A Week of Mondays (11 page)

I glance around the room. Actually, I don't recognize any of these people.

“Ellison,” Mr. Henshaw says, staring strangely at me from the front of the classroom. “If I remember correctly, you're in my second-period class.”

“This is second period,” I say, but there is no confidence in my words.

Isn't it?

Daphne leads the room in a round of laughter.

“Today is an odd day,” Mr. Henshaw says.

It most certainly is.

What on earth is going on around here? Tuesdays have always been even days. Since I started going to this school. Did they suddenly change it up this year?

“This is my first-period algebra class,” Mr. Henshaw continues.

Daphne clears her throat. “Ahem. My seat.”

I slowly stand and pull my bag over my shoulder.

“You should get to your
first-period
class.” Mr. Henshaw enunciates “first-period” as if I might actually be hard of hearing.

As I make the walk of shame to the door, I hear Daphne hide the word “drunk” under a cough, causing the whole class to erupt in laughter again.

I race down the hall and up the stairs to chemistry. When I get there, all the students are filing out of the classroom, chattering noisily.

“Okay,” Mr. Briggs calls out, clapping his hands. “Can we keep it down? There are classes in session.”

“What's going on?” I ask, shoving my way to the teacher.

“School pictures,” Mr. Briggs says. I can tell he's trying to decide whether or not to reprimand me for being late. But then Aaron Hutchinson starts playing drums on a nearby row of lockers and Mr. Briggs scowls and darts away, deeming that the more heinous crime.

School pictures?

But we did that yesterday. Are they doing retakes already? I thought they waited at least a few weeks for that. Maybe something happened to the photos. Maybe the photographer lost the memory card and now we have to redo them.

As I stand in line in the cafeteria, waiting to get my picture taken for the second time this week, I'm suddenly reminded of my hair. It's a disaster.

Again.

“Say ‘Two more years!'” the photographer trills as I sit down on the stool.

My mouth falls open in shock just as she snaps the photo.

“Lovely! Next!”

As I'm shuffled away, I steal a peek at the camera's viewfinder again. This time I look like a dying fish. Tack on the scariness of the hair and smudged makeup and I'm a dying
zombie
fish.

So there goes that. I don't think I can count on the memory card being lost a second time. I guess I'm destined to be the laughingstock of the yearbook.

9:50 a.m.

As soon as the bell rings, I make a beeline to the girls' restroom. Priority number one is to fix my face before I see Tristan. I can't get back together with my hot boyfriend looking like a zombie fish.

But I'm startled when I see Tristan standing outside my classroom.

He's waiting for me?

Well, well, well, how the tables have turned. I guess my little no-show act worked like a charm.

“Hey,” he says, sidling up and falling into step beside me.

“Hey,” I say back.
Very
cucumber-like.

I can feel him peering at me out of the corner of my eye, studying my face. “Are you trying out for the school play?”

I slow. Did he really ask me that a second time?

“No, it's raining again. Remember?”

He looks momentarily confused before saying, “You didn't show up this morning. I waited at my locker.” He sounds like an injured puppy. My heart does a little quickstep in my chest. He's sad that I stood him up.

Oh, this is so happening right now.

“Sorry.” I coat the word with a smooth nonchalance. “I was running late. Had to head straight to second—er, first period.”

He nods. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Isn't that what we're doing?” I hoped for that to sound coy and flirtatious, but he clearly doesn't interpret it that way.

Tristan inhales sharply. “You're still mad.”

I feign innocence. “About what?”

“About last night.”

“Mad? No. A little confused maybe.”

“Yeah,” he says, running his hand over the back of his neck. “Me, too.”

Ah-
ha
! Confusion! Confusion equals second-guessing equals regret equals we are
so
getting back together.

But the third-period bell is about to ring, so let's move it along.

“What are you confused about?” I ask, hoping it will encourage him to spit it out already.

He sighs. “About some of the things you said last night.”

“Me?” I blurt out. I can't help it. The idea that
I
had anything to do with the events of last night is preposterous. I was the one standing there speechless while he was the one who destroyed everything we had in a matter of minutes. “
You're
the one who broke up with
me
.”

Wow. He really
is
confused. I can see it all over his face. He stops walking. “Broke up?” he sputters. “Ellie, we had a fight
.
”

“Yeah,” I say helplessly. “And then you broke up with me?”

“No, I didn't. I was upset, sure. But I never said I wanted to break up.” His eyes fixate on a spot above my head, like he's trying to remember the exact conversation.

