A Week of Mondays (34 page)

“No, I'll stand.”

Tristan shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. “Okay. Um. I'm not sure where I should start. I just came by to talk to you about something, and I didn't want to do it over the phone.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're breaking up with me,” I say impatiently. “What's your lame excuse this time?”

I am
so
not in the mood to stand here and listen to this same babbling speech all over again. I figure I better just move things right along.

Tristan flinches, looking completely taken aback. “Uh…” he stammers.

“I'm too clingy? We're not a match? Something is broken. What?”

“Something
is
broken,” Tristan says, sounding relieved that I plucked the words right out of his head. “I'm just not sure what it is.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe
you're
the one who's broken?”

For a moment, Tristan is completely speechless. Then he appears to gather his thoughts. “I just don't want any drama in my life.”

“Oh, right!” I say, like I'm having some big epiphany. “The
drama
!” My voice is loud enough to attract the attention of passersby. I can tell the attention—and my volume—is making Tristan uncomfortable. So I keep going. “You and your drama queens! You don't want
any
drama. You just wanna sail through life on the smoothest, glassiest sea. And as soon as you get one inkling of an incoming wave, you jump ship.
Sayonara,
baby. Isn't that right, Tristan?” I practically spit his name.

He opens his mouth to say something, but only a stutter of air comes out.

But I'm just getting warmed up. “Well, I'm sorry. Sometimes life is dramatic. Sometimes relationships are dramatic. You go out with all these girls and then you end up dumping them for the exact. Same. Reason. Every time. They're too crazy. They're insane enough to actually
want
your undivided attention. What a novel concept! Here's a hint for you. Girls don't like it when you Snapchat with other girls! Girls don't like it when you flirt with other girls right in front of them. This is not rocket science.
We
are not rocket science! Did it ever occur to you that maybe you bring out the crazy in these girls? Did it ever occur to you that maybe they're dramatic
because
of you? No. Of course not. You're too busy picking them apart, finding reasons not to be with them anymore, and then trying to pass those reasons off as ‘feelings' so you can claim to just be ‘staying true to what you feel.' I'd be willing to bet that if you actually dated the kind of girl you think you want to date, you'd get bored with her in a matter of minutes and dump her anyway. So how is this, Tristan?” I raise my voice another few decibels, shouting for the whole carnival to hear. “Is this dramatic enough for you?”

Tristan eyes the growing circle of nosy eavesdroppers around us. “Uh,” he falters, “I'm sorry, Ellie. I really am.”

“Yes, I know,” I tell him, “and this is how much I care.”

I turn, grab the first guy I see—I think he's actually a freshman at my school—and plant a big, wet, sloppy kiss on his lips. By the time he unfreezes from the shock and starts to kiss me back, I'm already pushing him away and disappearing into the crowd.

 

What a Wonderful World

8:33 p.m.

There's a funny thing that happens when you have all the time in the world. Theoretically, you would think there'd be no rush. You can slow down. You can take a thousand steps to reach a destination that's only ten steps away. But it's actually the opposite. When time is on your side, you suddenly have this burning desire to make the most of it.

When I find Owen loitering next to a popcorn cart, I grab his hand and don't let go.

I walk fast, dragging him behind me, not looking back until we've reached the very front of the line. I pull every last dollar bill I have out of my bag and thrust it at the short female carnival employee. “We want to get on this thing
now
.”

She doesn't even bat an eye. She pockets the wad of cash, yanks on a lever, and an empty car slows in front of us. “It's all yours,” she says, gesturing to the two side-by-side seats.

My stomach is on spin cycle. I'm squeezing Owen's hand so tightly, I'm sure his fingers are white.

“Ells, you don't have to do this,” he says quietly.

“No,” I tell him. “I do. It's exactly what I have to do, and you're the exact person I have to do it with.”

I draw in a long inhale—a breath I'll probably hold until my feet are back on solid ground—and plop myself down on the seat. Owen sits next to me, watching my reaction carefully as the carnival employee lowers the safety bar and locks it into place.

That's it? That's all that stands between me and certain death?

A flimsy metal bar.

Relax,
I command myself.
It'll all be over soon.

“What was it you said to me when I wouldn't climb the telephone pole?”

Owen is rigid beside me. Nervous about how nervous I am. “I told you that falling was the best part.”

I watch the employee yank on her death lever and we jerk backward. I scream and squeeze Owen's hand tighter. He squeezes back.

“Something tells me that same piece of advice doesn't apply here,” I squeak.

Owen laughs. “No, it doesn't.”

The Ferris wheel continues to move. We're sailing backward and then up. The platform is no longer beneath us. Now there's only air. I watch the ground get farther and farther away beneath my dangling feet.

“I can't!” I shut my eyes. “Oh my God, Owen. This was a bad idea. I can't do this.”

How did I ever think this was romantic? This is about the least romantic thing I've ever done. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I feel like I'm actually going to heave not only the food in my stomach, but my entire stomach as well. Spleen, liver, kidneys, everything!

How are we still going? How are we still rising? Does this thing ever stop?

Just as the thought enters my mind, I feel a shudder and the world jerks to a halt.

“Oh God. This is it, isn't it? It's broken. There's a screw loose. We're going to die up here!”

“Ellie,” Owen whispers next to me, his hand still firmly clasped in mine. “We're not going to die. Open your eyes.”

I shake my head obstinately. “No. I'd rather die with my eyes closed.”

He chuckles. “No, you wouldn't. You're not that kind of girl.”

“I think I've somehow managed to fool you into thinking I'm someone I'm not.”

