A Week of Mondays (2 page)

“Nothing!” she snaps. “I'm not looking for anything at all. Why would I possibly be looking for something I have no hope of ever finding? At least not under this roof!”

I wince.

Talk about a drama queen.

Oh God. Is this where I get it from? Are meltdowns genetic?

I pop two pieces of bread into the toaster and return the package to the fridge.

“What did the text say?” Hadley asks.

“Nothing,” I mumble. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Hadley nods knowingly. “Lost in textation.”

I lean against the counter and glare at her. “What?”

“Lost in textation. It's that awkward part of texting where the context of a conversation is lost without being able to see the person's face or hear their inflection.”

I sigh. “Will you stop looking at Urban Dictionary? Mom, tell her to get off Urban Dictionary. It's completely inappropriate. Do you know what kind of things are on there? Words you and Dad don't even know.”

My mom doesn't respond. She pulls a frying pan from the cupboard and sets it down on the stove top with a boisterous
clank
.

“Textation!” my dad shouts excitedly, tapping at his screen. “Good one, Hads!” But a moment later his face falls. “Not a real word? WTF?”

I groan. How is this my life?

My toast is only half done, but I push up on the lever and force the bread to eject. I smother it with peanut butter, wrap it in a paper towel, and grab my schoolbag. I'm not exactly running late, but staying around here another second will make me want to stick my own head in the toaster.

“Ellie,” my dad says.

I stop just short of the door. I almost got out alive.
So close
.

“Yeah?”

At first I think he's going to ask me for another word for his game, but instead he says, “Are you ready?”

I pat my bag. “Yup. Got my speech notes right here.”

He looks genuinely confused. “No, I mean, about softball tryouts.”

Oh, and I have softball tryouts today. On top of everything else.

“Making varsity your junior year would be huge. The state schools would definitely take notice of that.”

I'm itching to get out of this house. And my dad reminding me of yet
another
thing that's looming over this day is not helping. “Yeah,” I agree.

He sets his iPad down and stares wistfully into space. “I remember when my varsity baseball team made it to the state championships.”

Aaaand he's off.

“Standing on that pitching mound, I'd never been so nervous in my life. Your mom was in the stands. I just didn't know it yet. It probably would have made me even more nervous. Remember that, Libby?”

My mom takes the butter tray from the fridge and slams it down on the counter so hard I think she might have cracked the plastic.

“Is something wrong?” my dad asks.

Quite the observer, he is.

“No,” my mom answers sharply, not even looking at him, as she cuts a piece of butter and drops it into the frying pan. “Why would anything be wrong?” It's one of her snakebite questions. I call them that because she coils up, lunges at you, and before you can even answer, you're dead from the venom.

“Are you sure?” my dad asks.

“She's gone mom-zerk,” Hadley remarks.

My dad glances down at his iPad. “Ooh. I wish I had a Z!”

That appears to be the last straw. My mom storms out of the kitchen, leaving the burner on and the butter melting in the pan.

I am
so
not getting into the middle of this. I don't need to add “mediate parental dispute” to my to-do list today.

I shove my shoulder against the garage door. “Great story, Dad. Okay, bye!”

Dropping my bag into the backseat of the car, I get behind the wheel and start the engine. It isn't until the garage door opens and I back out onto the driveway that I notice it's raining and I don't have an umbrella.

But there's no way I'm going back inside that house.

 

The Magic's in the Music

7:55 a.m.

I sing along at the top of my lungs to “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys as I take a left at the end of my street, then the first right, and pull into Owen's driveway, putting the car into park. I'm about to lean on the horn when I notice the front door of his house is open, and he strolls casually to the car, not even caring that he's getting totally soaked by the rain.

“Wow. It's really chucking it down out here,” he says, opening the door. He stops when he hears the song playing. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

I give him a questioning look.

He plops his backpack on the floor and climbs into the passenger seat. “You only put the Beach Boys on after something bad happens.”

I scoff at this. “My life doesn't have to be in shambles to listen to the Beach Boys.”

He closes the door. “Yes it does.”

“What if I just felt like listening to something beachy?”

But Owen knows me too well. We've been best friends since the summer between third and fourth grade when he talked me into jumping off the ropes course telephone pole at Camp Awahili. “The Beach Boys are in your ‘Psych Me Up Buttercup' playlist. And I happen to know that playlist is reserved for emergencies only.”

He gives his head a doglike shake, flinging drops of rain from his dark, shaggy hair onto my dashboard. I grab the small cleaning cloth I keep in my glove box and wipe it off. Then I slump in my seat. “Fine. Tristan and I had a fight.”

His green eyes open wide and he turns down the music. “You and him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A fight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“As in, the two of you actually disagreed about something?”

“Do you not understand what a fight is?”

Owen lets out a low belly laugh.

“Owen,” I whine. “What's so funny?”

He stops laughing. “It's just that it's about bloody time.”

“You're not British,” I remind him. “You can't keep using the word ‘bloody.'”

“The Brits don't
own
the word ‘bloody.'”

“Yeah, they kinda do. In America—where
we
live—it means ‘covered in blood.'”

“It's a good word. It's like the loophole of swearwords.”

I scowl. “What did you mean when you said it's about time?”

“I said it's about
bloody
time,” he reminds me.

“Owen!”

He sighs. “Fine. I just meant you two never disagree. About anything.” He holds up a finger. “No, wait. I wish to strike that from the record.”

“So stricken,” I say automatically.

Talking like we live in a television legal drama is kind of our thing.

“
You
never disagree with anything,” he says, amending his statement.

“I do, too.”

“Well, yeah, with
me
. But not with
him
.”

“Objection.”

“On what grounds?”

“I—” I begin to argue but then realize I can't come up with a single example to prove him wrong. “Well, but that's just because I don't want to be like all the other girls he's dated.”

