A Week of Mondays

by Jessica Brody

  And then two years later, he chose me.

  Of all the people in all the world—or, okay, maybe just this school—he chose me. Ellison Sparks.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those pathetic girls who hid in a corner her whole life waiting for the perfect guy to shine his light and bring her out of her shell. I was perfectly content with being an unknown entity. I had no desire to be in the spotlight. People didn’t really know who I was, nor did they care. And that suited me fine.

  But everything changed the night I was spotted talking to Tristan at Daphne Gray’s party. It was right after he’d broken up with Colby. No one was surprised that they were over. Tristan had broken up with every girl he’d dated at our school. Seven of them, to be exact. Not that I was counting. What did surprise everyone was how long he talked to me that night. Sixty-two minutes, to be exact.

  Okay, maybe I was counting.

  When you talk to the most sought-after recently eligible bachelor in the school for sixty-two minutes, people notice.

  They also notice when you date him for four months longer than any other girl.

  Not only do they notice, they disapprove.

  That’s why the summer was so blissful. For the most part, we were able to steal away from those inquisitive eyes and snickering comments. It was just us. No one else. But now, as I stand in this sea of people all staring up at Tristan, I can’t help but feel like they’re staring at me, too. Judging me. Deeming me not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not cool enough.

  And to be honest, sometimes I wonder if they’re right.

  “Thank you everyone! We’re Whack-a-Mole. I hope you had a great time tonight! Come see us again real soon!” I blink up at the stage. The set is over. The crowd is going crazy. I can feel the energy radiating off Tristan. The post-gig high has already started. It’s my absolute favorite time to be around him. When he’s floating on the echo of the crowd’s cheers and his feet don’t touch the ground. Everything you say is groundbreaking, every joke you make is hilarious, every kiss you steal is earthshaking.

  Tristan hops down from the stage and is immediately swarmed by people. New fans, old fans, pretty girls, not-so-pretty girls. I squeeze through them, trying to stay close to him, but I keep getting shoved back. Everyone wants to meet Tristan. Or at the very least, stand within ten feet of him.

  Finally I grab his hand to keep from getting lost in the storm.

  He looks down at my fingers interlaced in his and then up at me, flashing me a warm but hurried smile.

  “Give me a minute?” he says. “I’ll come find you.”

  Oh.

  I keep my game face on. “Sure! Of course. I’ll be by the carnival games.”

  “Awesome. I’ll meet you there.” Then he brings my hand up to his lips, kisses it, and lets go.

  I try to catch his eye again for one last smile, but he’s already turned his back to me to take a selfie with someone.

  I push through the swarm and wander over to the aisle with all the games. I take a seat at the horse race game again. I pick horse number seven because aren’t sevens supposed to be lucky?

  I do better this time. I manage to sink two balls instead of just one and my horse moves a whole four paces, but the buzzer goes off announcing the winner before I’ve even started to get the hang of it. How do these people win so fast? Do they practice at home? Do they have little ball ramps set up in their basements?

  I play two more games and still lose miserably. I scowl as I watch the carnival employee hand some tween girl a giant stuffed polar bear and congratulate her on her victory. That girl is barely Hadley’s age. She’s probably a plant working for the carnival.

  Fortunately Tristan finds me before I pump the very last of my dollars into this money pit.

  I jump up from the stool, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him.

  I wait for the fireworks. The lightning. I wait for my knees to crumple beneath me at the feel of his strong mouth pressing against mine. But none of it comes. That amazing, contagious post-gig high is nowhere to be found. In fact, he barely even kisses me back.

  I pull away and untangle my arms from his neck. “You were amazing up there!” I say, trying to reinvigorate him. Trying to get back a smidgen of what I know I saw in him on that stage.

  He smiles weakly. “Thanks.”

  “I’d ask you if you were ready to rock this carnival, but apparently you already have.”

  Another puny smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually,” he begins somberly, “I don’t think I’m going to stay.”

  Dread rips through me.

  No. It can’t be happening. Not again.

  “What?” I protest. “But you just got here.”

  Wow, I sound even whinier than I did last night.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You can’t possibly need to meet with the guys again. You got a gig! I fixed it!”

  Confusion clouds his eyes. Of course it does. To him, I’m not making any sense.

  “Actually I do need to meet with the guys,” he says warily. “That gig was off the hook and I’m so grateful you got it for us. I think it’s brought us to a whole new level. We got like five people interested in booking us tonight alone. So we really need to meet and strategize our next move.”

  I feel a scream of frustration boiling up inside me.

  I remind myself to stay calm. This doesn’t mean he’s going to break up with me again. It only means he has to meet with the band. There’s absolutely nothing to worry—

  “But I wanted to talk to you about something before I left, and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

  The ground beneath my feet drops out and I’m suddenly plummeting into the bubbling hot, liquid lava center of the earth.

