A Week of Mondays (22 page)

The heartbreaking look in her eyes as she walked home from school soaking wet is too much to forget. Too much to ignore. I stop and knock on the partially closed door.

“Come in!” she calls.

Hadley is under the covers, propped up on about a thousand pillows. Her knees are hugged up to her chest and her face is clean and devoid of any unsightly mascara streaks. I probably can't say the same for mine, but I'm hoping the darkness will obscure the evidence.

I sit on the edge of the bed and turn toward the TV screen. It's nearing the end of the movie. They're all sitting in a circle, pouring their hearts out.

I want to ask her again about this afternoon, but I also don't want her to get angry and kick me out. She seems so calm right now. I'll just watch the movie. If she wants to talk to me, I guess she will.

As I listen to Emilio Estevez tell his sob story to the group, I hear a soft whisper behind me. I turn to look at my sister. She's quietly reciting the lines, right along with him. She doesn't miss a single word.

Just as I can sing along to every song in my countless mood-altering playlists, apparently my sister can recite every word of this movie, and who knows how many others. I glance at her tall bookshelf. The top three shelves are devoted to all her contemporary teen romances. The bottom three shelves are stocked with DVD cases, every single one of them a movie centered around high school.

“Hads,” I say, interrupting Emilio's climactic monologue.

“Hmm?” she says.

“Why do you watch these movies?”

She shrugs. “Why does anyone watch movies?”

“I mean,
this
kind of movie. About high school.”

Her eyes never leave the screen. She's so enthralled by this dialogue between the members of
The Breakfast Club
, you'd think it was her first time watching it. But the way her mouth syncs perfectly to every character's line tells another story.

She picks up the remote and pauses the film. “I'm starting high school next year. Did you forget?” She says this like the answer is obvious. Like I should feel stupid for not having come up with it myself.

I glance at the still frame on the screen. Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy are sitting on a banister in the library. Side by side, they are the perfect contrast. The prom queen and the weirdo. The popular girl and the outcast. The one who's accepted and the one who hides in plain sight.

“You think these movies are going to help you survive high school?” I say, the realization hitting me like a curveball to the side of the head.

“Duh.” Hadley presses a button on the remote and the movie continues.

I stare incredulously at my little sister, then at her bookshelf. Suddenly it all makes sense. This is research. The books, the movies, the obsession with Urban Dictionary. She's trying to prepare for something you can never prepare for.

I eye the remote. I want to grab it, pause the movie, and put an end to this nonsense once and for all. I want to shake her until she understands. There is no shortcut to surviving this world. To succeeding in high school. If there was, everyone would take it. I want to explain to her that she's only setting herself up for disappointment.

But then I turn and watch her watching the movie, her sweet heart-shaped face lit up by the screen, her wavy hair pulled back into a messy bun, her eyes wide with fascination as she watches Molly Ringwald lead Ally Sheedy into the bathroom for the big makeover scene. Some invisible force keeps my mouth sealed shut.

I can't be the one to burst her bubble. I can't be the one to tell her that in the real world, high school doesn't look like it does in the movies. That no matter how many films you watch, no matter how many books you read or how much slang you memorize, you'll never feel like you fit in.

No matter how perfectly you set up your day—your
life
—you'll still fail.

Just as I have.

No. I won't tell her this. At least not today. I'll let her continue to live her life, believing that the world makes sense. Believing that effort equals success.

I'll just sit here next to her until the movie ends.

I lean back against the wall, getting comfortable. Hadley passes me a pillow and I prop it behind my back. Molly Ringwald puts the final touches on her extreme makeover. I can feel Hadley tense beside me, waiting for the big reveal. This must be her favorite scene.

A few moments later Ally Sheedy walks out of the bathroom, looking like a completely different person—her hair swept away from her face, her dark eye makeup cleared away, her whole face bright and uncluttered. Emilio Estevez's reaction to her is priceless. His mouth literally drops open as he suddenly sees her in a whole new light.

My mouth drops open, too, and I let out a quiet gasp.

Hadley shoots me a strange look. “You've never seen
The Breakfast Club
?” Her tone is accusatory and aghast.

I don't answer her. I scoot off the bed, mumbling a hasty good night, and then I'm scurrying down the hall into my bedroom. I tear open my closet door and scan my selection of clothes. I won't have a ton to work with, but I'll have to make do. It's not like I can buy an entirely new wardrobe at ten o'clock at night. I start pulling hangers off the rack and assembling the new look on my bed, trying out different combinations.

Emilio Estevez didn't see Ally Sheedy as his match until she transformed herself. She'd been hiding under that awful bag-lady disguise her whole life.

Maybe I've been doing the same thing.

Maybe I've been afraid to truly be myself.

I hear a creak near my bedroom window and my head whips around. My face breaks into a smile. I can't wait to tell Owen my big plan. He'll love it.

I run to the window and thrust it open, reaching my hand out to help him with his entry, but there's no one outside. Only the wind blowing through the leaves of the tree.

Then I recall the events of the night. I didn't see him at the carnival. I didn't run out crying. There would be no reason for him to come check on me. We're still in that uneasy place where we left things today.

I feel a stab of guilt in my chest, but I quickly push it away. Tomorrow, Owen won't even remember that fight. Tomorrow, I'll fix everything. I'll make it up to him.

I assume I'll get another chance. Another Monday. Why wouldn't I? I haven't successfully fixed this day yet.

After a half hour of costume trial and error, I finally piece together the perfect outfit. An outfit Tristan is practically guaranteed to respond to. He doesn't think we're a match, huh? Well, wait until he gets a load of
this.

I'm about to take a picture of the ensemble with my phone when I realize it won't be there tomorrow morning. So instead I take a mental snapshot, then scoop up all the clothes and return them to my closet.

