A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

  It’s not until she steals a glance at him that I recognize her. It’s the girl from the cafeteria. The one who was tripped by Cole Simpson at lunch. I can’t see the guy’s face, but I watch as his hand slips uncertainly into hers and their fingers tangle. It makes me smile. It looks like her first day at school wasn’t so bad after all.

  Jackson performs the closing drum loop, crashing the cymbals with a flourish. The crowd screams. I almost join in but then limit myself to a polite clap.

  “Okay, we have one more song for you tonight,” Tristan says breathlessly into the mic, swatting at the sweaty lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. “This one is dedicated to the girl who got us this gig.”

  I freeze.

  Then I hear the sound. It’s not one obnoxious chipmunk squeal, it’s a chorus of obnoxious chipmunk squeals. I follow Tristan’s gaze down to the front row where the entire varsity cheerleading squad is camped out. Daphne jumps up and down, and for a moment I think she’s going to lead the squad in a Go-Team-Tristan cheer, complete with syncopated claps and herkies.

  He flashes her a smile. But it’s not just any smile. It’s that smile. My smile. “Thank you for being so freaking awesome, Daphne Gray.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I can’t breathe. The words. They’re the same exact words. The only thing that’s changed is the name. It’s as if the dedication itself doesn’t even matter. He can just cut and paste a girl’s name in and it’s all the same.

  He starts the song. My song. The one he wrote about me.

  “She.

  She laughs in riddles I can’t understand.

  She.

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

  Another cold front hits me like a bus.

  What if it’s not about me?

  What if it’s just some generic song about some generic girl? If he can plug and play his song dedications, what’s to say he can’t plug and play his lyrics, too?

  The words don’t say “Ellie smiles in riddles I can’t understand.” They just say “She.” But apparently she can be anyone. Me. Daphne. The redheaded girl with freckles and pigtails on the Wendy’s sign.

  Tristan should really learn to be more precise with his lyrics. If I turned in an English paper with the word “she” written all over it, I would get a big fat C minus with a note from Ms. Ferrel that said “Be more specific.”

  Whatever.

  Before they even reach the first chorus, I trudge away from the stage, vowing to find something else to do. You know, besides feel sorry for myself.

  I sit down at the horse race game again—this time opting for horse number three. Maybe it’ll have some kind of cosmic significance. This is, after all, my third time living this same day. My third time at this carnival. My third time playing this game. I feed my dollar into the slot. Before the game starts, I whip out my phone and snap a selfie with the backdrop of the horses all lined up, ready to race.

  I quickly type in a caption.

  Having a blast at the carnival! Place your bets on me!

  I was aiming for fun, flirty, and of course busy and important, but when I post the picture to Instagram all I see is heartbreak in my eyes. Even with the Cupcake filter, which usually makes me look so chipper.

  The buzzer rings and I stuff my phone back into my pocket and try to focus on the game. It comes as no surprise to me, however, when horse number three finishes last.

  Take Another Little Piece of My Heart

  8:43 p.m.

  “Woo! That was amazing! Did you see us up there? Did you see the crowd?” Tristan hasn’t stopped moving for the past five minutes. If he’s not bouncing on his heels, he’s punching the air or doing some new skip/spin move I’ve never seen before.

  “I saw it,” I reply serenely. “Everyone was really enjoying themselves.”

  Tristan barely seems to hear what I said. “God, I love it up there! The energy! The screams! The music! We were on fire tonight. I don’t think we’ve ever sounded so good. And by the time we got to ‘Mind of the Girl’—BAM! They were all just putty in our hands.”

  I flash a tight smile. “Yes. Putty.”

  His high is already rubbing off on me, lifting my spirits, chasing away my sour mood. But I’m careful to keep my responses contained, remembering Commandment #2 about looking feminine and refined on a date. Refined ladies don’t jump around and squeal. They sit up straight and cross their legs.

  Okay, so we aren’t sitting down right now, but I’ll be sure to cross my legs when we do.

  “At least five people came up to me after the show asking us to play at another venue!” he goes on, punching his fist into his palm.

  “That’s…”

  Refined. Controlled. Feminine.

  “… stupendous.”

  Stupendous?

  Tristan gives me and my word choice a strange look before nodding back at the carnival. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” I lob the question back at him almost instinctively. I’m getting pretty good at this Creature of Mystery thing.

  Although as soon as the question is out of my mouth, all the items on my fantasy carnival date list stream through my mind. Things like bumper cars and the Ferris wheel and the ring toss game.

  “Ooh,” Tristan says, pointing to a nearby booth. “What about the ring toss game?”

  So much for acting like a lady. The grin that covers my face is anything but refined.

  Tristan notices. “I guess that’s a yes?”

  I nod.

  We walk over to the game, where a carnival employee hands us five tiny rings in exchange for a dollar. I glance up at the prizes hanging from the ceiling of the booth, immediately spotting the one I want. It’s a giant stuffed white poodle, almost identical to the one that Dr. Jason Halloway won for Annabelle six years ago. Next to it is a sign that says 4 RINGS.