  I close my eyes. Maybe if I squeeze them tight enough, I’ll wake up. Maybe if I can’t see him, he can’t go through with this.

  “Ellie,” he begins, and I hear the same pain in his voice. He clears his throat. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  I keep my eyes shut and shake my head. “This isn’t happening,” I murmur quietly to myself. “This isn’t happening.”

  “I’m confused, Ellie,” he whispers back, and I don’t need to open my eyes to know that he’s doing that same fidgety thing with his fingernails again. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I had all the answers, but I don’t. I just know that it’s not working. You and me. We’re not working. Something is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if it can be fixed.”

  My eyes snap open. “No!” I shout.

  Tristan is completely taken aback. “What?”

  “No,” I repeat. “You can’t do this to me again.”

  “Again? I don’t under—”

  “What is broken?” I demand. “What can’t be fixed?”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer,” I fire back.

  He blinks in surprise. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Is this about the fight last night?”

  He shakes his head. “No.” But I’m not sure I believe him. He doesn’t meet my gaze when he says it.

  “Then what?” That’s when my voice cracks. Tears are welling up in my eyes. I thought I might be able to keep them at bay this time, but no such luck. “Then what, Tristan?” I repeat, much softer this time. Much more broken.

  “Oh, Ellie.” He grabs my hand and leads me over to a bench. I immediately notice that it’s the exact same bench. This makes me cry harder. He sits next to me, clutching my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It breaks my heart to do this because I really did care for you. I still do. I mean, I always will. We had something good. Really good. Something I’ve never had before. It just … I don’t know … fell apart somehow. I wish it could have been different. I wish I didn’t feel this way. But I do. And I have to stay true to how I feel.”

  T
hen something snaps. I don’t know if it’s the repetitiveness of his words, the familiarity of this scene, the same people passing by and staring at me like I’m a leper, but I can’t take it. I rip my hand from his and launch to my feet.

  “No. You don’t get to do this again. You don’t get to say the same stupid things that mean nothing. I want an explanation.”

  “Ellie,” Tristan falters. “I—”

  “A real one.”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” I press.

  “Well, I mean, you’re a little clingy sometimes. But that’s not—”

  “Clingy?!” I shout the word and then quickly lower my voice to an urgent whisper. “I’m not clingy. When have I ever been clingy?”

  “Look, I’m not saying that’s the only reason, I’m just…” But he doesn’t finish. He breathes out like he’s surrendering in a war before he stands up, steps toward me, and kisses me gently on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I really am.”

  Then, with a pitying look on his face, he walks away, leaving me alone all over again.

  Come See About Me

  9:20 p.m.

  I don’t expect to see anyone when I get home, which is why I don’t bother to clean up my mascara-smeared face before skulking through the door. I tiptoe toward the stairs, nearly jumping out of my skin when my dad calls my name from the pitch-black guest room.

  Was he just sitting alone in there? In the dark?

  I flip on the light switch and that’s when I see that he’s lying in bed. The covers are pulled up around him and he’s propped up against two pillows.

  He’s sleeping here.

  I’m suddenly reminded of what I heard last night when I returned from the carnival. I came upstairs and my parents were fighting. But that was earlier in the evening. Did they fight again tonight? Did my mom kick him out of their room?

  “Are you okay?” he asks me, probably noticing the tear tracks on my face.

  “Are you?” I throw the question back at him, nodding toward his bed for the night.

  He sighs. “Yeah. Just a little misunderstanding between your mother and me.”

  “Little?”

  He chuckles. “Your mom has a tendency to overreact.”

  “I think it might be genetic.”

  “What happened?”

  I feel more tears stinging my eyes and I almost tell him. I almost spill it all. How I tried to save my relationship … twice. How I failed … twice. I almost tell him about my day, the suspicious ibuprofen, the dreamlike déjà vu, but then I see the crease between his eyes. The worry marks of a father who cares too much, and I realize I can’t burden him with this. Not when he’s clearly dealing with his own mess.

  “Nothing,” I say quietly. “It’s nothing.”

  He nods, like he believes me, or at the very least he’s respecting my decision to keep it to myself. “How did softball tryouts go, by the way?”

  A pang of guilt strikes me in the chest. “Fine. I got in.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth. That I missed them altogether because I got detention. Or that I probably wouldn’t have gotten in anyway. I’ll save that bad news for tomorrow.

  His tired, weary eyes brighten. “That’s great! I knew you could do it!”

  I change the subject before he has a chance to make too big a deal about it. “What about you?” I ask, nodding to the guest bed. “What happened here tonight?”

  He turns his head and looks out the window. “Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with. Some days I just wish I had a do-over, you know?”

  I crack a smile. “Yeah.”

  “Go get some sleep.”

  I bend down and kiss his forehead. “Do you want me to shut off the light?”

