A Week of Mondays (27 page)

I turn in my seat to get a better view and there's my sister. Sopping wet again, running across the field in the direction of the parking lot. I get out of the car and walk toward her. She sees me and halts in her steps, wiping at her face.

“Ellie? What are you doing here?”

My mind is screaming with questions. I want to lob them at her all at once.

Why are you drenched?

Why were you on the soccer field?

Why are you at school this late?

But I know she'll only shut down again, so I hold my tongue and pretend to not even notice her shambled state. “I dunno. I had a hunch that you'd be here and I came to see if you wanted to go knock off a candy store with me.”

She cracks the faintest of smiles.

It makes me feel like I just won the lottery.

“What if we get caught?” she asks, right on cue.

I shrug. “I'm not afraid of juvie. Are you?”

“I'm not afraid of anything.”

“Good.” I point to my car in the lot. “Let's go then.”

Hadley adjusts her backpack straps and walks to the car. I notice a slight bounce in her step.

Candy Stripers is a game we used to play when we were little, mostly around Halloween. We would write our initials on pieces of our candy stash with Sharpies and then hide them around the house. The sister with the most pieces of the other person's candy would win the game.

The name Candy Stripers originated because we'd heard the term in a TV movie once and neither of us knew what it meant. I said it sounded like the workers who painted the witch's house in “Hansel and Gretel.” Hadley said it sounded like professional candy burglars. We settled on her interpretation and it eventually morphed into a game. It wasn't until much later that we learned a candy striper is actually someone who volunteers at a hospital. But by then, our definition had already stuck.

When we got a little older we started to joke that we should take Candy Stripers to the next level. We should rob (or “stripe”) an actual candy store. We would spend hours planning our heist, choosing our target (this part was easy as there's only one candy store in town), studying maps of the surrounding area, selecting the best candy to stripe (anything gummy because it doesn't melt in your pocket), and drafting our big plan (which usually involved one of us distracting the person at the register with stupid questions about candy while the other lifted a pocketful of goodies from the bin).

“What if we get caught?” Hadley asked me on our first “job” as we waited outside the store for the most opportune moment.

“I'm not afraid of juvie,” I told her. “Are you?”

“I'm not afraid of anything,” she vowed.

“Good. Let's go then.”

We never actually stole anything. We'd always chicken out and pay for the candy, but it didn't stop us from plotting the next job and the one after that and the one after that.

“So,” I say as Hadley buckles her seat belt. “Usual plan? Do you want to be the diversion or should I?”

She glances up and down at my outfit. “I'm going to go with you.”

I nod knowingly. “Wise choice. Maybe it'll be a boy working the register and I can flash him a little skin.”

She giggles and I bite my lip to hide the triumphant smile that threatens to blow my cover. “Ells?” she asks after a long beat.

“Yeah?”

She appears anxious about what she's going to say. Like she's afraid I'll be disappointed to hear it.

“What is it?” I ask, trying to sound as supportive as I can.

“Can we just go and buy the candy? It's what we always end up doing anyway.”

I tip back my head and let out a laugh.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing. I thought you were going to say something else.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “What did you think I was going to say?”

I subtly eye her soaking-wet clothes and hair and the streaks of mascara on her face. I lean over to the glove box and pull out a tissue. I hand it to her without uttering a word.

She takes it and begins wiping her face.

Maybe I went about this all wrong yesterday. Maybe nothing has to be said. Maybe no questions have to be asked.

Maybe all I needed to say was “Sure, Hads. Let's go buy some candy.”

Because she's right. It's what we always end up doing anyway.

 

Come Together Right Now

8:16 p.m.

“This one is dedicated to the girl who got us this gig. Thanks for being so freaking awesome—and might I add
hot
—Ellie Sparks!”

I'm back in the front row, screaming my head off along with the rest of the crowd. As Tristan jams the opening guitar riff of “Mind of the Girl,” I use all my strength to hoist myself onto the stage. I run over and stand beside him, swaying my hips provocatively with the beat. Tristan looks surprised to see me up here—I've never in our five-month relationship gotten on stage with him—but his surprise quickly turns into a grin and he rubs his back against mine as he strums ferociously on his electric blue guitar.

I haven't changed my clothes, and I have to say, it totally fits.
I
totally fit. Owen was right, I do belong in a music video. I feel amazing up here. Is this what it's like to be a singer? No wonder Tristan loves performing so much. I'm shocked at how comfortable I feel. Normally, I'd be terrified of performing in front of a bunch of people, but as Tristan starts in on the first verse, my body just moves all on its own. I let the music take me over. I let it command me. Tristan's eyes never leave mine. He sings the entire song to me. The crowd is cheering my name.

If I thought Tristan's secondhand post-gig high was blissful, it's nothing compared to this firsthand version. This is sheer ecstasy. I feel like I could do anything. Skydive. Sumo wrestle. I'd even eat Daphne Gray's almond-infested banana bread again.

Where is the little boyfriend-stealer, anyway?

I peer into the crowd, scanning the first row where she was standing yesterday, but she's not there. In fact, her entire posse appears to be MIA.

I scan the sea of faces, all singing along and swaying to the beat and feeding off this energy that Tristan and I are sending out.

I spot the new girl, Sophia, somewhere in the middle. She's dancing, too, but I notice the guy she was with last night is not there. I wonder what happened to him. I hope she's not here to try to make a move on Tristan. Well, if she didn't realize we were a couple in the cafeteria today, then she has to have picked up on it by now.

The song comes to an end. Tristan plays a final, powerful chord on the guitar while Jackson pounds on the cymbals. The noise from the audience is deafening, and yet it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

“Thank you!” Tristan calls, his voice all hoarse and sexy. “We're Whack-a-Mole. I hope you had a great time tonight. Come see us again real soon!”

