A Week of Mondays (25 page)

“Hey, you! New girl! Over here!

She stops just inches from tripping over the bag and glances in my direction, confusion etched into her face. Her dark eyes widen, as if to say “Who me?”

“Yeah, you!” I call, still waving frantically like a crazy person. I beckon her over to the table. She turns, barely avoiding Cole's bag, and heads toward us.

“What are you doing?” Tristan asks, turning to see who I'm waving at.

“Being hospitable.” I smile at the girl, who's now appeared behind Tristan. “Sit with us.”

She looks delighted and incredibly relieved as she slides onto the bench across from us. My heart swells. Not only did I just save this girl from total social humiliation, but I also provided her with a place to sit—something that is in short supply on your first day of school.

“Hi,” I say cordially. “This is Tristan and I'm Ellie … but, um, some people call me Elle.”

Tristan shoots me a look. “They do?”

I kick him under the table.

“Hi,” the girl says quietly. “I'm Sophia.”

“That's pretty,” Tristan says, as his eyes graze the length of her body, lingering just slightly too long on her chest.

Okay, what is he doing?

Maybe it wasn't such a genius idea to invite her over here.

Tristan realizes that I'm shooting daggers with my eyes and quickly clears his throat, returning his gaze to me and plastering on a smile.

Seriously?

I shoot him a pointed look before asking Sophia, “Is this your first day?”

“Yeah.”

“Where'd you move from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“No way!” Tristan says. “What was that like?”

She sighs. “Crazytown.”

“I need to get out there,” he says emphatically. “I'm a musician, and as you know, L.A. is like
the
music scene.”

“Yeah, I know. My dad is a studio engineer at Capitol Records.”

I think Tristan just had a heart attack. He's grabbing his chest like he's about to keel over. “Your dad? Works for Capitol Records?”

She nods. “He's still out there. My parents just got divorced and my mom moved us here. I guess she grew up around here or something.”

Tristan dons his sad face. “I'm sorry about that. My parents got divorced a few years back. It was awful. If you ever need someone to talk to about it…”

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't have to. Sophia understands loud and clear what he's saying. Which is why she blushes and bows her head a little, murmuring, “Thanks. You're really sweet.”

Tristan playfully brushes off the compliment. “Well, I do eat a
lot
of sugar.”

Sophia giggles.

Wait. What is happening here?

Is he flirting with her?

I can't believe this. I try to do a good deed and Tristan goes and hits on it. I know, he's probably only sucking up because of the connection to Capitol Records, but still! Does he have to do this right in front of me? It's like that Snapchat conversation from Sunday night all over again. He didn't have to read his
thirty
Snapchat messages from cute girls while we were trying to watch a movie together. And he doesn't
have
to do this whole “I'm here for you, baby” routine while I'm trying to eat.

Who does this Sophia chick think she is? I do her a huge favor, save her from becoming a social pariah for life, and she repays me by giggling at my boyfriend's lame joke?

Well, I do eat a
lot
of sugar.

Har har har. How flipping original.

I'm suddenly wishing I had another garden gnome to throw at his face.

No,
I scold myself.
Calm down. It's that same irrational, emotion-driven thinking that got you into this mess in the first place. Take deep breaths. Rein it in. You got this.

I exhale and snap back into character. I give my hair a sultry toss and slowly begin to move my left boot up the inside of Tristan's leg. He jolts to attention, his gaze whipping back to me. I tilt my head as a flirtatious smile dances across my lips.

“I should probably go practice my speech. You know, somewhere quiet and maybe a little secluded.” I run my tongue over my teeth. Slowly so that Tristan has time to pick up on my innuendo.

Oh, he picks up on it all right. He leaps up from the bench faster than a rocket blasting into space. “You probably need help.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I do.” I flash Sophia a smile. “It was nice to meet you. I hope your first day goes well.”

She looks slightly disappointed at our sudden departure but quickly returns the pleasantry. “Thanks for inviting me to sit here.”

“We would stay longer,” I add quickly, “but I'm running for junior class VP and I have to give a speech in ten minutes, so…”

“Oh, no, that's fine!” she rushes to say. “I totally understand. Maybe I'll see you around?”

“Definitely.”

“My band plays around town,” Tristan puts in. “You should come to one of our gigs.”

“I'd love that,” Sophia says quietly, looking completely harmless in that moment. I suddenly feel guilty for thinking badly of her. She really is sweet, and maybe she didn't even realize we were together.

“Okay, see ya,” I say, and head for the cafeteria doors. I don't have to look back to check that Tristan is following behind me or that he's watching me walk with all the interest of a scholar.

Some things a girl just knows.

 

And Then He Kissed Me

There's really only one thing that should be on your mind when a six-foot, blond-haired rock 'n' roll sex god is sticking his tongue down your throat. I'm just not quite sure what that one thing is. Maybe something along the lines of …

Great!

Heavenly!

Mind-blowing!

I've been trying out words for the past seven minutes while Tristan and I have been locked in the recording booth on the second floor of the library in a marathon make-out session, but I can't wrap my head around the perfect descriptive phrase. My mind keeps wandering back to the cafeteria. The way Tristan's eyes
lingered on
that poor new girl while I was sitting right there.

What's the matter with him? Does he think she's hotter than me?

No. Those are not the things you're supposed to be thinking about right this minute. How about …

Hot?

Reckless?

Scandalous!

Yes, scandalous is definitely a good one. After all, we
are
on school grounds. And right outside this door, people are going about their daily lives—checking out books, researching papers, sending out emails—with absolutely no idea that Tristan and I are rounding second base in this tiny, soundproof room.

It is pretty tiny, too.

