A Week of Mondays (28 page)

“Thanks?”

He purses his lips, like he's trying to think of something else to say, until he finally comes up with “So, it's all over then?”

My brow furrows in confusion.

“Monday,” he clarifies. “The weird déjà vu, history-literally-repeating-itself thing. It's over? Tomorrow will be Tuesday?”

I shrug. “I guess. I mean, yeah.”

He jerks his chin at my outfit. “Does that mean you have to dress like that every day?”

I peer down. I have to admit it's pretty silly. I mean, fishnets and crop tops? Two months ago I wouldn't have been caught dead in anything like this, even on Halloween. But I guess that's what life is all about. Changing. Adapting. Moving forward.

“I don't know. I haven't really thought that far ahead.”

He nods, still standing awkwardly at the hood of my car, his hands still stuffed into his pockets.

I gesture to the passenger seat. “Do you need a ride home?”

He glances back to the lights of the carnival. The noise of the people and rides and games has faded into a soft din. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could, you know, like, hang out.”

Jeez, why does Owen sound so freaking edgy? Is this “costume” I'm wearing making him uneasy? The way he's ducking his head and averting his eyes, you'd think he was asking some girl he's just met on a date. Not asking his best friend to hang out. And I can't really tell because it's so dark, but it almost looks like Owen is blushing.

“Like here? Or back at my house?” I ask, feeling just as awkward. It's normally so easy between us. There's no fumbling. No asking. We just, I don't know, hang out. But this suddenly feels like we're trying to plan a state dinner or something.

“Here,” he says quickly, like he wants to get the word out before it burns a hole in his cheeks. “At the carnival. It
is
the last night. You know, with tomorrow being Tuesday and all.”

“Right,” I say haltingly. “Tomorrow. Tuesday. That means no more carnival.”

“Right,” he repeats.

Okay, this is just too much. First he lies to me in the library. Now, we're standing here bumbling like idiot strangers. I had planned on fixing this weirdness with Owen today. I was going to make things right, but apparently I've somehow only managed to make things worse. Owen and I need to return to normalcy, like, stat. I can't take much more of this awkwardness.

I steal a peek at my phone. Tristan's sent me two texts. One that says how amazing tonight was, and the other that says he's heading to Jackson's to strategize next steps with the band. That means there's no chance of me bumping into him at the carnival and screwing everything up.

I close the car door with a decisive
bang
.

“Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual. Nonchalant.
Normal
. But it comes out way too bubbly. “Let's go … um”—I point vaguely in the direction of the carnival—“hang out.”

 

There's a Moon Out Tonight

8:43 p.m.

The conversation doesn't get any easier. Owen and I walk around the carnival on Mute, like two strangers who have nothing in common. My mind struggles to make sense of it.

This is Owen! The guy who climbs through my window and makes jokes about my stuffed Hippo.

The guy I used to raid the canteen with at summer camp.

The guy who brings me Benadryl when I accidentally eat almonds.

Why is there suddenly a wall between us? Why has this crazy repetitive day turned us into two people who can't even find
one
thing to talk about?

“So do you—”

“Maybe we should—”

We speak at the same time. I chuckle. “You go.”

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to play some carnival games.”

“Yes!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. Anything that will give us something to do but wander around in silence.

“Great!” His enthusiasm sounds about as manufactured as mine.

We head over to the games and Owen stops at the ring toss booth.

“Oh,” I say, remembering the disappointing experience I had last night. “I'm pretty sure this game is rigged.”

Owen confidently slaps a dollar on the counter. “I'll take my chances.”

The carnival employee places five rings in front of Owen as he flashes a bogus, gold-toothed smile. I give him a guarded look. I trust these guys about as much as I trust the structural integrity of that Ferris wheel.

I tear my eyes from Gold Tooth and turn to Owen. He appears to be in the middle of some very intense preparation routine. He's stretching his neck from side to side, swinging his arms forward and back, and hopping from foot to foot like a boxer waiting to go into the ring.

“O?” I say cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“Warming up.”

“For what?”

He punches the air. Left. Right.
Bam! Bam!
“These games are all about muscle memory. I'm warming up my muscles.”

I turn back to the carnival employee. We now share a look of disbelief.

With a clap of his hands, Owen grabs the rings and tosses them one by one toward the bottle necks. His movements are fluid, almost rehearsed. Each fling looks identical to the last, a subtle, yet earnest flick of the wrist. And every single one sails through the air, finding a solid resting place around the neck of a bottle.

“We have a winner!” the employee announces.

I stare at Owen in amazement. I'm not sure what I just witnessed. A miracle? A superhero at work?

“Uh,” I stammer, glancing around at the group of spectators that have gathered to watch. “What just happened?”

Owen barely hears the question. He's too busy pumping his fist and jumping around, yelling, “Oh yeah! Who's the man? That's right, it's ME!”

Even the carnival employee looks impressed. “Someone's been practicing.”

This brings Owen's victory dance to a halt. He stuffs his hands back in his pockets. “Nah. I think it was beginner's luck.”

“Beginner's luck?” I repeat dubiously. “Owen, no one does that their first time.”

He shrugs and points to the menagerie of stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling of the booth. “Which one do you want?”

“You won,” I argue. “You should pick.”

He waves this away. “No. You pick.”

“I can't. You really should do it.”

He points to the big white poodle—the same one I had my sights on yesterday. The employee lowers it and hands it to Owen, who in turn proffers it to me.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Well,
I
certainly can't go home with this. Here. Take it. I won it for you.”

My throat prickles and I attempt to swallow as I take the fluffy stuffed dog from him and hug it to my chest. “Thank you. I love it.”

He nods, looking away. “Don't mention it.”

We start walking again, and Owen clears his throat loudly. “So, what's next? Bumper cars? Sharing a milk shake? A moonlight kiss at the top of the Ferris wheel?”

