A Week of Mondays (19 page)

“Owen,” I say, exasperated, holding my hand up and turning around. He smacks right into my palm. I'm actually surprised when I feel lines of definition under his shirt.

Owen has pecs?

Where did
those
come from?

He certainly didn't have those at the beginning of the summer when I last saw him in swim trunks.

The unexpected discovery makes me lose my train of thought for a moment. I look down to see my hand is still on his chest. He looks down, too, then back up at me as if to say, “Now what do we do?”

I quickly remove my hand.

“What?” he asks.

“I'll have you know,” I chide him, “that I passed up an opportunity to do something for him just today because it would interfere with
my
schedule.”

“Oh yeah? What's that?” Owen crosses his arms over his chest and I find my gaze drifting down to his biceps, which are also bulkier than I remember.

What did he do all day at camp? Lift weights?

“Um,” I say, regaining my focus. “I found out the band that was supposed to play at the carnival tonight canceled and I
could
ditch school to go and get Whack-a-Mole the gig, but I'm not going to because I have other things to do.”

And because I follow the Girl Commandments,
I add silently in my head, worried that if I say it aloud, I'll just sound like a brainwashed cult member.

Owen rolls his eyes. “Oh, big deal.”

I let out a loud huff and open my mouth to argue with him, but then quickly change my mind. “You know what? I can't deal with this right now. I'm really worried about my speech. I need to concentrate and you're stressing me out.”

He drops his gaze to the floor. “Okay, sorry.” But he doesn't sound sorry. It's just a lifeless word on his lips.

“I'm sorry”—I try—“but this election is really important to me and—”

“Is it?” he interrupts. “Is it important to you?”

“Yes! Why would I do it if it wasn't?”

Owen shrugs. “I don't know. I guess I'd just like to see you live one day for yourself.”

I'm so taken aback by his comment, I actually stumble backward. “What does that even mean?”

“It means—” But he never finishes the thought. “You know what? Never mind. Good luck on your speech.”

He steps around me and I watch in stunned disbelief as he takes off down the hall without me.

 

There! I've Said It Again

1:15 p.m.

Well, perfect. Now I'm in a bad mood. Thanks a lot, Owen. He had to do that right before my speech? He couldn't wait to bring up my life's choices until, I don't know, maybe
after
I had to stand in front of the entire student body and read the most boring election speech in the history of high school elections?

I dig my earbuds out of my bag and jam them into my ears. I flip through the playlists on my phone until I find the new one I created this morning—“Brand-New World Order”—tap Shuffle and crank up the volume. Then I continue my march down the hall to the sound of “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies blasting in my ears. I need to get back to my confident Creature of Mystery state.

The state that Owen so rudely crapped on with his sudden need to play psychiatrist.

“There you are!” Rhiannon grabs my arm. “I've been looking everywhere for you.” She drags me into the center of the gym. I pull my earbuds out and stick them back into my bag.

“Did you practice your speech?”

I pull the note cards out of my pocket. “Yeah, about that. I was thinking—”

I can see the disapproving look on Rhiannon's face as we position ourselves next to the other candidates.

“I really like it,” I'm quick to start with. “The whole ‘we're going to make this school a better place' is great! I'm just wondering if maybe I should add some specific ideas of what we're going to do to accomplish that. You know, like maybe—”

“Stop. Just stop.” Rhiannon looks like she swallowed a habanero pepper. “This is not going to be one of
those
campaigns.”

“The kind that win?” I venture, and immediately regret saying it when I see the monster flash in Rhiannon's eyes.

“The kind,” she admonishes testily, “that uses fake promises and impossible changes that are only designed to win votes and that have no hope of ever getting done. This is an honest campaign. Not a popularity contest. We aren't going to throw around words like ‘pizza' and ‘karaoke' just to get a cheer from the crowd.”

I take a moment to glance around the gym. The bleachers are nearly full now as the kids continue to file in. The sea of faces is starting to look familiar. I don't have to scan the entire gym for Tristan, I know exactly where he's sitting. He gives me an encouraging smile.

“Just stick to the script, okay?” Rhiannon finishes and I turn my attention back to her.

I shrug. “Okay.”

Principal Yates steps up to the mic and settles everyone down. Instinctively, I look to the front row where Owen sat the last two times, ready to share a conspiratorial smirk with him, but he's not there. I do a quick scan of the crowd but don't see him.

Is he even here?

Is he so mad that he decided not to come?

I feel a pang in my chest. Maybe I was too snappy in the hallway. He was probably just trying to help, like he always does. But if that's the case, why did he attack me like that? We didn't have a fight yesterday or the day before. Why this time?

Was it because I slipped up and revealed that I had read the book? Did the whole argument escalate because of one stupid comment? Or was that just the key that unlocked the door to something he's been holding in for a while?

“And now, running for junior class vice president, please welcome Ellison Sparks, Sparks, Sparks.”

Like yesterday, the applause is forced at best. I step up to the mic, gripping the index cards in my hands and continuing to search the crowd for Owen. For some reason, I don't think I can start this until I know where he is. Until I can apologize with just a look the way only he and I can do.

This is certainly not the first fight we've ever had. When you're friends with someone for as long as we have been, you get into a few skirmishes from time to time. But for some reason, this feels bigger than that. Deeper, somehow.

Is it because of Tristan?

I sweep my gaze across the bleachers one last time but I see no sign of my best friend. My stomach feels like it's full of lead. He's not here. He didn't even come. How could he abandon me like that?

My eyes land on Tristan instead and he gives me a nod and another smile.

That's all I need.

I take a deep breath, glance down at my cards, and begin speaking as clearly as I can into the mic.