Meanwhile,
I
remember the conversation perfectly, and he said …

Wait a second.

My pulse sputters to a stop. My mind is reeling. Did he ever actually say the words “I want to break up?” Or anything remotely similar?

I replay his words in my head.

I can't do this anymore.

This isn't working.

Something is broken and I don't know how to fix it.

Holy crap on a stick. Did I completely make this up in my head? Did I misinterpret the whole thing? Was it really just another fight?

Did I cry myself to sleep for
nothing
?

“So you
didn't
break up with me?” I ask slowly, unsure if I can trust the words coming out of my mouth.

He takes way too long to answer. “No…” It sounds like he wants to add more, but he falls silent.

And then I very eloquently say, “Oh.”

Oh?

The worst night of my life has been revealed to be an illusion and all I can say is “Oh”?

“But I still think we should talk about—”

Just then the bell rings. We look at each other and then make a dash to Spanish class. Señora Mendoza gives us a sour look as we slip into our seats, but thankfully she doesn't say anything.

I glance at Tristan out of the corner of my eye and he gives me a conspiratorial half smile. I feel relief fill me up and I expect it to lull me into a state of calm. But for some reason it doesn't. It's like taking a deep breath but never being able to exhale.

It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything is totally completely fine.

Isn't it?

Why do I still feel so uneasy? Like there's something I'm missing?

I tear a piece of notebook paper from my binder and quickly scribble “Are we good?” then slide it onto Tristan's desk.

He gives me an adorable wink and whispers, “Yeah,” just as Señora Mendoza says,
“¡Nosotros veremos!”
in her bright, bubbly tone.

My head whips to the front of the room.

Didn't we conjugate this same verb yester—

But the thought is cut short as a massive black blur crashes against the classroom window.

 

Oh, I Believe In Yesterday

There's only one rational explanation. The local crows have formed a suicide pact. I saw a documentary about this once. Not with birds, obviously, but with people. A bunch of lonely souls get together and decide to commit suicide around the same time.

I'm no avian expert, but I imagine it works the same with birds.

I mean, how else do you explain
two
birds crashing to their deaths against the window of my Spanish class?

It's either that or they really hate the sound of Señora Mendoza's voice.

Fortunately, this time I don't burst into tears. I got that little problem under control. But I do feel pretty queasy when Sadie Haskins confirms that the bird is dead. Tristan looks to me, almost like he expects me to start crying again, but I hold it together.

See, I'm improving already.

Reining in the drama.

11:20 a.m.

In history, Mr. Weylan actually hands out the exact same quiz as yesterday. When is this poor old man going to retire already? It's kind of embarrassing.

Although I guess what's really embarrassing is the fact that I still don't get all the questions right. I remember some of the correct answers from yesterday's quiz, but I'm ashamed to say I don't get a hundred percent today. And neither does Daphne Gray, whose test I have to grade again. I try to share a conspiratorial eye roll with her when we trade back papers. Something that says, “Can you believe this guy is allowed to keep teaching?” but I must not convey the sentiment properly, because she just stares blankly back at me. Like she can't understand why I even exist.

She hands me my test with a big 76 percent marked on the front. Well, it's an improvement, at least. Let's hope old man Weylan also managed to forget yesterday's results and uses these instead. Or better yet, let's hope he forgets again tomorrow. I'll surely be able to ace it by then.

“Homework for tonight,” Mr. Weylan announces in his wobbly voice as the class comes to an end. He turns and writes something on the whiteboard. His handwriting is so shaky it's barely legible.

For Tuesday: Read chapters 3 & 4.

I let out a snort and Daphne turns her dark cat eyes on me. “What?”

“He assigned us the same thing yesterday. And he got the day wrong.”

Not that I did the assignment anyway. I was too busy getting ambiguously broken up with.

“Um, are you on drugs?” she asks in response.

First I'm a drunk. Now I've apparently upgraded to drug addict.

No,
I want to reply, equally snotty, but then I look around the room and notice that everyone is furiously writing down the assignment. Like the mistake doesn't even faze them.

It's right then that a tingle starts in the pit of my stomach. Like a quiet murmuring of some foreboding truth.

I turn back to Daphne and whisper, “Isn't today Tuesday?”

She shakes her head at me, clearly believing I really am on drugs. “No, it's
Monday
.”

“But,” I argue, my voice lacking confidence. “It was Monday yesterday.”

Daphne sighs, like she really doesn't have time for this. She digs her phone out of her bag, swipes it on, and shoves it in my face. She points to the time and date stamped at the top.

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