A Week of Mondays (18 page)

When I turn around, Tristan is approaching from down the hall. I quickly turn and stare into my locker, trying to busy myself with rearranging something. Anything! But par for the course, my locker is already immaculate. Not even a single pencil out of place. So I grab a notebook, flip it open, and pretend to be engrossed in whatever I've written on that page.

I feel warm lips press into my neck. I stifle a giddy squeal.

“Hi there,” I say, keeping my gaze locked on my notebook.

Tristan gently turns my shoulder so that I'm facing him and then his mouth is on mine. His kiss is deep and urgent. Like he hasn't kissed me in weeks. One hand snakes around my waist, pulling me into him, the other roams through my hair, his fingers tangling in the soft waves I spent so long perfecting this morning.

The notebook I was pretending to be absorbed in slips from my quickly numbing fingers as my whole body wilts into him. Thankfully, he's got one arm around me, or I'd probably sink to the floor right along with my notebook.

I'm so completely wrapped up in his lips moving against mine, I almost forget about the seventh commandment.

Commandment #7: Thou shall always end the date and the kiss first. Leave him wanting more!

It takes every ounce of mental strength that I have, but I finally manage to pull away. I try not to act completely swooned by what just happened, but in reality I think my kneecaps have entirely melted. I brace my wobbly body against the locker behind me.

“That was nice,” I say lamely, bending down to pick up my fallen notebook.

Tristan lets out a laugh. “
Nice?
That was like the world series of kissing.”

I teeter my head from side to side. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps?

Am I a Creature of Mystery or a character from
Downton Abbey
?

Tristan leans in and rests his forehead against mine. “What's going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“What's going on in that pretty head of
yours
?”

He guffaws. “After that kiss? I'm not sure you want to know.”

A deep blush creeps up my neck. Do Creatures of Mystery blush?

I lower my head, averting my gaze.

“I mean,” he says, lifting my chin to meet his eye, “are you sure you're okay?”

“Are you sure
you're
okay?”

His face contorts in confusion. “Yeeaaah.” He draws out the word, like he's buying time until this conversation makes sense. “Are you coming to the practice room during lunch with us?”

“Are
you
coming to the practice room during lunch with us?”

Okay, I'm not sure Commandment #5 applies to
every
conversation.

“Huh?”

I bite my lip. “Never mind.”

“So, are you coming?”

My heart is practically doing somersaults in my chest, screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes!” but my brain is bringing down the gavel, reminding me of Operation Boyfriend Recovery (okay, I just coined that phrase, too).

Girl Commandment #10: Thou shall never accept a date request less than forty-eight hours in advance.

Although, technically, he's not asking me on a date. And technically, given my current, highly unusual predicament, he's not really physically (cosmically?) capable of asking me out more than forty-eight hours in advance. So,
technically
, I could say yes right now.

But I won't.

Everything is turning out so well, I don't want to screw it up by messing with the formula.

“I would love to but…” I have to force my lips to form the words. They are still tingling from that kiss and on the verge of waging a full-scale rebellion. “I really should go somewhere quiet to practice my speech.” I pull the index cards from my pocket and wave them in the air, offering proof. “I don't want to totally make a fool of myself in front of the entire school.”

Again,
I add silently in my head.

Tristan hooks his finger into my belt and pulls me toward him. “But I'll miss you. I feel like I haven't seen you all day.”

Now
who's the whiny, clingy one?

“You'll see me tonight,” I remind him. “At the carnival. After your gig, I'll be all yours.”

His fingers slip from my belt. “Wait, what gig?”

Uh-oh.

I forgot. That part doesn't come until later, and I'm the one who has to actually
get
him the gig. But going out of my way and getting myself thrown in detention just to snag my boyfriend's band a gig probably breaks at least three commandments at once.

I should tell him now. Tell him I got him the gig, then sneak out during lunch and secure it. But then I won't be able to practice my speech, which I actually really need to do. I'm not bombing that thing a third time.

“Uh,” I stammer. “Did I say gig? I meant
jig
. You know, after your jig?”

His eyebrows knit together. “My jig?”

“Yeah,” I say, my mind reeling for something to say that doesn't make me sound as ridiculous as I do right now. “You know, your jig.” I bounce up and down and wave my index finger in the air like I'm dancing in a bad western movie.

This conversation certainly went downhill fast.

“I…” Tristan stammers. “I'm not sure I follow.”

I flash him a mischievous smile, like this is all some big fancy surprise I've been cooking up for months. “I guess you'll find out soon enough! Gotta run!” I give him a peck on the cheek. “Have fun at practice.”

Then I book it down the hall, feeling Tristan's eyes follow me the whole way.

At least I'm holding his attention. That's gotta count for something, right?

 

Light My Fire

12:42 p.m.

I swing by the cafeteria to grab some food. No more giving important speeches on an empty stomach. I've learned that lesson twice.

The cafeteria is a madhouse. This is why I never eat in here. Even before Tristan and I started dating and I began eating my lunches in the band room while he practiced, I always ate in the library.

This place is like an introvert's worst nightmare. If the sheer number of people stuffed into one place is not enough to make you cry inside, the roving, judging eyes should do the trick.

I pay for my prewrapped sandwich and bottle of juice (hands down the safest options), and make a beeline for the exit. The less time I spend in here, the better for my complexion.

I'm halfway to the door when a loud clatter echoes across the unforgiving tile. I turn to see a slender girl with creamy skin and raven-colored hair sprawled out on the floor, the contents of an overturned lunch tray scattered around her.

