A Week of Mondays (32 page)

She sighs. “Mr. Reitzman.”

It was a wise choice. Save the most difficult for last.

He stands and follows Principal Yates, but before he disappears into the temple of doom, he catches my eye. I notice something in his gaze. An intensity I've never seen before. It stirs up emotions deep in my chest. Emotions I don't even recognize.

I don't like it.

I don't approve of whatever invisible electricity is surging between us right now.

“Behave in there,” I tease with a suggestive raise of my eyebrows. “The pool is only a few steps down the hall, you know.”

We both stifle a laugh as Owen continues into the office and Principal Yates shuts the door behind them.

Just like that, Owen is Owen again. The boy who convinced me to climb a telephone pole at summer camp seven years ago.

And I'm …

Well, the jury is still out on that one.

 

Hold On! I'm Comin'

9:32 a.m.

Principal Yates gave me detention. She looked all torn up about it, too. Like it pained her to do it. Owen, I discovered from a text message later, skated by with a warning, but since I was late
and
talked smack to Mr. Briggs, I'm apparently the bigger threat to school security.

When Principal Yates asked me what I had learned from this morning's events, I told her I'd meditate on the question and get back to her.

She gave me detention for tomorrow, too.

To this, I snorted. “Wouldn't that be nice? If there actually
was
a tomorrow?”

Then she tacked on detention for Wednesday.

Wow, I really am John Bender from
The Breakfast Club
.

Ellison Sparks: Wanted Criminal. I kind of like the sound of that.

I don't meet Tristan at his locker before third period because there's really no point. I could argue and plead and change my look and follow all the commandments in the world and it wouldn't matter. He's either going to break up with me or he's not and tomorrow it won't make one bit of difference.

I ignore him all through Spanish class. When that stupid, suicidal bird flies into the window and everyone makes a big stink about it, I yell, “Oh shut up, he'll be alive again in the morning.”

Throughout the whole period, I sense Tristan trying to get my attention. But I'm too busy sleeping on my desk to be bothered with relationship drama.

Can't he see I'm tired?

I've had a very long week.

When the bell rings, I grab my stuff and disappear into the hallway. He catches up with me a few seconds later and grabs my arm, pulling me into an alcove between lockers.

“What's up with you?” he asks. “Are you still mad about last night?”

“Nope. Not mad.”

I try to walk away, but he blocks me. “Then what's gotten into you? And what did you do to your hair?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

He sighs, shifting his weight. “You
are
mad. Look, I want to talk about what happened. About the fight.”

“Tristan. I'm not mad. I just don't give a crap. Okay?”

I push past him and walk away. This time, he's too stunned to try to stop me.

11:20 a.m.

In third period, I fail my American history quiz, but that's probably because instead of circling one of the multiple choice answers, I write in my own.

Britain met its manpower needs during the Revolution by:

A) Raising the recruiting bonus

B) Lowering physical requirements

C) Hiring foreign troops

D) All of the above

E) Selling Erotic Harry Potter Fan Fiction Online

12:40 p.m.

During lunch, I make a bunch of new friends outside in the parking lot. They sit in their cars and smoke cigarettes and talk about TV shows I've never even heard of, but definitely need to record on my DVR. Who knew this was where the cool kids were hanging out the whole time?

When we sneak back into the cafeteria before lunch is over, I notice the cheerleader bake sale in the corner and the long line of people waiting to hand over their money.

Daphne Gray is at the microphone, announcing that this is the last chance to buy baked goods to help support the team.

I excuse myself from my new acquaintances, strut over, and grab the microphone from her hand.

“Um, excuse me,” she protests. “What are you doing?”

I ignore her. “I would like to make a public safety announcement. It really pains me to be the one to tell you this, but unfortunately Daphne Gray had explosive diarrhea yesterday when she was making some of these yummy treats, and she did
not
wash her hands before handling the ingredients. I just thought you should all know. The banana bread is delicious though.
Bon appétit!
”

I step off the stage and do nothing to hide my smirk as I watch the long line of people scatter. Daphne calls my name, but I don't respond. I have nothing to say to her so I keeping walking.

I'm almost to the hallway when I hear Daphne's voice come back over the loudspeaker. “You little skank!”

I stop, still facing the door.

“Everyone knows Tristan Wheeler only started dating you because of how desperate you were to get into his bed.”

The cafeteria suddenly gets very quiet. Or maybe that's just the ringing in my ears drowning everyone out.

I slowly turn around and stalk purposefully back to the table. I just remembered I
do
have something to say to Daphne Gray.

She sees me coming and crosses her arms over her chest, like she's challenging me to come closer. I climb the three steps up the tiny stage, cock my fist back, and shove it into her face.

 

We Gotta Get Out of This Place

1:08 p.m.

I've never been in a fight before. It's kind of anticlimactic. I was expecting epic throwdowns and slow-motion spin kicks, but it's actually just a lot of hair pulling and screaming and hands in faces.

“That night was supposed to be about
us
!” Daphne growls as she rolls me over and straddles me. “I threw that party for Tristan and me! Not so you could swoop in and steal him!”

Well, that makes a lot of sense. At least now I know why Daphne Gray hates me so much.

I push her off me and jump to my feet. “Then why was he sitting outside by the pool bored out of his freaking mind?”

She roars and charges me, shoving me into the circle of students that have surrounded us. They're all yelling and egging us on. I can't exactly make out what they're saying, but I think most of them are rooting for Daphne.

Surprise, surprise.

A dozen hands push me back into the ring just as Principal Yates breaks the whole thing up.

“Thank God you're here!” Daphne cries. “Ellison Sparks attacked me out of nowhere!”

I roll my eyes. How original.

“Sparks!” Principal Yates bellows. “Back into my office.”