“Superficial and obnoxious?”

I slug his arm.
“Dramatic.”

“Having a differing opinion is not being dramatic. It's being, you know, a person. What was your fight about?”

I groan. I don't really want to rehash it, but I know Owen won't leave me alone until I spill. “His phone.”

“You had a fight about his
phone
?” Comprehension flashes on his face. “Oh. Let me guess. He has an Android operating system and you have Apple. It's a compatibility issue. You'll never get along. You may as well just end it now.”

I give him another slug. “No. It was what was
on
his phone.”

He cocks a scandalized eyebrow. “Now I'm really interested.”

“Not that, you perv. Snapchats. From girls. While we were trying to watch a movie.”

He shrugs. “So?”

“So?!”

“He's a musician. In a semipopular local band.”

I exhale loudly. “Yeah, that's what he said. Well, you know, minus the ‘semipopular' part. And I know. I
know.
It was something I told myself I'd have to deal with when we started going out. And normally, I'm able to suppress it. But last night, I kind of just snapped.”

“You Snapchat Snapped?”

Owen finds this incredibly amusing. I do not. He wipes the smile from his face. “Sorry. Good joke. Bad timing. Withdrawn.”

“Anyway,” I go on, “we got into a huge fight. I told him I didn't like the attention he gets from girls. He accused me of overreacting. It went on and on and then I threw a garden gnome at his head.”

Owen's jaw drops. “You did what?”

“It wasn't a heavy one,” I say, defending myself. “It was mostly full of air. It didn't even hit him. I missed. It hit the paved walkway and broke.”

“That doesn't bode well for your softball tryouts today.”

I feel myself deflate. “Now he wants to
talk
.”

Owen sucks in air through his teeth. The sound puts me on edge.

“I'm doomed, aren't I?” I ask. “He's going to break up with me, isn't he?”

He takes a beat too long to answer. “No.” Then after seeing my doubtful face, he repeats the word with more conviction. “No! It'll be fine. He probably just wants to talk about … you know … replacing his garden gnome. His mother is undoubtedly pissed that you broke it
.
”

This
makes me laugh. It feels good. I'm suddenly glad I confided in Owen.

“Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys fades away and “Do You Believe in Magic” by the Lovin' Spoonful comes on. Owen turns up the volume.

“Do you really think it'll be okay?” I ask. Despite how much I love this song, my voice still breaks with uncertainty.

“Do you believe in magic?” Owen asks me in return, half speaking, half singing the question.

“Thanks, that's reassuring.”

His eyes light up. “Oh! Speaking of!” He digs into his backpack by his feet and produces two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies. “I was so distracted by your shambled life I almost forgot about our Monday morning ritual.”

Owen buses tables at the Tasty House Chinese restaurant on Sundays for extra cash. And he makes a lot of it. I think it's his irresistible baby face and the boyish charm he turns on when he refills water glasses. Customers set aside additional tips just for him. He's been bringing us fortune cookies on Monday mornings ever since he started working there.

“Choose your tasty fortune,” he trills.

I admit, the familiarity of the gesture does wonders for my frayed nerves. I hover my hand over the two cookies, wiggling my fingers majestically, before finally opting for the one on the left. Owen unwraps the remaining one and cracks open the crisp shell.

“If your desires are not extravagant,” he reads aloud from the tiny piece of paper tucked inside, “they will be granted.”

He snorts and crumples up the fortune, tossing it into my backseat. “My desires are always extravagant.” He pops the pieces of cookie in his mouth and chomps down. “Your turn.”

I unwrap mine and bust it open. The small strip of paper reads:

Today you will get everything your true heart desires.

Owen leans in to read over my shoulder. “That sounds promising.”

I fold up the paper and slip it into the side pocket of my door. Then I throw the car into drive and pull onto the street. “I sure hope so,” I mumble.

But Owen is barely listening. He's too busy singing along—completely off-key—to the song.
“I'll tell you about the magic. It'll free your soul.”

 

You Better Slow Your Mustang Down

8:10 a.m.

As I pull to a stop at the corner of Owen's street and Providence Boulevard, I lean forward and scowl up at the gray sky. “I really hope it stops raining before the carnival tonight. Tristan and I are supposed to have this big romantic date and the rain will totally ruin it.”

Owen ignores my lamenting. He usually does when Tristan is the subject line. “Did you ever get around to watching the season premiere of
Assumed Guilty
?” he asks.

I avert my eyes in shame. “I have it DVR'd,” I offer as if this redeems me, even though I know it doesn't.

Assumed Guilty
is our favorite legal drama. We usually watch it live and text each other during the commercials, but last night I missed our weekly screening party because I was busy throwing fairy-tale creatures at my boyfriend's head.

Owen bangs his fist on the dashboard. “Bollocks! You need to get on that.”

“And you need to stop saying things like ‘bollocks'!”

“You missed the
best
episode.”

“I'm sorry, I'll watch it tonight,” I promise.

“You just said you're going to the carnival tonight.”

“I'll watch it after.”

Owen looks out the rain-splattered window. “No you won't,” he mumbles.

I don't think he meant for me to hear but I do. And the guilt punches me in the stomach. Just another thing on my overly crowded plate that I can't keep up with. The truth is, ever since I started dating Tristan at the end of last year, I haven't had a ton of extra time to do much of anything, including keep up with Owen's and my busy television schedule. Tristan's band had almost nonstop gigs this summer and I volunteered to help with promotion. It only made sense. I'm more organized than any of the band members. When I found out they didn't even have a mailing list, and Jackson, the drummer, asked me how to “tweet the Instagram,” well, it was just easier to do it myself than try to explain the art of Internet marketing to a group of musicians who call themselves Whack-a-Mole.