the tiny cubicle swings open and Owen ducks inside.

  “Whatcha doin’?” he asks, sidling up to me and glancing over my shoulder.

  “Practicing the most boring speech of all time.”

  He takes the cards from my hand and flips through them. “Whoa, this speech makes vanilla look like the flavor of the month.”

  I smile. That’s exactly what he said the last time he read these cards.

  “Rhiannon Marshall wrote it. I’m just doing her bidding like the good little puppet that I am.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Did you win?”

  He glances questioningly behind me. “Huh?”

  “Your epic debate about the movie versus the book? Did those pinheads see the error of their ways?”

  He grins impishly. “Always.” But then the smile slides from his face. “Wait, how did you know that’s what we were debating? Was I that loud? I thought these rooms were supposed to be soundproof.”

  For a moment I consider telling him again. I was able to convince him to believe me last night, I’d certainly be able to convince him now. But I’m not sure what difference it would make. Operation Boyfriend Recovery is headed for success. I’ve already managed to completely turn this day around. Owen doesn’t need to be dragged into my inexplicable cosmic drama.

  I shrug. “I just know you. That’s totally something you would debate. And you would be wrong. The real reason Death isn’t as powerful a narrator in the movie is because in the book, his voice was our own. Every reader was able to hear it as they believed it should be heard. The movie spoils that by literally giving Death a voice.”

  He cocks his head and looks at me, a lopsided half smile making its way onto his face. I suddenly become aware of how small this room is and how incredibly crowded it is with both of us in it. It’s not really meant for two people. It’s only meant for one person and a recording device.

  His eyes flash with sudden comprehension. “You cheeky monkey, you.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You read it.”

  “Read what?”

  “The Book Thief.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I tell him. “Why would I read that?”

  “Because you secretly want to join the book club but it would get in the way of your little lunch dates with Mr. Rock Star.”

  I make an awkward, overly drawn-out noise with my tongue that sounds something like puh-sush-uh-shush. “Uh. Objection. Relevance.”

  “Objection. Totally relevant.”

  “Objection. Badgering the witness.”

  “Objection. Failure to answer the question.”

  “You never asked a question!”

  He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Fine. Have you or have you not read The Book Thief?”

  I punctuate my one-syllable answer with a distinct head shake. “No.”

  “Objection. Lying.”

  “That’s not a real objection.”

  “We’re not in a real courtroom.”

  I huff. “Okay, whatever. I read it over the summer.”

  His eyes narrow at me. It’s his pressure-cooker look. It makes you feel like you’re locked in a vacuum-sealed container with no air and no escape, and if you don’t give him the answer he wants you’ll eventually explode.

  “Fine!” I say, exasperated. “I read it last week.”

  “What other book club books have you read and not told me?”

  I stuff my index cards into my pocket, crumple up my sandwich wrapper, and squeeze past Owen toward the door. I shove it open with my shoulder. “I don’t have time for this. I have a speech to give in, like, seven minutes.”

  He follows close behind. “Why don’t you just join the book club? I don’t understand.”

  “Because I don’t have time. And if Rhiannon and I win today”—I pause, correcting myself—“when. When Rhiannon and I win today, I’ll have even less time.”

  He tries to give me the pressure-cooker look again but I refuse to meet his gaze.

  “That’s total codswallop and you know it. Now tell me the real reason you won’t join book club. It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I squawk as we exit the library and take a left toward the gym. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. Tristan wouldn’t care if I joined book club.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Owen says. “But you do.”

  “Objection…” I start to say, but I can’t finish the sentence.

  “What?” Owen
prompts. “See, you can’t even think of anything, because it’s true.”

  I let out a deep sigh. I don’t have time for this right now, but apparently Owen has all the time in the world because he doesn’t let up.

  “You don’t want to commit to something that interferes with his band schedule. You want to be available for him at all times.”

  I scoff. “That’s so not true.”

  “It’s totally true. It’s why you dropped out of being a camp counselor with me this summer. It’s why you didn’t watch Assumed Guilty with me last night. Sometimes it seems like everything you do, you do for him.”