There's silence next to me, and for a minute I consider opening my eyes just to check that Owen is still there. That he hasn't slipped out from under this bar and plummeted to the ground. He could easily slide right out from under this thing. He's skinny, you know. Well, at least he used to be. Before he totally bulked up over the summer without telling me.

Then I realize I'm still holding his hand. He's still there.

“I know exactly who you are,” Owen says, but I can tell he's not looking at me when he says it. His words get swept up by the wind.

I open my eyes and my heart hitches.

It's breathtaking up here. So beautiful. And quiet. And terrifying.

We're so high. It's like the world is nothing but a scale model. One of those 3-D re-creations you see in museums. The lights of our little town are twinkling far below. I can even see Providence Boulevard, the main road that leads to the fairgrounds. I follow it with my eyes—one, two, three, four stoplights—then I turn left, and another left.

“Look!” I release Owen's hand and point. “I can see my house.” I backtrack three streets. “And there's yours!”

Owen chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“It's like we're gods or something. Even the air is different up here.”

“Gods,” he repeats, trying the word on for size. “I like it. I'll be the god of wit and frivolity.”

I snort. “That's not a real god.”

“Yeah, because realism is what we're going for here.”

“Fine. Then I'm the god of classic rock.”

“I thought that was Jim Morrison.”

“You're right. I really can't take that from him.”

“Besides, you're clearly the god of Mondays.”

I groan. “Don't remind me.”

“How many has this been again?”

“Five.”

“And you
still
haven't managed to watch the season finale of
Assumed Guilty
yet?”

“I've been busy.”

“That's a load of cobblers.”

I snort. “A what?”

“It means a lot of rubbish.”

“Right.”

“I'm telling you,” Owen says righteously, “you have to watch that episode. You're missing out.”

I peer over the side of our car at the carnival below. “Actually, I don't think I am.”

I can see the ring toss game and the bumper cars and even the concession stand where Annabelle and Dr. Jason Halloway shared their milk shake. It's all there. Everything on my little fantasy date checklist. I suddenly feel silly for thinking I could re-create a night I witnessed between two strangers six years ago. Who has a fantasy date checklist?

Is there anything
less
romantic than a checklist?

It's like I became so obsessed with doing things right, I forgot to enjoy them.

Feeling bold, I lean forward in my seat, trying to view the rest of the carnival, but the bucket starts to tip. I let out a yelp and grab Owen's hand again, bolting upright.

He laughs. “Don't worry. It's supposed to tip.”

All of my former confidence has vanished. “I don't like the tipping.”

“But the tipping is so fun.”

I shake my head. “I swear, if you rock this thing on purpose, I will kill you in your sleep and make it look like a mafia hit.”

I smile as soon as I realize I've stolen his own words and used them against him.

A far-off look crosses his face. It's almost as though he can remember the words. The entire conversation. Maybe all the conversations. Like some distant reverberation through space. A ghostly echo through time.

But of course that's impossible. He can't remember those other conversations. Those alternate versions of us. They live somewhere else. In another universe.

And we live here.

In this one.

He squeezes my hand. “Don't worry. I won't let you fall.”

My gaze drifts to him. “I thought falling was the best part.”

His laughter has faded but the amusement still lingers in his eyes. He lets go of my hand only long enough to lace his fingers through mine. It's the subtlest shift—a simple rearrangement of extremities—and yet it makes all the difference in the world.

“It can be,” he murmurs softly.

My throat is dry. My stomach is still churning, but now I don't know if it's because I'm an acrophobic who's suspended two hundred feet in the air, or if it's something else.

What am I really afraid of?

What is truly paralyzing me right now?

Is it the height? The thought of plunging to my death?

Or is it the fact that Owen is right here? Right now. Moving closer to me. Leaning into me. His lips parted, his eyes soft yet focused.

Or maybe it's the realization that he's been here the whole time.

I can feel myself being drawn into him. It's an unfamiliar sensation. The desire to be closer to Owen. The sudden desperate need to know what his lips taste like. For just a fleeting second, the rest of the carnival disappears. The lights flicker out. The noise mutes. We are no longer dangling from the top of a Ferris wheel. We're dangling from the top of the world.

And the fall would definitely kill us both.

I close my eyes. The nearness of him is tangible. I feel it in my toes. His hand is cold as it rests upon my cheek, yet the warmth spreads through my entire body.

“Ellie,” he breathes, knocking the wind out of me.

His hand guides me closer to him, steering my mouth to his. Our lips barely brush. I feel it everywhere.

The Ferris wheel jolts violently, pulling us apart as I let out another startled shriek. Our eyes meet for one long, tense moment before Owen looks away, taking his hand and his warmth and his air with him.

Then suddenly we're moving again. Descending from the skies. Coming back down to earth.

 

I Second That Emotion

8:48 p.m.

The first thing I see when our car reaches the platform at the bottom is my mother. She's standing next to my father and neither one of them looks very happy.

The operator stops the ride and raises our safety bar. I step off and walk hesitantly over to my parents. I'm barely within earshot when my mother yells, “What on earth were you thinking!?”

Talk about a return to reality.

Yikes.

I'm not the kind of kid who gets in trouble very often, but I know better than to respond. Anything I say will only make matters worse.

“You got suspended from school for
fighting
?”

I almost laugh when my mother says it. It does sound too incredible to be true. Of all the things anyone would expect me to get suspended for, starting a fight with another student is definitely near the bottom of the list. Staging a sit-in to demand better-quality textbooks? Maybe. Arguing with a teacher over an unfair grade? Probably. But physical violence? No way.

“Do you have anything to say?” my mother asks.

I turn to my dad, who gives me a subtle warning shake of the head. The message is understood.
Stay silent if I want to keep my fingers and toes
.