Monday I Love You

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Monday I Love You Page 12

by Constance C. Greene


  I’d never been on a date before. I didn’t know how to act. But then, maybe it was all new to him, too. If he was treating me, I’d pretend to have a good time. If it was Dutch, I didn’t have to pretend. But I would anyway, to make up for laughing at him.

  21

  I have always been a dreamer. Even when I was little, I dreamed only beautiful dreams—glorious, golden dreams. In which only good things happened. Dressed in something diaphanous and sparkling, like a gown Miss America might wear, I tended, in those dreams, to sail over treetops on invisible wings, like Peter Pan or Mary Poppins, always coming down to earth from the sky, the sun always shining in my eyes.

  In my dreams, I arranged that the sun always shone.

  And that my parents were beautiful dream parents—accomplished, educated, rich and very loving. Parents any child would be proud of. Just as I was the kind of child any parent would cherish and be proud of. Together we were perfection.

  And on Christmas Eve, no matter what anyone says, I dreamed I heard the reindeer and bells and somebody big and fat landing on the roof with a crash, somebody who shouted HO HO HO. Nobody can talk me out of that.

  In my dreams, I always got the lead in the school play. I never forgot my lines, it goes without saying. I was the girl voted Most Likely, the girl everyone wanted, the girl who always came in first.

  Once I dreamed I was in Heaven. I knew that’s where I was because I was playing the harp. Someone, it may have been Saint Peter, asked what I was doing there. I said because I deserved it. I’d earned my place there. I had led a good life, I told Saint Peter, always being unselfish, always thinking of others. The expression on Saint Peter’s face was a picture.

  But all he did was shrug and walk away, into the whirling mist that surrounded us, and leave me alone, in all my goodness.

  Now I have begun to dream of him. The dream recurs often. I look forward to it, even though as recently as this morning I woke and knew it was a foolish dream. Monday I love you. He made no sound, but I could read his lips.

  I was dressed in black and playing the flute. The opera house was ablaze with light, and the audience lifted rapt faces to me, to my artistry. I was very beautiful, with my hair pulled back, showing my neat little ears, and very thin. And in the front row, he never took his eyes off me.

  When my flute solo was over and the deafening applause had sunk to a mere whisper, Buster was waiting. He lifted his arms and said Please, so I took him home with me. Doris wasn’t there, but Estelle was, waiting in her mother’s car, which didn’t have a mark on it. She said the reward was waiting for me inside. I ran to find it, but it wasn’t there. There was no thousand dollars. Not that I could find. He was in the kitchen, wearing his tarp, hiding under it, and his cowboy boots. Throwing his knife up, up into the air. At some unseen target. Throwing it at me. But no matter how many times he threw it into the air, it never came back down. Yet there was always a knife in his hand.

  And William and I were running, running along the boardwalk with the waves chasing us, and my hand was done up in a huge bandage that was soaked with blood.

  Ah, he said, I see you are rich. Share with me. I have always wanted to be rich. Monday I love you, and I handed him the thousand dollars reward money and he kissed me and disappeared.

  Forever.

  When I woke, it was light outside. I could hear my mother and father in the kitchen, talking. Or was it the television?

  “Well, you slept late.” My mother had just done her nails. The smell of nail polish was very strong in the room. “Ms. Govoni called, said she’ll be by for you early, if it’s all right with you. Said she wants to take you to a lecture this afternoon, said she got a sitter for the kids.” My mother waved her hand in the air to dry her nails.

  “And some boy called.” My mother’s voice turned coy. “Said to tell you it was Walter. Said you’d know. Wouldn’t give his last name. Walter?”

  “It’s just a boy I know,” I said. It had been two Saturdays since I’d seen him. To my surprise, my mother had no comment.

  “I’m going to the library,” I said after I’d helped clear up the kitchen. “I have some research to do.” I was planning to take out some books on child psychology. Ms. Govoni had talked to me about her studies. It sounded interesting. Maybe I’d make a good child psychologist too.

  “Good girl,” said my father. “More you study, more you learn.” He patted me on the shoulder. “We’re real proud of you, Grace. Aren’t we, Grace?” he said to my mother.

  “Of course,” my mother said, giving her nails another coat.

  On my way at last, I took the shortcut that runs down Adams Lane to the main road to the library. Adams Lane is a cul-de-sac, which is French for “dead end.” I love that: “cul-de-sac.” Think how much better it sounds than “dead end.” Ms. Govoni says French is the most mellifluous language there is. “Mellifluous”—that means “sweet sounding” or “flowing.” If you know a second language, Ms. Govoni says, the world opens up to you. If you plan to travel, and I do, the knowledge of French should be very helpful.

