A Week of Mondays (39 page)

 

Walkin' Back to Happiness

8:42 a.m.

“Say ‘Two more years!'” the photographer trills.

“Two more years!” I trill back. She snaps the photo and I climb off the stool to check the viewfinder. I'm surprised by what I find. The girl on the little screen is so calm and relaxed. Her shoulders aren't hunched, her posture isn't ramrod straight, her smile doesn't look forced.

She looks …

“You look happy,” the photographer's assistant comments.

Yes. That's it. I look
happy
.

Why has she never made that comment before? Had I really looked that miserable in the countless other photos I've taken this week?

9:50 a.m.

The bell rings, ending first period, and I file into the hallway with my classmates. I'm supposed to meet Tristan at my locker right now, and I can't help feeling nervous at the thought of seeing him.

I know he won't remember anything from the past six days. I know, for him, this day has been completely reset. But
I
remember. I know all the things he's said, all the reasons he's given me for wanting to break up, all the reactions I've had as a result.

Reminiscing about it all at once—like a mental collage—is twisting my stomach into knots.

He's already at my locker when I arrive. He doesn't see me yet so I have a few seconds to observe him. He leans against the locker banks, his guitar strapped to his back, peering down at his phone.

He sees me approach and stands up a bit straighter, pocketing his phone.

I smile and dial in the combination at my locker.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he responds rigidly. He clears his throat. “So, that thing last night. I thought we should talk about it.”

I grab a pen from the holder, stick it into my bag, and close the door. “Yes,” I say, and turn to face him. I draw in a courageous breath. It's taken me a week to get here. Now it's finally time to say all the things I haven't been able to say in the last six days.

“I've been wanting to talk to you about that, too. Look, I'm tired of acting like I don't care. I'm tired of hiding my feelings from you. The reason I behaved the way I did last night is because I trapped those feelings and thoughts inside for so long that they just exploded. From the day we met, I've been pretending to be someone else. I've been pretending to be the girl I
thought
you wanted. But I'm not her. I get jealous when you flirt with other girls. I get angry when you Snapchat with them when you're supposed to be watching a movie with me. That's who I am. I'm sorry I misled you for so long. It wasn't fair to you or to me.”

Tristan stares at me for a long moment. I can tell this isn't what he expected me to say, and to be honest, one week ago this isn't what I'd expect me to say either.

He blinks rapidly, trying to gather his thoughts.

“We should get to class,” I say, walking past him, but he stops me, gently reaching out for my hand.

“I'm sorry, too,” he says.

Now it's my turn to be stunned. “What?”

“For last night. I should have put my phone away. I shouldn't have made you feel ignored. That was really insensitive of me. I know I'd hate it if you were texting other guys when you were with me.”

I'm so speechless, I can't move. Tristan is apologizing to me?

“Do you forgive me?” He bends down and gently touches his lips to mine. His kiss is so disarming, his apology is so heartfelt, all I can do is nod.

The bell rings, snapping me out of my reverie. I glance at my phone.

Crap!

If I run, I might just make it. I take off at a sprint down the hallway.

“Ellie?” Tristan calls after me.

“We're late!” I yell over my shoulder. “He's not dying today! No one is dying today!”

I hear footsteps behind me. “What are you talking about? Who's dying?”

Why didn't I suggest we meet at Tristan's locker? It's right next to our Spanish classroom, while mine is on the other side of the school.

The hallways are emptying as I race up the stairs, past the library, and into the foreign language corridor.

“Why are we running?” Tristan pants from somewhere behind me.

By the time I burst through the doors of the classroom a few minutes later, Señora Mendoza is already halfway through her future conjugation of the verb
ver.

“Nosotros veremos,”
she declares to the class. She pauses when she sees me. “Señorita Sparks. It's nice of you to join us today.”

I ignore her and fly across the classroom, weaving around chairs and knocking textbooks off desks in the process.

“Señorita Sparks,” she repeats, this time with a tinge of exasperation. “Will you please take your seat?”

I reach the window, flip the lock, and thrust it open just in time. The massive black bird comes soaring into the classroom, right over my head. Some of the girls scream.

“
¡Dios mío!”
Señora exclaims, clutching her chest. The bird makes a full lap around the room, forcing the teacher to duck to avoid getting dive-bombed. Then, just as suddenly as it entered, it flies back out the window. I slam it closed, flip the lock back into place, and saunter to my desk.

Every pair of eyes in the classroom is trained on me. Tristan is still standing in the doorway, staring at me in astonishment.

I slip into my chair and ask, “What?”

“Señorita Sparks,” Señora says reprovingly.

“Oh, sorry, I mean,
¿Qué?”

 

Black Magic Woman

11:25 a.m.

My history test is a breeze. If I don't know those questions backward and forward by now, then there's absolutely no hope for me. Daphne Gray, once again, is extremely annoyed that she has to write “100%” at the top of my paper. And she's even more annoyed when she notices Tristan waiting for me outside our classroom when fifth period ends.

She gives me a dirty scowl and stomps off down the hallway.

“Hey,” Tristan says, his fingers lacing through mine. “Are you coming to the band room for lunch?”

“No,” I say apologetically. “I'm going to the book club meeting.”

His face scrunches in confusion. “We have a book club?”

I playfully bump his hip with mine. “Yes, we have a book club.”

“When did you join it?”

“Today.”

He still seems baffled by this turn of events. “But have you even read the book?”

I nod. “Actually, I have, but you can walk me to the cafeteria. I'm going to grab something to take to the library.”

Not only does Tristan walk with me, he even waits in line with me and pays for my turkey sandwich.

“So, you're sure you don't want to come?” Tristan says, putting his wallet back into his jeans.

