A Week of Mondays

  I scowl, not understanding the question. “What do you mean? I do all of that for myself.”

  He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Do ya?”

  What is that supposed to mean?

  “Look,” he says with a sigh. “I saw your election speech, and to be honest, I think you might be a tad overloaded.” He puts a funny accent on loaded making it sound like looded.

  “I’m fine,” I say, somewhat snappishly. “Today has just been a little rough.”

  He shrugs and turns toward a massive display of pamphlets that covers the entire back wall of his office. He plucks a green one from somewhere in the middle and sends it sliding across the desk to me, like an air hockey puck. “Why don’t you take a gander at this when you get a chance?”

  I reach out and hesitantly take it. On the front it reads:

  You 101: A Guide to Acing the Hardest Subject of All

  and it features a picture of a preppy-looking girl walking through a field with her arms outstretched, like she’s welcoming an alien spacecraft.

  Okaaaay.

  “Great,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “This is super helpful. Thank you, Mr. Goodman. Uh … Greatman.”

  He guffaws and does the lame swat move again. “Go on and get out of here, ya little scamp.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  2:14 p.m.

  The receptionist in the counseling office gives me a pass to seventh period. I pop into the library to print yet another copy of my extra-credit paper as the first two were destroyed by water and peanut butter. Then I suffer through the last hour of English class.

  After the final bell of the school day rings, I swing by my locker to drop off my stuff before heading to the locker rooms to change for softball tryouts. I keep an eye out for Tristan but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Is he avoiding me? Or just busy?

  I haven’t spoken to him since lunch, and after that horribly embarrassing speech I gave (if you can even call it a speech) I’m worried he’ll want nothing to do with me.

  The school secretary comes over the speaker system while I’m stuffing my schoolbag into my locker. “Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today’s election.”

  I drum my fingers anxiously on the edge of the locker. Not that I’m expecting anything. Not that I even have the right to expect anything after that humiliating experience.

  “First off,” the secretary continues, “the cheerleaders would like to thank you for supporting their bake sale today. They raised over one thousand dollars!”

  Well, I’m glad my poisoning wasn’t for nothing.

  “Also, a reminder that the auditions for the fall musical will start tomorrow afternoon. The deadline for signing up to audition is four o’clock today. This fall the drama department will be bringing us the hit musical Rent!”

  Rent! Oh, I love that musical! I’ve sung “Take Me or Leave Me” in the shower so many times, my shampoo bottle probably knows all the words by now.

  “And finally, here are the results from today’s election.”

  I stand up a little straighter and tilt my ear toward the ceiling. She announces the results of the freshman and sophomore classes before finally getting to the juniors.

  “In a landslide victory, claiming a whopping 89 percent of the vote, the junior class president and vice president are Kevin Hartland and Melissa O’Neil!”

  I slam my locker door closed.

  Everyone knows that Mondays are the armpit of the week, but I’m telling you, this one really takes the cake.

  3:35 p.m.

  Coach slaps a batting helmet onto my head and gives me a friendly pat on the back. “Look, I know you field like an all-star,” he says, “but your batting average last year was not up to varsity standards.”

  “I know,” I say, grabbing a bat. “But I’ve been practicing all summer. I’m better this year.”

  Okay, this isn’t technically true. My dad and I did go to the batting cage a few times in June, but I spent most of my time with Tristan and his band. Coach doesn’t need to know the specifics though. I just need to wow him right here, right now.

  I need a win today. Any win.

  “I’ll have Rainier pitch you a few. Show me what you can do.”

  I step up to the plate and take a few practice swings.

  Focus, Ellie, I tell myself. You don’t get another chance. This is it.

  Jordan Rainier, the starting varsity pitcher, winds up and delivers me a fastball. I smash it easily. It goes sailing above the third baseman’s head and drops to the ground. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Good,” Coach calls from the sidelines. “Again.”

  Another fastball. BAM! Another solid hit.

  Coach signals to Jordan, tapping the inside of his elbow twice and then tugging at his ear. “One more fastball,” he tells her.

  Jordan winds up and the ball comes hurtling toward me, slowing just as it flies over the plate. I swing a second too soon, nearly stumbling from my missed swing.

  That wasn’t a fastball. That was a changeup. He tricked me.

  I hear Coach clucking his tongue. “Listen to the ball, Sparks! Not my voice!”

  I nod. “No problem.”

  He signals to the pitcher again. I try to tune it out.

  Listen to the ball.

  Jordan coils up again. I watch her body language, noticing the shift in her stance as she unwinds. It’s different from the last three pitches. A curveball. But curving which way?

  The ball comes at me, blindingly fast. I blink, missing the trajectory. I swing at air as the softball whizzes by my left ear. I bash the ground with my bat.

  That’s okay. I hear my dad’s voice in my head. You’ve got the next one.

  But Coach claps his hands twice. “Good work, Rainier.”

  “Can I have one more try?” I beg. “Please?”