“Fellow students and members of the faculty. My name is Ellison Sparks and I'm running for junior class vice president. It is my great honor to stand up here today as a candidate and a fellow student and I…”

Swap card.

“… am excited about the things that my running mate, Rhiannon Marshall, and I have planned for the upcoming year. This is a great school.”

The room erupts in groans and quiet complaints of dissension. Principal Yates silences them all with a single look.

“A great school,” I start again. “But if you elect Rhiannon Marshall and me, we can make it even better. Rhiannon is the kind of girl who gets things done. She has a vision for what this place can be and she's not afraid of the hard work and commitment it will take to achieve that vision. When Rhiannon asked me to…”

Swap card.

“… join her campaign, I was overjoyed. The thought of working alongside such a visionary was both inspiring and invigorating.”

I glance toward Rhiannon, standing off to the side. She's smiling proudly at my words. Or rather
her
words.

This speech really
is
awful. It sounds even worse over the speaker system.

And who says “invigorating”? Apart from someone trying to sell you protein powder on an infomercial.

“Together Rhiannon and I will do amazing things.” I look up at Rhiannon again, tempted to add in a few of those things I suggested to her, but she gives me a stern shake of the head.

Whatever.

As my eyes drift back down to the card, I catch sight of a figure leaning against the doorway of the gym.

It's Owen.

Our eyes lock, and with just the subtlest tilt of his head, and the faintest curve of my lips, the message is conveyed.

All is forgiven.

By both of us.

I stand up straighter, slide the cards back into my pocket, and speak clearly into the microphone. “Thank you for your attention and please vote Marshall/Sparks for your junior class president and vice president.”

Lackluster applause breaks out in the crowd. I find Tristan again and he gives me a thumbs-up.

I did it!

I finally got through that dreaded speech, with my dignity—and my normal lip size—intact.

As I step away from the mic, I glance back to the doorway, ready to flash Owen a triumphant grin, but he's gone.

 

Stand By Your Man

3:15 p.m.

When the final bell of the day rings, I leap out of my chair like an Olympic sprinter off the starting block.

Victory is mine!

I survived the school day!

No, not only survived …
rocked
. Killed. Pulverized.

In my mind, I'm running down the hallway in slow motion, high-fiving all the people on the sidelines as they clap and cheer me on and
Chariots of Fire
plays in the background.

Obviously, in reality, I don't do that.

But I do notice there's much more of a strut in my step than usual. After the election speeches, the day only got better. I didn't ditch school to get Tristan's band the gig. I went straight from my counseling appointment (where Mr. Goodman gave me yet another pamphlet) to English class. I turned in my extra-credit English paper, solidifying my A for the quarter.

I don't need to score Tristan a gig to convince him not to break up with me. I just have to be my beautiful, calm, and mysterious self. Which is also why I don't seek Tristan out at his locker after class. I hang out at mine waiting for
him
to come to
me.
He's bound to come eventually, right?

And then right on cue, almost like I summoned him from the heavens, he's there. He taps me on the shoulder while I'm stowing my books and bag in my locker.

I spin around and Tristan plants a delicate kiss on my lips. “Nice speech today. You were great up there.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Are you heading to the locker room for softball tryouts?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I'll walk you there.”

Wow. These commandments really do work. I'm going to have to write a very passionate fan letter to Dr. Louise Levine expressing my undying gratitude to her and her book.

I'm about to close my locker door when I hear a high-pitched, grating voice behind us.

“Hey, Tristan.”

I flinch at the sound, knowing full well who will be standing there when I turn around.

“Hey, Daphne,” Tristan says, stiffening slightly as he glances between the two of us. At first I don't know why he's acting so strange, and then suddenly it hits me. He thinks I'm going to flip out again. Like I did Sunday night, which for him was
last
night. That fight is still totally fresh in his mind.

Well, that just goes to show how much he knows me. This is my moment to prove to him that Sunday night was a fluke. An alternate, hangry version of Ellison Sparks. I am the real version. The cool, collected, my-boyfriend-can-talk-to-cheerleaders-as-much-as-he-wants-and-it-won't-affect-me-in-the-slightest version.

I paint on a breezy smile. “Hey, Daphne! How was the bake sale today? Did you guys make a lot of money?”

See. Easy, breezy, Creature-of-Mystery Ellie.

Daphne gives me a look that says, “Consider yourself lucky I even tolerate you.”

I fight an urge to roll my eyes.

“So, Tristan,” she says, turning back to my boyfriend. “I have some excellent news.”

Tristan once again casts a glance at me and I smile and turn back to my locker, pretending to be totally absorbed in my magnetic pen holder.

Magnets are pretty amazing, aren't they? I mean, they just stick to metal naturally! It's mind-blowing!

I pull the pen holder from the door and stick it back. Then do it again.

Fascinating!

“I found out that the band playing at the carnival tonight dropped out and they have an open slot. So I pulled some strings and I got Whack-a-Mole the gig!”

The pen holder slips from my grasp and crashes to the floor, pens, pencils, and highlighters scattering around my feet.

She
got him the gig? But
I
was supposed to get him that gig.

Except I didn't. Because I chose to go straight to English class instead and turn in my extra-credit paper.

Because I chose to play by the rules and follow those stupid commandments.

But how did she know about it? There's no way she could have known. The only reason
I
knew was because I've lived through this day before, but I certainly didn't tell anyone.

As soon as the thought is out, my whole body freezes.

I did tell someone. I told Owen. On the way to the gym for the speeches. I was trying to prove to him that my life did not revolve around Tristan.

The words come rushing back to me like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head.

I found out the band that was supposed to play at the carnival tonight canceled and I
could
ditch school to go and get Whack-a-Mole the gig, but I'm not going to because I have other things to do.