A Week of Mondays (9 page)

His eyebrow cocked. “Never?”

I was still standing there like an idiot, not sure if I should dash to the side gate and make my getaway or continue along with this scenario, which I'd now completely convinced myself was a dream.

“Not even like one of those two-hour relationships in third grade where you exchange valentines and then discover she actually gave the same valentine with the same message to three other guys?”

I barked out a laugh. “That's
really
specific.”

He bowed his head in shame. “Yeah, I know.”

“What was her name?”

“Wendy Hooker.”

I couldn't help but snicker. “That's … an unfortunate name.”

And then it happened. That was the first time I saw it. The single-dimpled, heart-stopping, cocky grin that would change my life forever.

“I should have known, right?” he joked.

I stared at my feet, hiding the grin that was spreading across my face.

“So,” he went on, but I didn't have the courage to look up. I could already feel the world shifting. I was already memorizing this entire conversation to play back over and over again in my head. “You never answered my question.”

Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Had I entered that party and exited on another planet? One with a significantly thinner atmosphere?

“No,” I said to the stone pathway under my feet. “I've never had even a two-hour relationship.”

His chuckle made my head whip up and my face flush with heat. Was he laughing at me? At my humiliating lack of experience?

“I meant,” he clarified, “what did you steal?”

“Oh.” And there went all the blood that once called my head home. “Right. Um, nothing.”

He pulled his feet out of the water and hugged his knees to his chest. “A likely story.”

I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “I was just looking for my friend. I wasn't actually invited.”

“I don't think this is the kind of party you have to be invited to. Or if it is, then I wasn't invited either.”

“I hardly doubt that.” All the breath in my chest left with the words, and I couldn't manage to get any of it back. It was like my lungs were suddenly closed for business. Out of order. On strike. Please try again later.

I ducked my head so he couldn't see the blush that was inevitably making my cheeks glow like the alien's finger in that
ET
movie.

Thankfully he chose to ignore my humiliating comment. “So, this friend that you allegedly couldn't find—”

“Allegedly?”

“Yes,” he said in all seriousness. “Allegedly. I have no proof that your alibi holds water.”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“Do you have a reason to be interrogated?”

I laughed at this. I couldn't help myself. “I'm a minor, so technically you can't interrogate me without a legal guardian present.”

“Are you saying I should call your parents?”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I'm 89.97 percent sure Tristan Wheeler was just flirting with me and I had to go and ruin it by talking about my
parents
?

Seriously, what was wrong with me?

Apparently I watch way too many legal dramas and not nearly enough normal teen dramas.

“I should go,” I said, starting toward the gate. I needed to get out of there before I could embarrass myself any further.

“I don't know if that's such a good idea,” Tristan said behind me. I froze, too afraid to turn around.

“I'm not sure I should let you out of my sight,” he continued. “I'm still highly suspicious. And if the police find something valuable missing, I'd like to claim the reward when I turn you in.”

The smile was impossible to stop. I turned around. “You'd turn me in?”

He dipped his feet back in the water. “I might. You definitely have ‘shady character' written all over you.”

“And what about you?”

He blinked in surprise. “What about me?”

“You're pretty suspicious-looking, too.”

He leaned back on his hands, looking highly amused.

“Exhibit A,” I began, “you're out here alone. Exhibit B”—I gestured to the ice-cold water that his feet were submerged in—“you're clearly a vampire.”

He broke into laughter. “A vampire?”

“That water has got to be close to freezing and you've barely even flinched. What other conclusion am I supposed to come to?”

He tilted his head, considering my question. “Come here.”

I balked. “What?”

He patted the cement beside him. “Come over here.”

My heart was galloping as I weighed my options. This was one of those moments, wasn't it? When you feel like the rest of your life hinges on one decision, ten lousy footsteps, the lopsided-smiling invitation of a guy so hot he belongs in men's underwear commercials.

The way I saw it, I had two options: I could go over there, take the kind of leap my heart had never dared take before. Or I could run toward that gate, hop in my car, drive back to my house, hide under the covers with Hippo, and pretend for the rest of my life that I wasn't the biggest coward to ever walk the earth.

The decision was easy. My legs were the challenge. I had to bully them into walking. Scold them silently in my head until they finally moved. Until I was finally inching closer to him.

I sat down, keeping at least a foot of space between us. Then I looked at him, like I was waiting for him to tell me what the rest of my life would look like.

“Take off your shoes,” he commanded.

I leaned over and stared into the pool. “You're crazy.”

“You asked me what other conclusion you were supposed to come to. I'm giving you another option.”

I sighed and removed my shoes, holding my hands over the toes of my socks to hide the unsightly hole. Why oh why didn't I pick out cuter ones?

Maybe because I never, in a zillion quatillion years, thought I'd be sitting shoeless next to the cutest guy in our entire school.

“Socks, too,” he ordered.

“My feet will freeze. I have warm blood running through my veins. Unlike some people.”

There was that smile again. But he didn't say anything. He just stared intently at my socks.

I slipped them off and stuffed them into my sneakers.

Then suddenly Tristan Wheeler's hands were touching me. Well, technically they were touching my jeans as he leaned over and rolled the hems up to my knees. But his fingers brushed my legs more than once and I prayed to God the shivers I felt on the inside didn't show on the outside. I was also extremely grateful I had shaved my legs that morning.

“Now,” he said, nudging my knee with the backside of his hand. “Stick your feet in.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Come on. Trust me.”