  He shakes his head regretfully and I can tell the news is not good. “The JV team still needs a good fielder like you.” Then he slaps me on the back and turns away. “There’s always next year.”

  The First Cut Is the Deepest

  7:02 p.m.

  As I make my way to the fairgrounds, I blast “Ticket to Ride” by the Beatles over my car stereo. It’s not on any of my playlists but it seems appropriate.

  The house was quiet when I left. Both my parents were still at work and my sister had been locked in her room since I got home from school. I was grateful for the calm. I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone—least of all my dad—that I had bombed my softball tryouts … and pretty much every other aspect of this day.

  I park my car and check my hair and makeup in the mirror. I decided to start from scratch. I showered and picked out an entirely new outfit. I’m ready to save my relationship. If a romantic night at a carnival can’t convince Tristan he’s still in love with me, then I don’t know what will.

  From the parking lot, I follow the sounds of laughter and screams and the smell of cooking meat. I can see the Ferris wheel in the distance, all lit up and spinning, and my stomach turns.

  I once watched a documentary about traveling carnivals. Some poor girl in Nebraska apparently lost both of her arms riding the bumper cars. The bumper cars! And they stay on the ground.

  No, stop.

  No one is getting murdered or dismembered. Tonight will be perfect.

  If there ever was a time to get over my fear of heights, this is it.

  I think back to that couple I stalked when I was ten years old. This carnival transformed them. The lights, the music, the sugar, it turned them into Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Taylor Swift and … well, whoever she’s with now.

  Obviously I didn’t know the couple’s names or anything about them, so I made up my own names and gave them backstories.

  He was the strong, silent type. A gentleman who liked to listen to her speak. He needed a simple yet dashing name. I chose Dr. Jason Halloway.
I decided they’d met at an urgent care animal hospital in the middle of the night. He was the veterinarian on call at two a.m. when she—Annabelle Stevenson, avid animal lover and owner of six dogs—brought her eight-month-old golden retriever in after he accidentally swallowed a golf ball. Dr. Halloway, looking irresistibly cute in his white coat and rumpled hair, performed one emergency procedure on the dog, and another on Annabelle’s heart.

  They’d been inseparable ever since.

  I’ve been imagining myself in Annabelle’s shoes for six years now. I just never had the guy. Now I do.

  Jason and Annabelle’s night ended with a kiss atop the Ferris wheel. And I’m determined that mine will, too.

  I take a deep breath and start walking. Tristan and I are supposed to meet in front of the ticket booth at 7:15. I check my phone and notice that he’s texted me, saying he’s going to be late. My shoulders droop slightly in disappointment. I text him back and tell him I’ll be at the carnival games.

  I find an empty seat at the horse race game and slide in, feeding a dollar bill into the slot.

  A buzzer rings and a recorded voice calls out, “And they’re off!” as a red ball rolls down the ramp in front of me. I watch my neighbor, trying to figure out how this game works. It appears all you have to do is roll the little ball up the ramp and try to get it into one of the holes marked with the numbers one, two, and three. If you sink the ball into the three hole, your horse moves three paces ahead.

  Easy enough.

  I chuck the ball up the ramp and watch in dismay as it bounces around the edges of each hole and then rolls back to me. I glance up at my horse—the green one with the number eight on his back. He doesn’t budge.

  I try a few more times, but I’m still unable to sink the ball into any of the holes. The other horses are soaring past me now, racing toward the finish, while my lame number eight is still at the starting line.

  What is wrong with this game?

  Does my horse have a broken leg?

  I’m a junior varsity softball player for a state champion team. You would think I could roll a stupid ball into a stupid hole.

  The ball comes back to me and I give it another try, this time light and easy, barely a flick of my wrist. The ball glides up the ramp and drops right into the number-one hole. I throw my hands in the air and let out a whoop. I did it!

  The buzzer rings, startling me.

  “And we have a winner!” the virtual announcer says. “The lucky number two!”

  Wait, what?

  Someone won already? Didn’t we just start? I peer up at the horses. The one with the red number-two jersey is waiting patiently at the finish line, while my slow horse is still way back at the beginning, having moved only one pace thanks to my one sunken ball.

  Wow. I really suck at this game.

  I’m about to try my luck again when a shadow falls over me and I turn to see Tristan standing there. I jump from my stool and throw my arms around him. “Hi! You’re here! Isn’t this amazing?”

  He shrugs and I carefully disentangle myself from him. When I pull back I see he’s frowning and his whole body language is off.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I just passed the stage.”

  I glance in the direction he’s pointing. There’s a giant makeshift theater on the far side of the fairgrounds. It’s empty and dark. “So?”

  “So?” he repeats, agitated. “There’s no one playing on it! I’ve been trying to get Whack-a-Mole a gig at this carnival for weeks and they kept telling me it was full.”

  I can feel my perfect fantasy evening slipping away. I have to get Tristan out of his funk. He can’t be like this all night. We have prizes to win and junk food to eat and Ferris wheels to ride.

