A Week of Mondays (10 page)

Hadley looks up from her cereal and the book she's reading the moment I walk in. “Did he call?”

Huh?

I don't remember telling Hadley about the breakup last night. Actually, I distinctly remember
not
telling her. Why would she ask that? Did she hear me and Owen talking from her room? She was probably listening at the wall with a water glass held up to her ear, the little snoop.

“No,” I say dismissively, hoping my tone clearly conveys that I do not want to talk about this with her. Especially after she completely eavesdropped on my life.

I walk to the fridge and pull out the bread, popping two pieces into the toaster.

My dad glances at me over the top of his iPad, his face pulled in concentration. “I need a word that starts with T and has an X, an A, and preferably an N in it.”

My mom bangs another cabinet closed.

“What are you looking for?” my dad asks.

“Nothing!” she snaps. “I'm not looking for anything at all. Why would I possibly be looking for something I have no hope of ever finding? At least not under this roof!”

Slowly, I turn from the toaster and stare at my circus of a family. There's something weirdly familiar about this conversation.

“Craydar,” Hadley says knowingly, interrupting my thoughts.

I glare at her. “What?”

“It's when a guy can tell whether or not a woman is cray cray just by looking at her. Maybe you set off Tristan's craydar and that's why he hasn't called.”

“No,” my dad says, shaking his head disappointedly at the screen. “I don't have a Y or a C.”

I squint at Hadley. “You don't know anything about anything. And stop looking at Urban Dictionary. Mom, I told you—”

CLANK!

My mom has just slammed a frying pan onto one of the burners.

I have to get out of here. This place is even more unbearable than yesterday.

I force my toast out of the toaster, slather it with peanut butter, and wrap it in a paper towel. “I gotta run,” I tell no one in particular.

“Ellie,” my dad says, stopping me as I'm halfway to the door.

Great. He's going to ask me how softball tryouts went yesterday. I was really hoping to avoid this conversation until later. Much later. Like when I'm fifty.

“Yeah?” I reply unassumingly.

“Are you ready?”

I tilt my head, confused. “For what?”

Now
he
looks confused. “Softball tryouts.”

Wait, what?

Has he completely forgotten about the conversation we had right here in this very kitchen? I swear he plays that game way too much. It's starting to affect his brain.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

“Making varsity your junior year would be huge. The state schools would definitely take notice of that.”

Now I
know
he's lost it. Isn't that exactly what he said to me yesterday? I glance around the kitchen to see if anyone else seems to have noticed that Dad is losing his marbles. I mean, I know forty-four is old, but I didn't think it was
that
old. Hadley has gone back to her book and my mom is rummaging loudly through the fridge for something.

I make a mental note to Google the signs of dementia later today.

My dad sets his iPad down. “I remember when my varsity baseball team made it to the state championships. Standing on that pitching mound, I'd never been so nervous in my life.”

What is this? Some kind of joke?

Why is no one else fazed by the fact that my dad has launched into the same boring story he told yesterday?

I can't deal with this. Not right now, anyway. Parental breakdowns will just have to wait until I smooth things over with Tristan. “Great story, Dad,” I interrupt before he has a chance to really get going. “But I have to run.”

My mom slams the butter tray down on the counter. It makes the same cracking sound.

“Is something wrong?” My dad turns his attention to her.

“No,” Mom barks as she cuts a piece of butter and drops it into the frying pan. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“Are you sure?”

“She's gone mom-zerk,” Hadley says, glancing up from her book.

My dad excitedly reaches for his iPad again. “Ooh. I wish I had a Z!”

Then my mom storms out of the kitchen, leaving the burner on and the butter melting in the pan.

I stare openmouthed at the scene before me. Talk about déjà vu. It's like my family is rehearsing a scene in a play. They perform the lines and the exits exactly as they did yesterday.

Wait,
are
they rehearsing for a play? Is this some family bonding exercise they're doing without me?

Whatever, this is too weird. I have to get out of here. I practically run to the door, nudging it open and tumbling into the garage. I hop in my car, rev the engine, and squeal out of the driveway. I cannot drive away from that house fast enough.

My family is certifiably crazy. Or as Hadley would say, “certifiably cray cray.”

 

If You Believe In Magic, Don't Bother to Choose

7:54 a.m.

Why is it raining
again
?

And why did I forget to bring an umbrella
again
?

I have a weather app for this very thing. It might help if I, you know, checked it once in a while.

I select my “Psych Me Up Buttercup” playlist from my phone again, hit Shuffle, and turn the volume up.

“Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys starts to play as I turn left at the end of my street. That's weird. There must be something wrong with the shuffle feature. This is the same song that came on first yesterday. Good thing I happen to really like this song. I sing along at the top of my lungs as I turn onto Owen's street and pull into his driveway.

“Wow. It's really chucking it down out there,” he says when he opens the car door. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

He drops his backpack on the floor and settles into the passenger seat. “You only put the Beach Boys on after something bad happens.”

A shiver passes through me. Isn't that what he said yesterday, too?

He shakes his damp hair out and I watch the tiny drops of rain splatter across my dashboard like they're moving in slow motion.

Is it just me being anal or did those drops land in the exact same spots yesterday?

I reach into my glove box and pull out the cleaning cloth.

“So why are you listening to an emergency-only playlist?” Owen asks. “Did you and Tristan have a fight or something?”

I stare at him in disbelief. Is he kidding? Is he trying to make light of my tragic state? Well, it's not very funny and I don't appreciate him turning the worst night of my life into a joke.

I open my mouth to tell him exactly this when I notice he hasn't changed his clothes since yesterday. He's wearing the same loose-fitting black jeans and the same gray T-shirt over a long-sleeve thermal.