I'm hanging up the first item when an idea hits me.

Why am I bothering to put all of this away? Won't everything just magically be put back into place tomorrow morning when the day resets?

A mischievous grin spreads across my face. Ever since I was a little girl, I've never ever had a messy room. Everything has always been put into its proper place. My mom used to brag to her friends about how tidy I was. My favorite game to play as a kid was “housekeeper.”

I look down at the clothes in my arms and suck in a huge breath.

Then …

I let go.

The clothes and hangers fall into an unsightly heap at my feet. I cringe, fighting the urge to pick them up so they won't wrinkle. I glance around my neat, orderly bedroom. My posters perfectly aligned on my wall. My bookshelf meticulously alphabetized by author. My collection of glass figurines precisely positioned on my dresser. The string of soft fairy lights hung over my bed. The labeled folders stacked on my desk.

After another deep breath, I release a quiet battle cry and lunge into action. I become Hurricane Ellie. A category seven. A force of destruction. I dump books on the floor. I pull clothes off their hangers. I yank posters from the wall. I destroy everything. Until there's nothing left of my old, safe world.

This is the new Ellison Sparks. She is reckless. She is determined. She is not to be messed with.

Panting, I collapse on my bed, my heart racing. I feel like a wild animal who's finally been let out of its cage and has wreaked havoc on the poor neighboring village.

I sit up and survey the damage.

It's impressive. I can barely even see my carpet anymore.

The old Ellie would be totally freaking out right now. I can feel her buried deep down inside me. I can feel her trying to steer my body, manipulate my muscles, will my legs to move, my arms to pick up, my hands to clean. But I repress her. I shove her further and further down.

She had her chance and she failed.

She lost the boy.

She blew it.

It's time to try something completely different. It's time to become someone new.

 

The Way We Were (Part 3)

Five months ago …

“I beg to differ,” I argued, pulling my wet legs out of the pool and hugging them to my chest in an effort to thwart the bitter wind that was sweeping through Daphne Gray's backyard. “I have amazing taste in music. If my taste in music were an ice cream flavor, it would be—”

“Rocky Road,” we both said at once.

Tristan grinned. “I don't know, Ellie,” he said, sounding like an old-timey boxer about to challenge me to a fight. “I'm having serious doubts.”

“Just because I thought your music was…” I trailed off.

“Noise,” he was nice enough to remind me. “You called it noise.”

My cheeks turned the color of cherry tomatoes. The super-ripe ones. “Sorry about that.”

“So, if you don't like my music, what kind of music
do
you like?”

“Um,” I bumbled, “you know, like, old music.”

“
Old
music? Are we talking Renaissance? Medieval? Because I could play you a really mean Baroque concerto on the electric guitar.”

I giggled. “No, I mean like from the sixties.”

“Ah. So you're a hippie?”

“Not all sixties music is hippie music.”

He leaned back. “Okay, hippie. What's your favorite song from the sixties?”

I slumped. “That's impossible. You can't make me pick.”

“Um, I think I just did.”

“Um, I don't have to answer.”

He reached around me and grabbed one of my sneakers, clutching it possessively to his chest. “If you want your shoe back, you do.”

Of course, as my heart was racing like a hamster on a hamster wheel, all I could think was
I really hope that shoe doesn't smell.

“Hey!” I made an effort to reach for the shoe.

He pulled it out of reach. “Nuh-uh. Shoe for song.”

“I can't choose my favorite! There are too many.”

“You don't have to write it in blood. No one's going to know if it's really your favorite or not. I won't wake up Jim Morrison in his grave and tell him you gave him the shaft.”

I let out a huff. “Fine. I guess I would say ‘You've Really Got a Hold on Me' by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.”

He pursed his lips in deep concentration, and then declared, “Nope. Don't know that one.”

My mouth fell open. “How could you not know that song? It's a classic. And you call yourself a musician.”

He slammed the sole of my shoe against his chest like it was a dagger burying into his heart. “Ouch!”

I recoiled. “Oops. Sorry. Again. But seriously. You have to know that song.”

He shrugged. “I don't. How does it go? Sing it for me.”

I instinctively scooted away from him. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no,
no
.”

He threw his hands up. “What?”

“I am
not
singing. Especially not for you.”

“Me? I'm only a guy who
calls
himself a musician, but in reality I'm just a bunch of noise.”

The words were hostile but his face was one hundred percent flirt.

“Go on,” he urged. “Sing. I'm waiting to hear this classic masterpiece of a song that is so not noise.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Not doing it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can't sing!”

“Everyone can sing.”

“Fine. I can't sing
well.
”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Even in the shower? Everyone sounds better in the shower. You do sing in the shower, don't you?”

“Sure I do, but—”

Suddenly there was a tug on my hand and I felt myself being yanked to my feet. He leaned down, grabbed my second shoe and paired it with the other under his arm. “Come on, let's go.”

The feeling of his hand wrapped around mine made my tongue too big for my mouth. “Where are we going?”

“To the shower. I need to hear this song.”

I tried to pull my hand away but he kept it tightly clutched in his. “Um. Excuse me?” I protested. “I'm not getting in the shower with someone I just met.”

He kept walking. “We're not running the water. It's for the acoustics. You can keep your clothes on.” He paused and peered down at my shoes tucked under his arm. “Well, except for these, which you'll get back after I hear you sing.”

I followed behind him as he led me back through the sliding glass door and into the wild, flapping arms of the party. Jolts of nervous energy were shooting through me with every step. I could feel a thousand pairs of eyes on us. I could hear their screaming thoughts, their silent shouts of disbelief.

What is he doing with her?

Is that where he's been all this time?

Why is he holding her shoes?

Or better yet, why is he holding her
hand
?