Heart pounding, ears ringing, I make a split decision. I run to Jackson on the drums and whisper something into his ear. He nods and I ask the same question to Lance on bass and Collin on backup guitar. They both give me a thumbs-up.

I push Tristan away from center stage and pull the mic from the stand. “Actually,” I say, flinching at the sound of my own voice reverberating over the speakers. “We have one more song. A surprise song. But it's one of my favorites and it has very special meaning.”

Tristan takes a sip from his water bottle, his eyebrows shooting up. “What are you doing?” he yells to me over the screaming crowd.

I flash him a coy grin. “You'll see.” I grip the mic and tilt my head to Jackson. “Hit it, boys.”

Jackson kicks off the beat and Collin comes in a moment later with a cool, edgy version of the song's original riff. I sway back and forth, my nerves threatening to close my throat.

Am I really going to sing in front of all these people?

I've never sung in front of anyone before
.
Well, except for Tristan in the shower that night of Daphne's party.

But I can hear the first verse coming like a freight train and I'm tied to the tracks. There's no getting out of this now.

I close my eyes, raise the mic to my lips, and start to sing.

“I don't like you, but I love you.”

I can feel someone standing beside me. When I open my eyes, Tristan is there, bending down to share the microphone. Just like we did that night in the shower, he harmonizes the chorus with me, rounding out the sound so perfectly that chills cover my entire body.

“You really got a hold on me.”

The audience loves this. They are letting out all sorts of whooping sounds and catcalls. I can feel myself blush but I don't care. Not when Tristan is standing here next to me, our shoulders brushing, our voices tangling together.

After the song is over, Tristan slides his sweaty hand into mine and we take a bow. When we come back up, I see he's watching me, beaming. I lean in to whisper, “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“What?” he calls back over the noise.

I place my palm on his soft, damp cheek. “This morning, in your text message. You said you wanted to talk.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I can't even remember anymore!”

I smile, victorious. “I figured as much.”

I'm so absorbed in the lights, the applause, Tristan, I don't even notice Owen in the audience until I'm about to leave the stage. He's standing in the back, his arms crossed, his expression inscrutable—either because he's too far away for me to read it, or he's purposefully hiding it from me.

Something twists in my stomach. Something I can't identify.

Guilt?

No. That's ridiculous. What reason do I have for feeling guilty? It's not like I broke any promises to him. It's not like we agreed to come to this carnival together. He knew I had plans to be here with Tristan. And yet, when our gazes connect across this giant, pumped-up crowd, I can't help but feel like he's judging me.

I break eye contact and turn to jump off the stage, but Tristan grabs my elbow and yanks me to him. I crash against his chest. Our lips melt together. His hand grips my lower back. His tongue finds mine.

The kiss is hot and sweaty and overflowing with adrenaline.

The crowd loves it.

When he pulls away, I'm left breathless and embarrassed. Talk about a public display of affection! Without thinking, my eyes instantly dart back to where Owen stood only a moment ago.

I'm not sure why I thought he would still be there. And I'm not sure why I feel almost sick to my stomach when I see that he's not.

 

I Think We're Alone Now

8:32 p.m.

After the show I say goodbye to Tristan, giving him a deep, lingering kiss before making up an excuse about curfew and heading for the parking lot.

I don't really have a curfew. The truth is, I don't want to risk anything going wrong. I want to end the night on a high note. Pun intended.

Sure, we didn't get to do any of the things on my fantasy carnival date list—and technically I'm still a Ferris wheel virgin—but so what? What we did was even better.

Tristan and I sang together. On stage. He kissed me. On stage. In front of everyone. He told me he couldn't even remember what he'd wanted to talk about this morning.

I can't imagine the night getting any better than that.

We created our own fantasy carnival date and it was magical.

Yet, as I make my way to the parking lot, I can't help but feel like the victory is empty.

Yes, I won. I stopped Tristan from breaking up with me. But was it a real win? Or did I somehow cheat at the game?

I flash back to what Principal Yates said to me outside my English classroom.

Telling people what they want to hear is not the same thing as winning.

But that's ridiculous, right? Who cares
how
I won, I still won. I should be happy that Tristan and I are still together. This is what I wanted from the beginning. This is what the day has been all about. I need to stop overanalyzing everything like a crazy person. I need to start appreciating a good thing when I have it.

I press the Unlock button on my keys and watch the headlights flash on my car.

That's it. No more whining.

No more second-guessing.

This isn't a softball match. I don't have to analyze what I did right and what I did wrong so I can replicate the win. There's no need to replicate anything this time. The day is over. I accomplished what I set out to accomplish. Tomorrow will be Tuesday, and that's that.

Life goes on.

“Leaving so soon?” I hear someone say as I open the car door.

I look up to see Owen walking over to me, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched up near his ears. It's what he does when he's nervous about something. Like the time in fourth grade when he got angry and tipped over all the paints and I made him confess his crime to the teacher. He shuffled to her desk, hunched over like a turtle trying to disappear into his shell.

But what is he so nervous about now?

“Yeah,” I say. I'm about to repeat my curfew lie but I stop myself. Owen knows I don't have a curfew. I've never had one. I've never been the kind of girl who needed one. “Nice performance,” he says.

I grin. “Thanks. Wait, do you mean on stage?”

He shrugs. “Sure. We'll go with that.”

“It was kind of exhilarating. Being up there. I can see why Tristan likes it so much.”

“I bet.” He stops when he reaches the hood of my car. “I don't see any tears. I assume that means your plan worked.”

I beam. “That it does. Mission accomplished.”

“Well done.”

Well done?

Why is he acting so weird? Why doesn't he just talk normally?