My elbow has bumped against the wall like five times already.

But it was during the throes of passion, so it totally didn't hurt.

Except it kind of hurt. I mean, it was right on my funny bone. All five times. I think I'm going to have a bruise there now.

Also, my mouth is like really drying out, but Tristan is still going at it. Kissing me like the world is ending and our lip-lock is the key to humanity's salvation. Does Tristan have any saliva left? How is that even biologically possible? My saliva glands are running on hyperdrive over here trying to keep up.

And what exactly are you supposed to do with your hands when you're making out with someone for this long?

I already did the hair muss, the shirt grab, the lower back push, the face cup. All the things you see girls do in the movies, but now I've run out of moves. What should I do? Put them in my pockets?

No, that would be really weird. And awkward. I don't even have pockets.

I bet that new girl Sophia would know what to do with her hands. She's from Los Angeles. They probably teach make-out session hand placement in school. It's probably an elective. And she probably aced it.

Stop.

Stop thinking about Sophia.

Tristan is here with
you
. Not her.

But that's really only because I practically dangled this in front of him like a carrot in front of a cart-pulling donkey. Would he have come with me if I hadn't offered a clandestine make-out session? If I hadn't been wearing the shortest skirt I've ever put on in my life? If my legs weren't covered in fishnet stockings?

What would he have done if I'd just
asked
him to come with me?

Would he have chosen to stay in the cafeteria with the new girl and make more lame jokes about his sugar intake?

The bell rings and I feel a glimmer of relief. My chin was starting to get raw from Tristan's face stubble. I pull away and stare at my boyfriend. My beautiful, sexy, rock star boyfriend. His eyes are still closed. His touchable dark blond hair is even messier than it usually is.

“Wow.” He breathes the word more than speaks it.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Wow.”

That's the word I was looking for!

Duh.

“Well,” I say, straightening my top. “I should probably get to the gym. You know, big speech and all.”

I reach for the door handle, but Tristan's hands are on my waist, pulling me back to him. “Wait. Don't go. Stay a little longer.”

A little longer?

How much longer can two people be expected to kiss?

It's not that I don't like it. I do. I really, really do. Tristan is so incredibly sexy, but, you know, I have my speech to think about.

I disentangle his arms from my waist. “No, no,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and playful. “I have things to do. People to impress. Elections to win.”

I lunge for the door before he has a chance to pull me back again. The blast of fresh air is startling. Did we use up all the oxygen in this tiny cubicle?

I step out and head for the stairs that lead to the main floor of the library. I'm halfway down when I hear my name.

“Ellie!”

My body tenses. Is Tristan seriously trying to lure me back inside the oxygenless make-out lair again? But then I realize the voice is coming from in front of me, not behind me.

I look down and see Owen standing at the foot of the stairs, beaming. I skip down the last few steps to greet him. “How was book club?” I ask.

“I would tell you, but I have a feeling you already know.”

“Death. Narrator. Movie. Yadda yadda yadda.”

He smirks. “How's the new look working out for you?”

Just then, Tristan appears at the top of the stairs. Owen glances back and forth between us, most likely noticing Tristan's disheveled hair and clothes, and my certain lack of lipstick. “Ah,” he says, putting the pieces together. “I guess pretty well, then.”

Tristan trots down to us, wrapping his arm around me. “Hey, Reitzman.” He nods to Owen.

Why is it that guys always have to call each other by their last names?

“Wheeler,” Owen responds in kind, but his voice sounds weird. It's all deep and scratchy, like he's trying to disguise it. He turns to me. “I'll see you in the gym.”

“That's where we're heading,” I say. “Walk with us.”

Something indecipherable flashes across Owen's face. It reminds me of the look he got in the sixth grade when Jacob Hurtzlinger hit him smack in the gut with a dodge ball. “You know, I just remembered I've got that junior counseling appointment thing right now, so I'll have to catch up with you later. Good luck with your speech.”

I know right away it's a lie. Not only because Owen does this strange squinty thing with his eyes whenever he lies, but also because I've lived this day four times now and this is the first time he's had a counseling appointment.

But before I have a chance to argue Owen darts off, leaving Tristan and me alone at the foot of the stairs. And leaving me wondering why, for the first time in our seven-year friendship, Owen felt the need to lie to me.

 

Time Is on My Side

1:34 p.m.

The common misconception about high school election speeches is that you actually have to
give
a speech. It turns out, standing up there and telling dirty jokes for three minutes works just as well, if not even better.

By the time Principal Yates physically rips the microphone from my hand, I have the entire student body in stitches. They're cheering and catcalling and pumping fists in the air.

When I get back to homeroom and fill in the little bubble next to my name on the ballot, I'm feeling pretty good about my chances.

1:57 p.m.

“Hello! You must be…” Mr. Goodman's voice trails off when I strut into his office and he gets an eyeful of my outfit.

“Ellison, yes. That's me.”

He clears his throat as I sit down, sounding like a wild boar snorting. “Uh … right. Pleased to meet you.” But he doesn't exactly sound pleased to meet me. Or look it. He looks like he was just thrown into a snake pit. Is that sweat beading on his forehead?

He stands up from his desk and walks over to the door I closed. “I'm just gonna…” But he doesn't finish. He cracks the door open. “There we go.”

He sits back down and wipes the sweat from his face. Good. That was really going to bug me.

“So, um, where were we?”

“You were about to tell me that junior year is a toughie.”

He gives me a blank look. “Right you are. Right you are. A real toughie.”

“And then you were going to say, ‘And don't forget about those colleges!'” I do my best Mr. Goodman impression, complete with clownlike grin and finger pistols. “‘It's time to start thinking about my future! Pow! Pow!'”