  “Owen,” I say, exasperated, holding my hand up and turning around. He smacks right into my palm. I’m actually surprised when I feel lines of definition under his shirt.

  Owen has pecs?

  Where did those come from?

  He certainly didn’t have those at the beginning of the summer when I last saw him in swim trunks.

  The unexpected discovery makes me lose my train of thought for a moment. I look down to see my hand is still on his chest. He looks down, too, then back up at me as if to say, “Now what do we do?”

  I quickly remove my hand.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I’ll have you know,” I chide him, “that I passed up an opportunity to do something for him just today because it would interfere with my schedule.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Owen crosses his arms over his chest and I find my gaze drifting down to his biceps, which are also bulkier than I remember.

  What did he do all day at camp? Lift weights?

  “Um,” I say, regaining my focus. “I found out the band that was supposed to play at the carnival tonight canceled and I could ditch school to go and get Whack-a-Mole the gig, but I’m not going to because I have other things to do.”

  And because I follow the Girl Commandments, I add silently in my head, worried that if I say it aloud, I’ll just sound like a brainwashed cult member.

  Owen rolls his eyes. “Oh, big deal.”

  I let out a loud huff and open my mouth to argue with him, but then quickly change my mind. “You know what? I can’t deal with this right now. I’m really worried about my speech. I need to concentrate and you’re stressing me out.”

  He drops his gaze to the floor. “Okay, sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry. It’s just a lifeless word on his lips.

  “I’m sorry”—I try—“but this election is really important to me and—”

  “Is it?” he interrupts. “Is it important to you?”

  “Yes! Why would I do it if it wasn’t?”

  Owen shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’d just like to see you live one day for yourself.”

  I’m so taken aback by his comment, I actually stumble backward. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means—” But he never finishes the thought. “You know what? Never mind. Good luck on your speech.”

  He steps around me and I watch in stunned disbelief as he takes off down the hall without me.

  There! I’ve Said It Again

  1:15 p.m.

  Well, perfect. Now I’m in a bad mood. Thanks a lot, Owen. He had to do that right before my speech? He couldn’t wait to bring up my life’s choices until, I don’t know, maybe after I had to stand in front of the entire student body and read the most boring election speech in the history of high school elections?

  I dig my earbuds out of my bag and jam them into my ears. I flip through the playlists on my phone until I find the new one I created this morning—“Brand-New World Order”—tap Shuffle and crank up the volume. Then I continue my march down the hall to the sound of “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies blasting in my ears. I need to get back to my confident Creature of Mystery state.

  The state that Owen so rudely crapped on with his sudden need to play psychiatrist.

  “There you are!” Rhiannon grabs my arm. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She drags me into the center of the gym. I pull my earbuds out and stick them back into my bag.

  “Did you practice your speech?”

  I pull the note cards out of my pocket. “Yeah, about that. I was thinking—”

  I can see the disapproving look on Rhiannon’s face as we position ourselves next to the other candidates.

  “I really like it,” I’m quick to start with. “The whole ‘we’re going to make this school a better place’ is great! I’m just wondering if maybe I should add some specific ideas of what we’re going to do to accomplish that. You know, like maybe—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Rhiannon looks like she swallowed a habanero pepper. “This is not going to be one of those campaigns.”

  “The kind that win?” I venture, and immediately regret saying it when I see the monster flash in Rhiannon’s eyes.

  “The kind,” she admonishes testily, “that uses fake promises and impossible changes that are only designed to win votes and that have no hope of ever getting done. This is an honest campaign. Not a popularity contest. We aren’t going to throw around words like ‘pizza’ and ‘karaoke’ just to get a cheer from the crowd.”

  I take a moment to glance around the gym. The bleachers are nearly full now as the kids continue to file in. The sea of faces is starting to look familiar. I don’t have to scan the entire gym for Tristan, I know exactly where he’s sitting. He gives me an encouraging smile.