“Did you sleep in your clothes?” I ask.

“No, why?”

“Did your mommy forget to do your laundry?”

He looks at me like
I'm
the crazy one.

“Anywaaaay,” he says, completely ignoring my insult. “You can't tell me you had a fight. I refuse to believe that. You two agree on bloody everything.”

“We do not—” I start to argue, but the overwhelming sense of familiarity in this exchange is freaking me out, so I put the car in Reverse and back out of the driveway. I had planned to show him Tristan's text messages and ask for a guy's opinion on the matter, but if Owen is going to be an insensitive jerk about this, I won't talk to him.

As I reach the stop sign at the end of Owen's street, the Beach Boys song comes to an end and “Do You Believe in Magic” begins. Baffled, I look down at my phone. The shuffle feature is definitely buggy. I knew I shouldn't have installed that new update the other day. Everyone knows you're supposed to wait at least three days for them to fix all the bugs.

I swipe down to access the notifications window, checking to see if they released another update to fix the last one, and that's when I notice that my phone is still displaying yesterday's date.

Monday, September 26.

What the…?

Jeez, that update really screwed everything up. My whole calendar is wonky!

“You know you only have to legally pause for like a second at a stop sign.”

I glance up at the empty street in front of us and toss my phone into the compartment under the radio, easing on the accelerator and pulling onto Providence Boulevard.

Owen turns up the volume and starts singing along.

“Owen,” I say carefully, turning my windshield wipers up a notch. “Have you ever had déjà vu?”

“Only all the time,” he says, reaching down into his bag. “Oh, I almost forgot.” When he sits back up, I let out a stifled gasp when I see the two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies in his hand.

“W-w-what are you doing?” I stammer.

“Choose your tasty fortune!” he says, like it's nothing. Like we didn't just do this whole thing twenty-four hours ago.

“Wait,” I protest. “I thought you only worked at the Tasty House on Sundays.”

“I do.”

This is going to be a strange day, I can tell.

I reach for the cookie on the left, but then remember that's the one I picked yesterday, so I grab the one on the right and drop it in my lap.

As I drive, Owen nosily unwraps his cookie and snaps open the shell.

“If your desires are not extravagant,” he reads aloud, “they will be granted.”

I swerve the car to the side of the road and slam on the brakes.

“Whoa. Drive much?” Owen complains.

“Let me see that!” I swipe the piece of paper from his hand and read it.

If your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted.

No. It's not possible.

I toss his fortune back and hastily unwrap mine. My hands are trembling as I break open the cookie and pull out the message.

My lips feel heavy and numb as I read.

Today you will get everything your true heart desires.

But … it can't. It's … what are the odds of this happening? A gazillion to one? I don't know, I've never actually studied fortune cookie statistics. Is that even a thing? Is this fortune cookie factory simply printing the same two fortunes over and over again? But Owen and I have never gotten these fortunes before.

“Did the Tasty House change fortune cookie distributors?”

Now Owen is looking at me like I need to be locked up. “Noooo,” he says slowly.

Maybe their printer malfunctioned and printed a billion duplicate cookies.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, waving the fortune at him. “Did you do this?”

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

“This fortune. I already got it. I…” My voice trails off and I dive my hand into the pocket of the door. I grapple around, feeling for the tiny piece of paper I crumpled up and stuck in there yesterday. The one with the same exact message on it. It has to be in here.

But all I feel is the smooth, clean interior of the compartment. As if it disappeared into thin air. As if yesterday morning never even happened.

 

Suspicious Minds

8:11 a.m.

“Did you ever get around to watching the season premiere of
Assumed Guilty
?” Owen asks.

I cringe. With the horrific day I had yesterday, it totally slipped my mind. “Not yet. I will soon, though. I promise!”

After Tristan and I have reunited and I'm back in a state of gorgeous boyfriend bliss.

Owen bangs his fist on the dashboard. “Bollocks! You need to get on that.”

I scowl at his reaction. “I know, I know. And
please
stop saying ‘bollocks.'”

“You missed the best episode.”

“I
know
,” I repeat, growing annoyed. He doesn't have to keep telling me it's the best episode. I already feel bad enough.

Owen points to the intersection ahead. “Yellow light.”

What?

I glance at the street sign. Avenue de Liberation. It's the same dang intersection.

This time I know I can beat that stupid light. I
have
to beat it. I have to prove that I'm not going crazy. That the world is not stuck on some weird Repeat button. That today is different.

I floor the accelerator. Owen grips the door handle.

“Um…” he says.

I sail through the intersection just as I'm attacked by a barrage of flashing bulbs.

Dang it!

I swore I'd make it. That's two red light tickets in two days. My parents are going to kill me.

“Ouch,” Owen says, cringing.

“Shut up,” I snap.

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Withdrawn,” I mumble.

8:25 a.m.

How did I manage to be late again? It must have been the time I spent on the side of the road freaking out over my fortune cookie. I told Tristan I'd meet him at his locker before class and now I'll have to go straight to class. He'll think I stood him up.

On second thought, maybe that's a good thing. A little hard-to-get might actually work in my favor. At least I won't seem eager.

Cool as a cucumber.

Owen forgot his umbrella again, too, so we make another run for it.

Tuesdays are even days so I head straight for my second-period class—calculus with Mr. Henshaw. I burst through the door just as the bell is ringing and slide into my desk.

“Excuse me,” a haughty voice says, and I look up to see Daphne Gray standing there in her cheerleader uniform, with her hands on her hips. “You're in my seat.”

Wait, Daphne Gray isn't in my calculus class. The girl can barely count.