  It was one of those mornings when it was nice to be alive. I felt buoyant, a new experience—light on my feet. I felt like dancing. Maybe because, with all my exercising with Rosie and Mack, plus on my own, plus cutting out snacks and watching what I ate, I’d lost four pounds. That may not sound like much, but to me it was like losing a hundred. Even my knees felt thinner. My new bra, which was very expensive, was worth every penny. It definitely gives me a better shape. I wash it by hand every night. I’ll have to buy another just like it when I save up enough money.

  Think of that. Instead of saving my money to have my breasts made smaller, I’m saving my money to buy a bra, which only makes them look better, not necessarily smaller. There’s a moral to that, but I’m not sure what it is.

  Things were looking up. If I did turn out to be a child psychologist, I made up my mind I’d be a good one. I’d find some poor soul like myself, some loser who seemed destined to be an outcast for the rest of her life, and I’d turn her life around for her. With her help, of course. No one can turn another’s life around without the cooperation of the person involved. You’ve got to work with someone, the way Ms. Govoni worked with me. It had been one lucky day in my life when she showed up. So many things had happened, and too fast. Sometimes they blurred in my mind, like a finger painting that’s been left out in the rain. Then other times, each episode stood out clearly, like a silhouette made out of black construction paper.

  There’s a little path at the end of Adams Lane, a footpath. Every time I walk down it, I think of the millions of feet that made that path. Probably since Colonial days feet have been treading that path. Maybe George Washington walked there. He’s slept a lot of places, but no one ever took count, as far as I know, of paths he trod.

  The person up ahead of me on the path was definitely not George Washington. Or even Martha. She had on shorts and an oversized sweatshirt and pink running shoes. Since I’d lost some weight, I bet I could wear shorts too. Next time I save a few bucks, maybe I’ll buy some.

  With a start, I realized the person ahead of me was Ashley. She was alone, a first for Ashley, who was never alone. She liked it better if she was surrounded by her minions. I’d only seen her from a distance a couple of times.

  I felt myself swelling with rage and a more complicated emotion—the desire for revenge. It was now or never. This was something I had to do to regain my self-respect. If I could. If I had the nerve. This moment had been handed to me. It would never come again. If I did nothing, just walked on by, leaving Ashley intact and unscathed, it was my fault. My cowardice. I felt at that moment my whole future depended on what I did now, what I said.

  I took longer steps to catch up, and I prepared my face to meet Ashley’s face.

  “Hello, Ashley,” I said, right behind her.

  She jumped, and when she saw me, her mouth tightened and she got flustered.

  “I have to go back to get something,�
�� she said, taking a step backward, swerving to avoid body contact with me.

  I swerved with her, boldly. I had made up my mind. She would not get away. She would not escape what I had to say. There are moments in life when your adrenaline carries you through, allows you strength you ordinarily wouldn’t have. This was one of those rare moments. I’d spent the four weeks since she went for me in the girls’ room planning what I’d say if I ever got the chance. There was no stopping me now.

  “There’s something I want to say to you,” I said, quite calm.

  Briefly her eyes met mine. I could see them darting wildly, swift as goldfish in a bowl. And as slippery.

  “Don’t bother me,” Ashley said haughtily.

  “You are going to listen.” My voice sounded menacing and harsh, as if coming over a loudspeaker. At that moment, Ashley and I were the only two people in the world.

  “Don’t you touch me,” she said, although I hadn’t made any move to do so. I was pleased to hear the tremble in her voice.

  “You touched me,” I said.

  There was nothing she could say to that.

  I wanted to hit her, to wound her, to cause her pain.

  “Now you’re going to listen to me,” I told her. “It’s my turn.”

  In a rush, I realized I was in control, for once. I was calling the shots, not Ashley. I hadn’t laid a finger on her, or raised my voice, but I was in charge.

  I took a deep breath and locked her slippery eyes in mine and started in.

  About the Author

  Constance C. Greene is the author of over twenty highly successful young adult novels, including the ALA Notable Book A Girl Called Al, Al(exandra) the Great, Getting Nowhere, and Beat the Turtle Drum, which is an ALA Notable Book, an IRA-CBC Children’s Choice, and the basis for the Emmy Award–winning after-school special Very Good Friends. Greene lives in Milford, Connecticut.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1988 by Constance C. Greene

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-0351-3

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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