  He has to land four of the five rings on the bottle necks in order to win it. I bite my lip and watch as Tristan psychs himself up, adjusting his stance.

  He lets the first ring fly.

  It’s short. It bounces off the table in front of the bottles and falls to the ground. Tristan looks discouraged.

  “That’s okay!” I pipe in. “That was a practice round.”

  He readies himself again, shifting his weight around until he’s evenly balanced. Then he flings the second ring. It hits one of the bottles and ricochets off to the side.

  Disappointment fills me but I try not to let it show. So what if Tristan can’t win me a stupid stuffed animal? What counts is that he’s here with me. He’s playing the games. We’re spending time together, just as I wanted. It’s more than I can say for the previous two Mondays.

  Tristan spends another three dollars on three more games, but he still can’t manage to land one ring on one bottle neck.

  “It’s rigged,” he gripes a few minutes later, as he bites into a churro he just bought from a nearby concession stand. “It’s gotta be rigged. I bet the bottle necks are wider than the rings.”

  “Totally,” I agree. “That’s the only explanation.”

  I try to ignore the tiny voice inside my head reminding me that Dr. Jason Halloway managed to get four rings on four bottles. I saw it with my own eyes. So obviously the game is not rigged.

  Stop it, I scold myself. Dr. Jason Halloway doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of your imagination. That guy was probably not even a veterinarian.

  Tristan holds the churro up to my mouth. “Want a bite?”

  I instantly light up. A shared churro isn’t the same thing as a shared milk shake but it’s the idea that counts, right?

  I lean in to take a bite but stop when I hear Dr. Louise Levine’s words in my head.

  Never eat in front of him.

  It’s part of Commandment #5: Thou shall always be a Creature of Mystery.

  But that churro looks really freaking good.

  Stupid Commandment #5.

  I pull back. “No, thanks. I ate a huge
dinner.”

  Tristan shrugs and takes another large bite, wiping cinnamon sugar from the corners of his lips.

  “What do you want to do next?” I say, looping my arm through his and cozying up to him.

  He pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket and glances at the screen.

  Is he checking the time? Does he have somewhere else to be? Is he going to tell me he has to go meet with the band again?

  Commandment #7: Thou shall always end the date … first.

  Right. Time to take action. Time to take back my control of this night. Of this relationship.

  I peer at his phone screen. “Oh my God, is that the time? I really need to go. I forgot I have this big history quiz to study for.”

  He tilts his head. “I thought you had history today?”

  “Did I say history?” I fumble. “I meant calculus. I’m always getting those two mixed up.”

  Another odd expression. I need to shut this thing down before it gets worse. I unhook my arm from his. “So, yeah, I better get going.”

  I stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for a great night. See you tomorrow.”

  I turn and disappear into the sea of people. My legs want to run. Sprint. Fly. Get me out of here as fast as possible. Before he can say anything. Before he can ruin this day for the third time.

  I compromise with a brisk power walk, feeling sweet relief when I finally get to my car.

  I made it.

  I did it.

  I’m leaving the carnival and Tristan and I are still together!

  I fish my keys out of my purse, hit the Unlock button, and swing the door open.

  That’s when I hear it.

  My name.

  His voice.

  The footsteps.

  “Ellie?”

  Heart pounding, stomach twisting, I turn. He’s there. Jogging to catch up with me. He slows to a stop a few feet away. “Before you go, I was hoping maybe we could talk.”

  Only the Lonely

  9:51 p.m.

  The stairs in my house have never seemed so insurmountable. I heave my body up each step, feeling like I weigh a thousand pounds. When I passed the guest room a second ago, I could hear my dad snoring softly inside. Apparently his night didn’t get any better either.

  I don’t understand.

  I did everything right this time. I was the perfect commandment-following girl. I was a Creature of Ultimate Mystery. But in the end, Tristan still wasn’t mystified. He still broke up with me.

  He used the same exact words. The same vague, tormented speech.

  I don’t think I can do this anymore …

  I’m confused, Ellie. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to tell you …

  I just know that it’s not working …

  “But I don’t understand!” I blubbered through my tears. More and more tears. Always tears. “I was different today. I wasn’t clingy. Yesterday you said it was because I was clingy!”

  He seemed genuinely confused by this. I couldn’t blame him. It must have sounded like nonsensical babble.

  “Is this about our fight? Is this about the garden gnome I threw at your head?”

  He cracked a tiny smile at the memory, but it was gone almost instantly. “No. I swear it’s not.”

  “Then what?” I pleaded.

  “I don’t know, Ellie.” He held me against him and rubbed my back in smooth, solid strokes. “I just don’t think we’re a match.”

  “Not a match!?” I screamed, breaking away from him. “How can we not be a match?”

  He didn’t respond. He simply shook his head and stepped forward to kiss me on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I really am.”

  I knew what came next. I knew he was about to walk away from me again, and I couldn’t go through that. So I turned my back on him instead. I got into the car, slammed the door, and started the engine.

  I refused to glance out the window. I refused to suffer through another pitying look from him.

