A Week of Mondays (14 page)

Just as I suspected, the tryouts are winding down when I finally make it out to the field, huffing and puffing from my sprint.

“Coach,” I pant, my hands on my knees. “I'm here. I'm ready to try out.”

He gives me a once-over, taking in my jeans and sweater. “Sparks,” he begins in that you're-not-going-to-like-what-I-have-to-say tone. “I—”

“Please,” I beg him before he has a chance to finish. “I have to do this. I have to make varsity this year. My dad…” I pause to catch my breath. “… is counting on me. I'm ready. I can do it.”

I watch pity and compassion cloud his expression as he glances at the girls coming in from the outfield. “I'm sorry, Ellie. But the JV team still needs a good fielder like you.” He slaps me on the back and turns away. “There's always next year.”

I wouldn't bet on it,
I want to say in return as I trudge off the field.
There may not even be a tomorrow.

 

It's the Same Old Song

8:12 p.m.

Jackson beats his drumsticks together four times, kicking the next song of the set into gear. The space around the stage is packed with people writhing to the music. I've never seen Tristan look so radiant before. He's practically glowing up there, and his glow makes me glow. It's a contagious glow. Especially when I think about how I'm the reason he's up there. It's because of me that he got the gig. Sure, I got detention as a trade-off and I wasn't able to turn in my extra-credit paper for English, but seeing him up there, crooning into the mic, sweat dripping down his forehead, pounding on his guitar like he's going to blow the strings right off—well, it's worth it.

I stand in the front row of the massive crowd and let my body be moved by the music. Tristan catches my eye for the third time since the set started and I beam back at him, bobbing my head to the beat. When we first started dating and he took me to a gig, I wasn't sure what to do. I'd never been to a live rock show before. Most of the musicians I love are dead or no longer performing. I stood in the back and watched everyone. Like a sociologist observing an indigenous tribe with crazy, archaic rituals. That's how it felt. It was so foreign to me. So intimidating. And yet so fascinating at the same time. I was a stranger in a strange land with even stranger customs.

I lingered in the back and played scientist. I loved watching the people almost as much as I loved watching Tristan. The way they responded to him. The way they all absorbed the beat of the song, like they'd contracted a rhythmic airborne virus. Half of these people had undoubtedly never heard his music before, yet they were pulsing to it like it was their own heartbeat.

That's what Tristan's music does to people.

It moves them.

Literally.

I fell in love with Tristan while he was on that stage. I fell in love with how effortlessly he won them all over.

By the second show, I was right there in front. A convert. A member of the tribe. I wore the sacred uniform, I danced the secret dance, my mouth learned how to form the ritualistic sounds.

I became a true fan.

I admit, Whack-a-Mole's music is still not my favorite in the world. The guitars are a little too rough. The bass lines a little too piercing. The melodies a little too hard to follow. But I've learned to appreciate it. At least it doesn't sound like noise to me anymore. That's probably because I know all the lyrics by heart now and can sing every single song in the shower.

The song finishes with a climactic drum riff leading up to Tristan's solo on the guitar. The crowd goes nuts. I jump up and down, clapping wildly and screaming with the rest of the diehards.

“Okay, we have one more song for you tonight,” Tristan pants into the mic, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from his forehead. “This one is dedicated to the girl who got us this gig. Thank you for being so freaking awesome, Ellie Sparks.”

The band launches into the song and I immediately recognize the slow opening riff of “Mind of the Girl.” It's one of their newer songs—an upbeat punk pop track—and it was an instant fan favorite the first time they played it. Tristan wrote it the week after he met me.

And now he's playing it.

That has to be a good sign, right?

That has to mean that I've successfully changed the outcome of this day. How can he dedicate a song to me—a song written
about
me—and still plan on breaking up with me?

The heavy guitars drop out and Tristan steps up to the mic, softly breathing the first verse into the mic.

“She.

She laughs in riddles I can't understand.

She.

She talks in music I can't live without.”

Holy crap, he's hot up there. He's like a rock god. His hands caressing the strings of that guitar, his forehead glistening with sweat (do gods sweat?). Every girl in this crowd is ogling him, wishing she could be the one he comes to when he steps off that stage. And yet it's me—ME!—he's hanging out with tonight. I'm the one who gets the man when the god puts his guitar away.

Or at least I hope I still am.

I hope that yesterday was just a fluke. That today will end differently. With Tristan and me kissing at the top of that Ferris wheel.

Sometimes it's hard for me to believe. It's been five months and I still feel the need to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. Pretty much every girl in our school has been in love with Tristan since the moment he moved to this town freshman year. Since before he even formed his band. There was just something about him. I don't know if it was his confidence, his laid-back, worry-free attitude about everything, his looks, but people just felt drawn to him. Even the teachers. There's something simply magnetic about Tristan Wheeler.

Most new kids walk into their first day at a new school with fear hunching their shoulders and uncertainty diverting their gazes to the floor. But not Tristan. He walked down that hallway like he already owned it. He stepped into my first-period class like he'd already aced it. With his guitar strapped to his chest and his dark blond hair falling into his eyes. When he pronounced his name to the teacher—Tristan Wheeler—I swear I heard even the walls sigh.

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.”