  “Just stick to the script, okay?” Rhiannon finishes and I turn my attention back to her.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  Principal Yates steps up to the mic and settles everyone down. Instinctively, I look to the front row where Owen sat the last two times, ready to share a conspiratorial smirk with him, but he’s not there. I do a quick scan of the crowd but don’t see him.

  Is he even here?

  Is he so mad that he decided not to come?

  I feel a pang in my chest. Maybe I was too snappy in the hallway. He was probably just trying to help, like he always does. But if that’s the case, why did he attack me like that? We didn’t have a fight yesterday or the day before. Why this time?

  Was it because I slipped up and revealed that I had read the book? Did the whole argument escalate because of one stupid comment? Or was that just the key that unlocked the door to something he’s been holding in for a while?

  “And now, running for junior class vice president, please welcome Ellison Sparks, Sparks, Sparks.”

  Like yesterday, the applause is forced at best. I step up to the mic, gripping the index cards in my hands and continuing to search the crowd for Owen. For some reason, I don’t think I can start this until I know where he is. Until I can apologize with just a look the way only he and I can do.

  This is certainly not the first fight we’ve ever had. When you’re friends with someone for as long as we have been, you get into a few skirmishes from time to time. But for some reason, this feels bigger than that. Deeper, somehow.

  Is it because of Tristan?

  I sweep my gaze across the bleachers one last time but I see no sign of my best friend. My stomach feels like it’s full of lead. He’s not here. He didn’t even come. How could he abandon me like that?

  My eyes land on Tristan instead and he gives me a nod and another smile.

  That’s all I need.

  I take a deep breath, glance down at my cards, and begin speaking as clearly as I can into the mic.

  “Fellow students and members of the faculty. My name is Ellison Sparks and I’m running for junior class vice president. It is my great honor to stand up here today as a candidate and a fellow student and I…”

  Swap card.

  “… am excited about the things that my running mate, Rhiannon Marshall, and I have planned for the upcoming year. This is a great school.”

  The room erupts in groans and quiet complaints of dissension. Principal Yates silences them all with a single look.

  “A great school,” I start again. “But if you elect Rhiannon Marshall and me, we can make it
even better. Rhiannon is the kind of girl who gets things done. She has a vision for what this place can be and she’s not afraid of the hard work and commitment it will take to achieve that vision. When Rhiannon asked me to…”

  Swap card.

  “… join her campaign, I was overjoyed. The thought of working alongside such a visionary was both inspiring and invigorating.”

  I glance toward Rhiannon, standing off to the side. She’s smiling proudly at my words. Or rather her words.

  This speech really is awful. It sounds even worse over the speaker system.

  And who says “invigorating”? Apart from someone trying to sell you protein powder on an infomercial.

  “Together Rhiannon and I will do amazing things.” I look up at Rhiannon again, tempted to add in a few of those things I suggested to her, but she gives me a stern shake of the head.

  Whatever.

  As my eyes drift back down to the card, I catch sight of a figure leaning against the doorway of the gym.

  It’s Owen.

  Our eyes lock, and with just the subtlest tilt of his head, and the faintest curve of my lips, the message is conveyed.

  All is forgiven.

  By both of us.

  I stand up straighter, slide the cards back into my pocket, and speak clearly into the microphone. “Thank you for your attention and please vote Marshall/Sparks for your junior class president and vice president.”

  Lackluster applause breaks out in the crowd. I find Tristan again and he gives me a thumbs-up.

  I did it!

  I finally got through that dreaded speech, with my dignity—and my normal lip size—intact.

  As I step away from the mic, I glance back to the doorway, ready to flash Owen a triumphant grin, but he’s gone.

  Stand By Your Man

  3:15 p.m.

  When the final bell of the day rings, I leap out of my chair like an Olympic sprinter off the starting block.

  Victory is mine!

  I survived the school day!

  No, not only survived … rocked. Killed. Pulverized.

  In my mind, I’m running down the hallway in slow motion, high-fiving all the people on the sidelines as they clap and cheer me on and Chariots of Fire plays in the background.