  He nods. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  I flip the switch and climb the stairs. When I pass my sister’s room, I hear The Breakfast Club playing on her TV again. It’s a little more than half over. Like last night, she invites me to come and watch with her, but like last night, I turn her down.

  I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about what my dad said.

  Some days I just wish I had a do-over, you know?

  I do know. It’s exactly what I wished for last night. I may get my dramatic side from my mother, but I definitely get my idealism from my dad.

  I think about the words my mind whispered into the darkness as I was falling asleep.

  Please just let me do it over.

  Please give me another chance.

  I swear I’ll get it right.

  What if today wasn’t a curse? What if today was actually some kind of wish fulfillment? A prayer being answered? Was I given a second chance only to fail miserably again?

  Will I be given another chance tomorrow? Or was that it?

  A onetime thing. A fluke.

  I hear a tapping at my window and I sit up.

  “Owen?” I call out.

  “Yeah. Let me in.”

  The window is already unlocked. I hoist it open and he tumbles ungracefully inside, ducking and rolling before jumping unsteadily to his feet.

  “I suppose I don’t have to guess why you left the carnival in tears,” he says, after the same long pause he took last night.

  I had passed Owen again on my way to the parking lot. This time he was wandering around one of the concession stands, but I still couldn’t bring myself to talk to him.

  I let out a soft whimper. “Yes, it’s true. He broke up with me … again.”

  Owen looks confused. “Again?”

  I sit down on the bed. “Owen, if I tell you something will you promise to believe everything I say?”

  He looks skeptical. “Is this a trick question? Are you going to tell me you formed your own cult and now I’m going to be stuck joining it because of this promise?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, it’s not a trick question.”

  He sits, pulls Hippo onto his lap, faces him toward me, and raises Hippo’s left leg in the air, like he’s being sworn in. “Okay, fine. We promise to believe you.”

  I look down at Hippo’s beady black eyes, then up at Owen’s inquisitive green ones.

  “Something weird happened to me today. I think I might be stuck in the same day.”

  He lets out a groan and turns Hippo around so they can share a look of disbelief. “This again?”

  “You promised to believe me. You both did.”

  He and Hippo exchange another glance. “That’s before we knew you were, you know”—he spins his finger next to his ear and whispers—“craaaazy.”

  “I can prove it to you,” I offer.

  “Ah, yes, the moment of proof. This is where you tell me some deep, dark secret that I just happened to have divulged to you on a different version of this same day.”

  “Last night you had a dream that you went skinny-dipping with Principal Yates in the school pool.”

  Owen’s mouth literally falls open. I think this is the first time he’s ever been stunned into silence.

  “You mean like that?” I ask, struggling to hide a triumphant smile. The shock on his face is too priceless. I would take a picture but I can’t be certain it would be on my phone in the morning.

  “H-h-how did you…”

  “You told me about it. Last night.”

  “I most certainly did not. Besides, I just had the dream last night.”

  “Yup,” I say. “That’s the problem. Last night for you was Sunday night. Last night for me was tonight. I mean, Monday night. This whole day and night has been a complete duplicate.”

  “You mean Tristan broke up with you twice?”

  The reminder is like a knife into my heart. I swallow. “Yes.”

  “And we’ve had this conversation before?”

  “Well, not this same conversation, but similar. Some details have been changed.”

  He crosses his arms and rests them on Hippo’s head. “Like what?”

  “Like last night, you tried to
cheer me up by insisting I rename Hippo.”

  “He does deserve a real name.”

  “That’s exactly what you said last night.”

  “Alternate me is one smart guy.”

  “Then I said that he does have a real name, and you said—”

  “Hold up. Calling something by its literal genus is not a real name.”

  I laugh. “Exactly. That’s exactly what you said.”

  “Holy crap, Ells.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean like bloody hell.”

  I nod in agreement. “Bloody hell, indeed.”

  “How does it work?”

  “That’s the thing. I have no idea! I just woke up and it was … today.”

  “What are you going to do? Like tomorrow?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know if this will even happen again tomorrow. Maybe it was a onetime thing and I botched it up.”

  “But what if it’s not? What if you do get another chance? What would you do differently?”

  I stop and think about that. “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “If I do get another chance, there’s only one logical explanation for it. I have to fix what I messed up, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “And the biggest thing I messed up was Tristan. I have to get him back. Or, you know, stop him from leaving.”

  For a flash of a moment, Owen looks disappointed in my answer. What was he hoping I would say? That I’d join book club? I don’t think the universe is rearranging itself just to convince me to discuss The Book Thief at lunch.

  “So that’s your big plan, then?” he asks.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No. I guess not.” He sets Hippo aside and stands up. “Well, I better get home. I don’t want to poof into thin air at midnight or anything. That can’t be good for me.”

  He steps onto the window ledge and grabs the overhanging tree branch for balance.

  “Svnoyi Ostu.” I tell him good night in Cherokee. It was one of the phrases used at Camp Awahili.