That's when I looked up at him. That's when our gazes crashed together. It would be the first of many explosive collisions complete with fire and smoke and an electric vibration of the air around us.

He didn't look away.

He could have. We both could have.

But he held me tight with his eyes, like he was cushioning me, protecting me from the sheer slicing pain that would accompany the water as I slowly slid my bare legs into the pool.

But the pain never came.

The water was delicious. Warm and tingling and welcoming. I gasped in surprise.

“There,” he said, looking mighty proud of himself. “The
other
conclusion.”

“The pool is heated,” I whispered.

“The pool is heated.”

“You're not a vampire.”

“I am most definitely
not
a vampire.”

 

THE SECOND MONDAY

 

Let the Sunshine In

7:04 a.m.

When I was nine years old, I went to Camp Awahili for the first time. My family had just moved to town and I was starting a new school in the fall. They wanted me to get a jump start on making friends so they sent me to a local sleepaway camp. That's where I met Owen.

One night, a girl from my bunk accidentally left our cabin door open and every blood-sucking mosquito within a fifty-mile radius was invited to a free, all-you-can-eat sleeping-children buffet. I woke up the next morning with bites all over my face, including on both eyelids. My eyes were so swollen, I couldn't open them for half of the day.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

When I hear the text message ding on my phone the next morning, I'm afraid to open my eyes. I'm afraid that it'll be just like that horrific morning at camp. Not because I was attacked by hungry mosquitoes but because I was up half the night crying, and that never bodes well for your face in the morning.

I sigh and drag my eyes open. Surprisingly, they offer little resistance.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

Who's messaging me this early? It's probably Owen asking how I'm feeling.

Well, I can tell him right now: like someone ran over my heart with a truck.

There's no way I'm going to school today. I can't face everyone. Not after what happened yesterday. It all comes back to me in a tidal wave. The rain, the school picture, the speech, the puffy lips, the election results, and then—a sob hiccups in my chest—Tristan.

Everyone has to know by now that he broke up with me. At our school, that kind of news can never stay buried for long.

So, nope. Definitely not going back there.

I wonder how long I'll have to fake sick before the whole thing blows over and people stop talking about it. A week? A month? I better be ready to fake the plague, if necessary.

I reach for my phone, knocking over a cup of water in the process.

That's strange.

I don't remember getting water last night.

I swipe the screen and the air catches in my throat when I see Tristan's name.

He texted me?

Oh, holy Smurf poop.

My fingers are suddenly useless fat sausages as I try to select the message so I can read it. When I finally get it open, I see that he didn't send me only one text, he sent
two
!

Tristan: I can't stop thinking about last night.

Tristan: Let's talk today.

I bound out of bed like a superhero breaking through a glass ceiling and let out a triumphant
whoop!

He changed his mind! He wants to get back together! Happy, happy day!

I text him back, choosing my reply carefully.

Don't seem too eager, Ellison. Remember, play it cool. Cool as a cucumber, that's me.

Where does that phrase even come from? Are cucumbers inherently cool? Imagine how much cooler they'd be with sunglasses on.

I giggle at the image as I type my response.

Me: Sure. Meet you at your locker before class?

A minute later, he replies.

Tristan: OK.

Huzzah! This is it! My second chance. The one I begged and pleaded for last night as I drifted off to sleep in a sea of my own tears like Alice, in Wonderland. Thank you, Universe. I will not fail you this time!

I shower quickly and then stand in front of my closet, taking in the rows of color-coordinated clothes. If I thought yesterday's clothing decision was stressful, this is something else entirely.

What do you wear on the day your boyfriend wants to get back together with you?

It has to be something stunning that doesn't look like I'm trying too hard.

I finally opt for a pair of jeans, an off-the-shoulder sweater, and flats.

As I fashion my hair into a loose high bun, I keep looking at my phone, double-checking to make sure those messages are real.

I can't stop thinking about last night.

Let's talk today.

There's nothing else that could mean, right? Why would you want to talk to your ex-girlfriend the day after you dumped her, unless you changed your mind?

The words do feel familiar, though. Didn't he text me the exact same thing yesterday after our fight?

I'm about to scroll back up to check yesterday's messages, when I notice the time.

Yikes!

I gotta go. If Tristan and I are meeting before first period, I can't be late. I need to allow plenty of time for him to confess his undying love for me. How long do reconciliation conversations usually take? Two minutes? Three? I mean, it's not like there'll be a lot of resistance on my part. I'll just stand there quietly, listen to what he has to say, nod in all the right places, and then when he gets to the “Do you want to get back together?” part, obviously I'll pretend to think about it for a few seconds because, you know, cool cucumber and everything, and then I'll say something totally casual and uneager, like “Sure. I guess so.”

I place my phone in my schoolbag, pausing when I notice a stack of textbooks next to my bed.

Did I do homework last night? In the middle of my emotional breakdown?

I let out a gasp.

Do I do homework in my
sleep
?

That would be like the best superpower ever!

I grab the textbooks and the water-soaked pile of paper on top and stuff them into my bag. Then I hurry down the stairs.

So what if he used the same words as yesterday? That's Tristan. There's always some hidden poetic meaning in everything he does. Like song lyrics. You repeat the chorus several times throughout because it has the most significance. I think it's romantic. The same words that drove us apart are now bringing us together again.

7:46 a.m.

When I enter the kitchen, I hear the bang of a cabinet door and see my mom glaring evilly at my father, who's deeply absorbed in another Words With Friends game on his iPad.

They still haven't made up? That must have been some fight.