  “Maybe it was a last-minute cancellation,” I speculate.

  “It was,” he grumbles.

  Tristan is rarely in a bad mood. He’s just not the type.

  “So, there you go!” I say brightly.

  But this only seems to have the opposite effect on him. His head drops and he stares at the ground. “I wish we knew about the cancellation. We could have performed tonight. We could have rocked this place. All these people would have heard our music. It’s such a waste.”

  Panic flares in my chest. He’s getting more and more upset about this. I need to shut it down.

  I rub his arm. “I have something that might cheer you up.”

  He peers at me through his lashes and I nearly swoon. “What’s that?”

  I go through my mental list of the activities that made up Jason and Annabelle’s enchanted evening. “How about the bumper cars?”

  Jason and Annabelle waited in line for ten minutes for those bumper cars. Then they hopped in the same car and he drove while she called out directions and pointed out targets, squealing in delight and grasping his leg every time they collided with someone. By the end, they were both laughing so hard, they couldn’t even get out of the car. A carnival attendant had to walk over and tell them to leave.

  The bumper cars are sure to cheer up Tristan. It’s rear-ending people on purpose. What better way to work out your aggression?

  “I’ll let you drive,” I add, sweetening the offer.

  He presses his lips together, like he’s contemplating the idea, but then he shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t think I’m going to stay.”

  My heart fills with lead and sinks into the pit of my stomach.

  “What? But you just got here.” I don’t mean to sound so whiny, but I do.

  “I know,” he says and, for the first time, I notice that he won’t meet my eye. “I think I should meet up with the band and strategize. We haven’t had a gig in a few weeks and we need to do something about that.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Of course. I’ll come with you. I have some great ideas about—”

  Tristan puts his hands on both of my shoulders, like he’s trying to keep me from blowing away. Yet he still won’t look at me. “No. You should stay here. I actually just came by to talk to you about something. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

  I try to swallow but my mouth is suddenly dry. “Okay.”

  “Ellie,” he begins, his voice cracked and uncertain. He clears his throat. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “What? The carnival?”

  “No.” He bites his lip. “I mean, us.”

  My breath instantly grows shallow. Someone has locked my lungs in a too-small cage and thrown away the key. I watch, stunned and transfixed, as Tristan presses his thumb against each of his fingernails, like he’s checking to make sure they’re all there. It’s one of his little nervous tics. Something he does before he goes on stage. It used to be so endearing. Now it feels like a sign of the apocalypse.

  He closes his eyes. “I’m confused, Ellie. 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.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to say all the things my heart wants to say.

  What’s broken?

  We can fix it. I know we can.

  I love you.

  But my tongue is useless. Only air escapes.

  And then tears.

  Tears I try to hold back. Tears I don’t want this entire carnival to see.

  Tears that fall anyway.

  “Oh, Ellie,” Tristan says. His voice is so soft. So full of compassion. It makes me cry harder.

  I can feel his hand encircle mine. I can see the scenery around us changing as he leads me to a nearby bench and makes me sit. I can’t seem to feel the ground beneath my feet. I can’t seem to feel my feet period. Are they still attached to my ankles?

  Tristan plops down next to me, keeping my hand tightly clasped in his. “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.”

  “B-b-but,” I stutter between quiet sobs. That’s all I manage to get out, though. The rest of the words—whatever they are—remain trapped inside me.

  Tristan lets go of my hand and it feels so final. Like I’ll never touch him again. Like I’ll never feel his warmth. Shiver at his touch. Fall powerless to his gaze. “It’ll be okay,” he says to me. “You’ll be okay.”

  I want to scream at him that I won’t. That I’ll never be okay. That I’ll never stop loving him. But the only thing that comes out is another sob.

  And now people are taking notice. Passersby are stopping. Nosy eavesdroppers are whispering.

  I can’t be here. I can’t have this breakdown here. In front of everyone.

  I leap to my feet and take off into the crowd. I swear I hear Tristan’s voice calling after me but I don’t turn around. Why would I? What could he possibly want to tell me? How sorry he is again? How certain he is that I’ll be fine? How broken up he is about this?

  What good will any of that do?

  There’s a crowd of people gathered around the ring toss game, watching someone toss rings at glass bottles like it’s a freaking spectator sport. Normally I would politely excuse myself, tap shoulders, and give gentle nudges. But not today. I shove people aside with my shoulders, swatting at my tears with the back of my hand.

  I manage to muscle through the throng of onlookers when someone catches me by the arm. I turn around to see Owen, his eyebrows knit together as he takes in my disheveled state.

  “Ells?” he asks, his face a giant question mark.

  But I can’t talk to him either. I shake him loose and continue into the sea of people.

  I half expect Tristan to catch up to me, having suddenly changed his mind and wanting to take back everything he said. But he doesn’t.

  I push through the crowd alone.

  I run for the parking lot alone.

  I collapse into my car, press my cheek against the steering wheel, and cry alone.