I smile and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I'm sure. Thanks for the sandwich.” I start to walk away but then turn back. “Oh, one more thing. You may want to visit the carnival manager down at the fairgrounds. I heard a rumor that he's looking for a band to play tonight.”

I wave goodbye and disappear into the hallway just as I hear a loud clatter behind me. That would be Sophia's tray tumbling to the floor and her chocolate pudding finding its way down the front of her future boyfriend's shirt.

I check my phone.

12:49 p.m. Right on time.

You gotta hand it to Cole Simpson. He may be a giant knobhead, but he sure is punctual.

12:51 p.m.

“What did I miss?” I say, as I approach the group of tables pushed together in the center of the library.

Owen stops midsentence and gawks at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn't this book club?” I ask, sliding into the chair next to him.

“Yeah, but aren't you—”

“I'm joining,” I say, looking around at the seven other members. “If that's okay with all of you?”

Everyone nods back in response. I turn to Owen. “Is that okay with you, Owen?”

“Of course,” he blubbers. “We were just talking about the reasons the film wasn't as good as the book, but since you haven't read it, I guess you can observe—”

“I personally think the movie didn't work because we lost the powerful impact of Death as a narrator,” I launch in, instantly igniting an impassioned debate among the other book club members.

I glance at Owen and give him a wink. For some reason, he can't seem to close his mouth.

“Don't you have a speech to practice?” he whispers to me a few minutes later.

I grin. “I thought I'd stir up some trouble here first.”

“I thought you spent your lunches in the band room now.”

“Trust me, this is much more exciting.”

“More exciting than hanging out with rock stars?”

“Oh,
infinitely
more exciting.”

Owen barks out a laugh. The rest of the book club stops their discussion and stares at us like we're from another planet. I duck my head into Owen's arm and stifle a fit of giggles.

For the first time in a long time, I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

 

Break On Through (to the Other Side)

1:33 p.m.

“Running for vice president of the junior class, here's Ellison Sparks, Sparks, Sparks.” Principal Yates's voice reverberates through the gym and Rhiannon gives me a little shove.

“Where are your notes?” she hisses.

I pull the note cards from the pocket of my dress and tap them against my hand. Then I step up to the microphone and clear my throat.

“Hello, everyone. I'm Ellison Sparks,” I begin, looking down at the index cards. The truth is, I've given this speech three times already, I don't really need the notes. I pretty much have the whole tedious thing memorized.

I find Owen in the bleachers. He's back in the front row. He gives me an encouraging nod, and I let my gaze drift to the rest of the faces staring back at me. The hundreds and hundreds of people who didn't even know my name until I started dating the lead singer of a local rock band.

I glance back at Rhiannon. She gives me another one of her perfected dirty politician looks.

Why am I even standing up here? Why did I ever say yes to her?

Was it so I could write down another impressive statistic on my college applications? Was it because I'm just incapable of saying no to pushy tyrants like Rhiannon Marshall?

Or is there possibly another reason?

“Don't just stand there,” I hear Rhiannon growl through her teeth. “Talk.”

I clear my throat again and peer back down at my notes. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I return the cards to my pocket.

“Hi. I'm Ellison Sparks,” I begin again. “Although most of you probably know me as Tristan Wheeler's Girlfriend.”

A few sniggers from the crowd. I find Tristan sitting four rows from the back and flash him a smile. He gives me that delicious dimpled grin in response.

“I admit, as far as titles go, it's not a bad one to have. Especially if you've seen him without his shirt on.”

The sniggers instantly turn into catcalls. Principal Yates shoots me a look, while from somewhere behind me Rhiannon hisses, “What are you doing?”

I ignore them both.

“And although that is an accurate title—I am
,
indeed, Tristan Wheeler's Girlfriend”—I look to Owen but he's suddenly more interested in something next to his feet than my speech—“it's also not my
only
title.”

The room falls silent. I take that as a cue to keep going.

“I figure if I'm going to ask you to vote for me, if I'm going to ultimately represent you for the rest of the year, then you should probably know more about me than just who I make out with in the hallways.”

Another round of whoops breaks the silence.

“The truth is, we are never just one thing. We all have many titles and many labels, but far too often, we get trapped inside a single definition. The Teacher's Pet, the Rule Follower, the Cheerleader, the Athlete, the Princess, the Basket Case, the Criminal … the Rock Star's Girlfriend. Whether we wrote that definition or whether it was given to us, it somehow becomes our only identity. We get so lost in it that we forget about all the other pieces that make up who we are. I know I've been guilty of falling into this very trap. But in addition to carrying the title of the Girl Who Dates Tristan Wheeler, I also proudly claim the title of the Girl Who Knows the Lyrics to Every Rolling Stones Song.”

This elicits more cheers.

“The Girl Obsessed with Legal Dramas,” I go on. “The Girl Who Makes Playlists to Match All of Her Moods. The Girl Who Starts Fights in Book Club. The Girl Whose Lips Look Like a Photo from a News Story About Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong Whenever She Eats Almonds.”

The audience hoots with laughter. It gives me the fuel I need to keep going.

“The Girl Who Still Sleeps with a Stuffed Hippo. The Girl Who Sings in the Shower. The Girl Who Watches Too Many Documentaries That Make Her Paranoid About Stuff That Will Never Happen … Probably.”

Even Principal Yates snickers at this one.

I take a deep breath. “The Girl Who Would Repeat the Same Day Over and Over Again Until She Got It Right. Because I've recently discovered that I'm also the Girl Who Never Stops Trying to Fix Things.

“And that's what I intend to do for you as your representative. I intend to fix things. I won't stop until I get it right, because that's just the kind of girl that I am. I see problems and I simply have to find solutions. For instance, there is a serious shortage of palatable food options in our cafeteria.”

Judging from the reaction in the bleachers, my peers agree with this assessment.