“I have a speech to give in like two minutes. I have students to inspire,” I protest, slightly breathless from our skirmish.

Principal Yates drags me by the elbow into the hallway. “Not anymore you don't.”

1:30 p.m.

Rhiannon Marshall is going to be livid. I've been in the principal's office for the past fifteen minutes. She's probably tearing her hair out wondering where I am. The mental image does kind of make me smile.

Principal Yates has been yammering on, but I haven't been paying a lot of attention. I'm too busy contemplating what I should do with my hair next. I was thinking maybe a really crazy spiral perm. Or maybe I'll dye it purple. I've always wanted purple hair.

“I have no choice but to suspend you from school for a week,” I hear the principal say.

I lazily turn my attention back to her. “Only a week? Why not a month? Why not forever?”

She sighs like she's completely given up. “What has gotten into you? Last week you were one of my most promising students, and today it's like you're an entirely different person.”

“A lot can happen in a week,” I mumble.

1:50 p.m.

I'm supposed to wait for my parents to come pick me up. Apparently suspended students are not allowed to drive themselves home. But as you can probably guess, I'm not really inclined to do what I'm supposed to.

Instead, I wait for Owen outside his seventh-period class. When he rounds the corner and sees me, his eyes go all wide. Before he has a chance to say anything, I grab him by the elbow and pull him into a nearby janitor's closet.

It only takes me a few seconds to realize it's the same closet Tristan and I made out in yesterday. Not that it matters.

“What's going on?” he asks, glancing uneasily around the small, cramped space. “Why do you smell like cigarette smoke?”

“Never mind that.”

“And why is Daphne Gray spreading some ludicrous rumor that you started a fight with her?”

“Oh, that's not a rumor. That's true.”

He drops his bag to the floor with a thud. “Ells, what's going on with you?”

I groan. “We've been through this. I told you what's going on with me.”

“Yeah, but you? Fighting?”

“Look, it doesn't matter. I need to get out of here and you need to come with me.”

He presses his lips together, looking very torn. “I don't know, Ells.”

“C'mon! My parents are going to be here any second!”

“Your parents? Why?”

“Principal Yates suspended me.”

I think Owen's head might actually explode. “What? For how long?”

“Does it matter? Let's go!”

He hesitates. “Ditching school? I don't know. I'm already on Yates's watch list today. I can't get into any more trouble.”

I let out a frustrated growl. “Owen. Have you not listened to a single word I've said? There is no trouble. There are no consequences!”

He shifts his weight, clearly conflicted.

I rest my hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at me, but instead he looks at my hands. “O, what would you do if there was no tomorrow? If you could do anything and it wouldn't matter?”

“I don't know, Ellie. What if you're wrong?”

“Objection. I'm never wrong.”

“Objection. I can think of plenty of times you were wrong.”

“Like when?”

“I have two words for you: spray tan.”

“Withdrawn. But listen, Owen, I'm not wrong this time. You've gotta trust me on this. How long have we played by their rules? Done everything we're supposed to do? Don't you think it's time for O-Town Filly and Luscious E-Freeze to have a little fun?”

I can almost hear the wheels clicking into place inside his mind. I can almost see his inner rebel pushing its way to the surface.

A cunning smile finally breaks through his hesitation. “What did you have in mind?”

 

Money (That's What I Want)

2:05 p.m.

“I'd like to make a withdrawal please,” I say sweetly to the bank teller. I can tell my ratty, stained hoodie is making her nervous. Not to mention the bruise that's forming under my left eye from Daphne's mean right hook.

I slide my debit card across the counter along with my driver's license. She double-checks the picture against my face several times, looking extremely skeptical. “I got a haircut,” I tell her, primping my choppy, uneven locks. “Do you like it?”

“How much do you want to withdraw?” she asks, ignoring my question.

I'll take that as a no.

“All of it,” I tell her.

She frowns. “All of it?”

“Yup. Every last cent.”

“Are you closing the account?”

“No. I just want all my money.”

She doesn't seem to follow. “Did you experience any dissatisfaction with our bank?”

“Nope. Just want the money.”

She gives me another dubious look before punching a few buttons on her keyboard. “How would you like it? Hundreds? Twenties?”

“I'll take singles,” I say. I glance at Owen. “Then we can roll in it like gangstas!”

He gives his head a sad shake in reply.

The teller does little to hide her annoyance as she begins counting out three thousand two hundred and forty-nine dollars of my hard-earned money in one-dollar bills. I shoot Owen a toothy grin and stuff the cash into my bag. “Let's go.”

Our first stop is the supermarket to stock up on sustenance. We push the cart down the aisle and dump every single junky, chemical-filled, sugar-bloated food we can find—all the things my parents never allow me to eat—right into the cart.

As we wait at the checkout line, I grab every cheesy gossip magazine on the rack and toss them onto the conveyor belt. The majority of them have the same story on the cover—a famous heiress is marrying some middle-class former intern of her father's company. Apparently they met when her dad forced her to work a bunch of low-wage jobs in order to earn her trust fund and the intern was assigned to be her chaperone. The tabloids are calling it the role-reversal Cinderella story of the decade.

Owen grabs boxes of candy and gum from the impulse shelf and overturns the contents onto the conveyor. “See?” I ask. “Isn't this fun?”

“That depends. We aren't going to get tattoos next, are we?”

My eyes light up. “Ooh!”

“No,” Owen say sternly.

“It'll be gone by morning!”

“So why suffer through the pain?”

“Good point.”

We skip the tattoos and instead spend the rest of the afternoon driving around town, eating junk food until we nearly throw up. I bought purple dye at the supermarket, and like the fugitives that we are, Owen helps me dye my hair in a gas station bathroom. But we don't really follow the directions too closely and my hair ends up looking more green than purple.