  I reached for the gearshift, ready to squeal out of this parking lot in a cloud of dust. But I couldn’t move. Nothing worked. My hands, my feet, my lungs. They all shut down. Only my tear ducts seemed to be in operation. They were pulling overtime. Fat drops rolled down my cheeks. I rested my head on the steering wheel and sobbed.

  Now, with much effort, I finally reach the second floor of my house and pause on the landing, rubbing my puffy eyes.

  Not a match?

  What kind of ridiculous response is that?

  Does he not remember our first night together? Does he not remember the things he said to me? How different I was from every other girl he’d dated? How refreshing I was?

  Refreshing!

  I’m the freaking soft drink of girls!

  Why can’t he still see that? Why can’t he hold on to what we had the way I am so desperately trying to do?

  Even though he swore it’s not, it has to be about the fight on Sunday night. I never should have reacted that way. I never should have thrown that stupid garden gnome. Why can’t I go back and relive that day over and over? Instead of this one? Then I’d know exactly how to fix this. Then Tristan and I would still be together.

  When I pass my sister’s room, I hear the familiar sound of The Breakfast Club playing. I almost walk past for a third time until I remember what happened this afternoon.

  The heartbreaking look in her eyes as she walked home from school soaking wet is too much to forget. Too much to ignore. I stop and knock on the partially closed door.

  “Come in!” she calls.

  Hadley is under the covers, propped up on about a thousand pillows. Her knees are hugged up to her chest and her face is clean and devoid of any unsightly mascara streaks. I probably can’t say the same for mine, but I’m hoping the darkness will obscure the evidence.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and turn toward the TV screen. It’s nearing the end of the movie. They’re all sitting in a circle, pouring their hearts out.

  I want to ask her again about this afternoon, but I also don’t want her to get angry and kick me out. She seems so calm right now. I’ll just watch the movie. If she wants to talk to me, I guess she will.

  As I listen to Emilio Estevez tell his sob story to the group, I hear a soft whisper behind me. I turn to look at my sister. She’s quietly reciting the lines, right along with him. She doesn’t miss a single word.

  Just as I can sing along to every song in my countless mood-altering playlists, apparently my sister can recite every word of this movie, and who knows how many others. I glance at her tall bookshelf. The top three shelves are devoted to all her contemporary teen romances. The bottom three shelves are stocked with DVD cases, every single one of them a movie centered around high school.

  “Hads,” I say, interrupting Emilio’s climactic monologue.

  “Hmm?” she says.

  “Why do you watch these movies?”

  She shrugs. “Why does anyone watch movies?”

  “I mean, this kind of movie. About high school.”

  Her eyes never leave the screen. She’s so enthralled by this dialogue between the members of The Breakfast Club, you’d think it was her first time watching it. But the way her mouth syncs perfectly to every character’s line tells another story.

  She picks up the remote and pauses the film. “I’m starting high school next year. Did you forget?” She says this like the answer is obvious. Like I should feel stupid for not having come up with it myself.

  I glance at the still frame on the screen. Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy are sitting on a banister in the library. Side by side, they are the perfect contrast. The prom queen and the weirdo. The popular girl and the outcast. The one who’s accepted and the one who hides in plain sight.

  “You think these movies are going to help you survive high school?” I say, the realization hitting me like a curveball to the side of the head.

  “Duh.” Hadley presses a button on the remote and the movie continues.

  I stare i
ncredulously at my little sister, then at her bookshelf. Suddenly it all makes sense. This is research. The books, the movies, the obsession with Urban Dictionary. She’s trying to prepare for something you can never prepare for.

  I eye the remote. I want to grab it, pause the movie, and put an end to this nonsense once and for all. I want to shake her until she understands. There is no shortcut to surviving this world. To succeeding in high school. If there was, everyone would take it. I want to explain to her that she’s only setting herself up for disappointment.

  But then I turn and watch her watching the movie, her sweet heart-shaped face lit up by the screen, her wavy hair pulled back into a messy bun, her eyes wide with fascination as she watches Molly Ringwald lead Ally Sheedy into the bathroom for the big makeover scene. Some invisible force keeps my mouth sealed shut.

  I can’t be the one to burst her bubble. I can’t be the one to tell her that in the real world, high school doesn’t look like it does in the movies. That no matter how many films you watch, no matter how many books you read or how much slang you memorize, you’ll never feel like you fit in.

  No matter how perfectly you set up your day—your life—you’ll still fail.

  Just as I have.

  No. I won’t tell her this. At least not today. I’ll let her continue to live her life, believing that the world makes sense. Believing that effort equals success.

  I’ll just sit here next to her until the movie ends.

  I lean back against the wall, getting comfortable. Hadley passes me a pillow and I prop it behind my back. Molly Ringwald puts the final touches on her extreme makeover. I can feel Hadley tense beside me, waiting for the big reveal. This must be her favorite scene.

  A few moments later Ally Sheedy walks out of the bathroom, looking like a completely different person—her hair swept away from her face, her dark eye makeup cleared away, her whole face bright and uncluttered. Emilio Estevez’s reaction to her is priceless. His mouth literally drops open as he suddenly sees her in a whole new light.