I stop walking, my head whipping toward him. I'm relieved when I see the goading grin on his face. “You remember?”

He chuckles. “Of course I remember, Ells. You made me follow that nauseating couple around for hours. I felt like a stalker. What was it you named them? Angie and Dr. Johnson?”

“Annabelle and Dr. Jason Halloway,” I murmur, hiding my smile behind the dog's flappy ears.

“Riiight. How could I forget Dr. Jason Halloway? It sounds like some guy on a soap opera who disappears and comes back two seasons later after he's had massive plastic surgery so they could cast a new actor.”

I slap him with the dog. “It does not. It's a romantic name.”

He snorts. “Sure. To an eleven-year-old.”

“I was ten.”

“Even worse.”

“I can't believe you remember that.”

“Ells,” he says solemnly, like he's about to deliver bad news. “I remember everything.”

 

She's Got a Ticket to Ride

9:08 p.m.

I stare up at the spinning wheel of death and feel a jolt of fear shoot through me. “I can't do it,” I resolve, stepping out of the line.

Owen grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Yes, you can.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I can't. I'm not ready to die today.”

He laughs. “You won't die. It's just like the ropes course, remember?”

I remember. It was how Owen and I met. It was the summer between third and fourth grade. At Camp Awahili. My bunk and Owen's bunk were signed up to do the ropes course and I refused to participate. I sat on the sidelines and watched as all of my bunk mates climbed a telephone pole that seemed to stretch up to the sky. Then they balanced on the very top of it and leaped to a nearby trapeze swing.

Even though everyone was secured with a harness that the counselor assured me was perfectly safe and tested for quality control every year, I refused to do it.

Why would I purposefully tempt death like that?

The activity period was almost over and I was itching to get to the canteen and drown my sorrows with a large Coke, but then Owen came over and sat with me. He was a stranger then. A skinny, freckle-faced boy with dark hair, crooked teeth, a slightly turned-up nose, and green eyes that squinted when he smiled.

He asked me why I didn't want to join in. I told him I was terrified of falling.

He laughed at this and I tried not to be offended. “Are you kidding? Falling is the best part!”

I looked at him like he was crazy.

“Seriously!” he defended. “It's so much fun, because you've got this harness on”—he jostled the straps around his chest—“and the bouncy net is under you. It's like doing a seat drop on a giant trampoline! Sometimes I fall on purpose, just so I can land on that thing.”

“You do?”

He made a
pshh
sound with his lips. “Only all the time. You should get up there and totally fall on your butt. It will be so fun, and then it won't be scary anymore, 'cause you'll have already fallen.”

It took a little more coaxing but I finally agreed. I allowed myself to be strapped in. I climbed to the top of that pole, stood on the top, and fell. Right into the net.

That's how Owen got me over my fear of the ropes course.

I glance up at the Ferris wheel again. “This is nothing like that, Owen. There's no harness. There's no net. And I don't think that contraption has been tested for quality control in years.”

Owen still hasn't let go of my arm. I glance down at his hand wrapped around me.

“What's the worst that can happen?” he asks me.

“Um, I die.”

He makes the same
pshh
sound. It brings me back to that day at the ropes course, when nine-year-old Owen talked me into strapping on that harness. “Don't be daft. You won't die.”

“Objection. I could die.”

“Objection. Lack of foundation.”

“I have plenty of foundation,” I counter. “I watched this documentary once about traveling carnivals and—”

“You and your documentaries!”

“Yes, me and my documentaries. They're very informative.”

“Whatever. I don't care. You're getting on that Ferris wheel.”

“No, I'm not. I'm sorry, Owen. I can't do it. I'm not as brave as you.”

I feel his hand slip from my arm, leaving behind a cold spot where his skin used to be. He stares off for a moment, looking conflicted. “I'm not that brave.” He says this so softly, I almost don't hear it over the sounds of the carnival around us.

“Yeah, right. You're the bravest person I know.”

He drops his gaze to the ground. “Trust me. There are plenty of things I wish I could do, but I can't.”

“Like what?” I challenge.

He rubs absentmindedly at his chin and peers over at me. Our eyes meet somewhere in the middle of this small space between us. He takes a deep breath, like he's sucking in invisible courage from the air. “Like—”

“Excuse me!” someone behind us yells. “Are you gonna move up?”

We both blink and turn our heads. The line has progressed several feet and there's now a giant gap in front of us. Owen moves up, and when I hesitate he grabs me again—this time by the hand—and coaxes me forward.

I stand on tiptoes to count the heads in front of us. There are only ten more people until it's our turn. My stomach does a full somersault.

“I really don't think I can do this.”

He sighs, losing his patience. “You can.”

“My stomach is in knots. I think I'll just sit off to the side and let you go.”

“What if
he
asked you?” The question comes out of nowhere. Like a slap to the face. Owen's tone has an unexpected edge to it.

“What?”

“What if he asked you to ride the Ferris wheel with him? You'd do it, wouldn't you? Without a moment's hesitation. You'd suck it up and you'd get on the stupid ride.”

“Objection,” I complain. “Argumentative.”

“Oh, stop it, Ellie. You know I'm right.” Now he sounds downright angry. Where did this come from? What happened to the kind, funny, normal Owen I was waiting in line with a few seconds ago? How many faces does he have?

“I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“I'm saying with him, you're different. You lose yourself around him. You're not you. You're someone else. Someone you think he wants to hang out with. It's like you play dead around him.”

My skin feels itchy. I scratch at my arms. “That's not true.”

Owen barks out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Oh no? What are you wearing?” He gestures to my skirt. “What is this? It's certainly not
you
.”

“It's the
new
me,” I argue, but the rationale feels weak and thin on my lips.