The entire lunchroom stops to stare and I hate myself for doing the same thing. When the girl pushes herself up, I'm able to see her face but I don't recognize her. I bet she's new.

I cringe inwardly. Falling flat on your face on your first day of school? Ouch.

Has that happened the past two days as well? It must have. I just didn't know about it because I wasn't here to see it.

I notice Cole Simpson—a guy with a permanent spot in detention—high-fiving some of his idiot friends. He was probably the one who tripped the poor girl.

I take a step toward her, vowing to help her up and introduce myself, but I notice she's already getting assistance from some guy who was sitting at a nearby table. As he bends down to help her scoop up her food, I see that the front of his shirt is covered in the chocolate pudding that was previously on her tray.

Well, he seems to have everything under control. I tuck my juice under my arm and set off for the library.

When I arrive, Owen is giving his same impassioned argument about Death as a narrator in
The Book Thief
, and I head up the stairs to the recording booths again.

This time, I'm determined to get this speech right.

I flip through the cards, reading each one carefully, and, for the first time, really absorbing what they say. Owen was right. This speech is pretty awful. But it's not like I'm about to sit down and rewrite it twenty minutes before I'm scheduled to give it.

The speech could use some punching up, though. It's terribly vague. It really needs to include more specific ideas about
how
we're going to improve the school, instead of just a lackluster promise to do it.

I take a bite from my sandwich and keep reading. I have to admit, I'm slightly less sick at the thought of standing up in front of the entire school today. Having already done this twice
and
having failed both times, I find it considerably less intimidating. Maybe public speaking really does get easier with practice.

I've just finished reading the entire stack of cards twice when the door to the tiny cubicle swings open and Owen ducks inside.

“Whatcha doin'?” he asks, sidling up to me and glancing over my shoulder.

“Practicing the most boring speech of all time.”

He takes the cards from my hand and flips through them. “Whoa, this speech makes vanilla look like the flavor of the month.”

I smile. That's exactly what he said the last time he read these cards.

“Rhiannon Marshall wrote it. I'm just doing her bidding like the good little puppet that I am.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Did you win?”

He glances questioningly behind me. “Huh?”

“Your epic debate about the movie versus the book? Did those pinheads see the error of their ways?”

He grins impishly. “Always.” But then the smile slides from his face. “Wait, how did you know that's what we were debating? Was I that loud? I thought these rooms were supposed to be soundproof.”

For a moment I consider telling him again. I was able to convince him to believe me last night, I'd certainly be able to convince him now. But I'm not sure what difference it would make. Operation Boyfriend Recovery is headed for success. I've already managed to completely turn this day around. Owen doesn't need to be dragged into my inexplicable cosmic drama.

I shrug. “I just know you. That's totally something you would debate. And you would be wrong. The real reason Death isn't as powerful a narrator in the movie is because in the book, his voice was our own. Every reader was able to hear it as they believed it should be heard. The movie spoils that by literally giving Death a voice.”

He cocks his head and looks at me, a lopsided half smile making its way onto his face. I suddenly become aware of how small this room is and how incredibly crowded it is with both of us in it. It's not really meant for two people. It's only meant for one person and a recording device.

His eyes flash with sudden comprehension. “You cheeky monkey, you.”

“What?” I ask.

“You read it.”

“Read what?”

“The Book Thief.”

“No, I didn't,” I tell him. “Why would I read that?”

“Because you secretly want to join the book club but it would get in the way of your little lunch dates with Mr. Rock Star.”

I make an awkward, overly drawn-out noise with my tongue that sounds something like
puh-sush-uh-shush.
“Uh. Objection. Relevance.”

“Objection. Totally relevant.”

“Objection. Badgering the witness.”

“Objection. Failure to answer the question.”

“You never asked a question!”

He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Fine. Have you or have you not read
The Book Thief
?”

I punctuate my one-syllable answer with a distinct head shake. “No.”

“Objection. Lying.”

“That's not a real objection.”

“We're not in a real courtroom.”

I huff. “Okay, whatever. I read it over the summer.”

His eyes narrow at me. It's his pressure-cooker look. It makes you feel like you're locked in a vacuum-sealed container with no air and no escape, and if you don't give him the answer he wants you'll eventually explode.

“Fine!” I say, exasperated. “I read it last week.”

“What other book club books have you read and not told me?”

I stuff my index cards into my pocket, crumple up my sandwich wrapper, and squeeze past Owen toward the door. I shove it open with my shoulder. “I don't have time for this. I have a speech to give in, like, seven minutes.”

He follows close behind. “Why don't you just join the book club? I don't understand.”

“Because I don't have time. And if Rhiannon and I win today”—I pause, correcting myself—“
when
. When Rhiannon and I win today, I'll have even less time.”

He tries to give me the pressure-cooker look again but I refuse to meet his gaze.

“That's total codswallop and you know it. Now tell me the
real
reason you won't join book club. It's because of him, isn't it?”

“What?” I squawk as we exit the library and take a left toward the gym. “No. Don't be ridiculous. Tristan wouldn't care if I joined book club.”

“No, he wouldn't,” Owen says. “But
you
do.”

“Objection…” I start to say, but I can't finish the sentence.

“What?” Owen prompts. “See, you can't even think of anything, because it's true.”

I let out a deep sigh. I don't have time for this right now, but apparently Owen has all the time in the world because he doesn't let up.

“You don't want to commit to something that interferes with his band schedule. You want to be available for him at all times.”

I scoff. “That's so not true.”

“It's totally true. It's why you dropped out of being a camp counselor with me this summer. It's why you didn't watch
Assumed Guilty
with me last night. Sometimes it seems like everything you do, you do for him.”