A Week of Mondays (40 page)

“So how do I intend to fix this? I'm going to work with the administration to get local restaurants to sell items from their menus at our school.”

The students erupt in cheers. Well, everyone except Rhiannon, who I can feel seething behind me.

“Also, I've seen how many of you come out to Whack-a-Mole's shows. Some of you are willing to drive over a hundred miles to see them play. And yet, we've never had a rock concert here at our school. That's why, if I win, I'll be starting a semiannual Battle of the Bands night.”

They seem to like this idea even more.

“So among the countless titles I already have, I'm standing here now, asking you to help me add yet another to my list. With your vote today, I would be honored to also be the Girl Who Won the Junior Class Vice Presidential Election. Thank you.”

The students erupt in applause. Some of them even stand up, although admittedly I think that's only Owen and a few book club members. I find Tristan once again. He's not clapping or stomping his feet like so many others. He looks utterly stunned, like he has no idea where I just came from.

I step away from the mic and join the other candidates. Rhiannon looks like she can't decide whether to applaud me or stab me. I give her a hearty pat on the back that makes her stumble forward. “They're all yours.”

1:55 p.m.

The bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom, and I deliver my ballot to the teacher's desk. Owen is waiting for me in the hallway.

“So, when did you become Tony Robbins?” he asks, falling into step beside me.

I shrug in response. “I had some time to practice.”

“Seriously, that was some speech.”

“Thanks. Did you vote for Rhiannon and me?”

“No,” he replies in all seriousness.

“No?”

“I wrote your name in for president.”

I stop walking. “You did what?”

“You don't deserve to work under that fascist dictator.”

“Owen,” I whine. “That's a waste of a vote. That's one less ballot we'll have.”

“I'm sorry, but I have to vote my conscience. And I can't conscientiously vote for Rhiannon Marshall to be in charge of my after-school activities.”

I laugh and keep walking. “You're such a dork.”

“Takes one to know one,” he counters. “Wait, why are we walking toward the guidance counselor's office?”

I pause and point up at the ceiling. Right then, the school secretary's voice comes over the intercom system. “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office. Ellison Sparks to the counseling office, please.”

“That's why,” I say.

Owen stares at me in bemusement. “How did you do that?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Remember when we were kids and we used to practice our psychic abilities?”

“Yeah.”

I pull open the counseling office door. “I guess mine have finally kicked in.”

2:02 p.m.

“Hello! You must be Ellison!” Mr. Goodman says, offering me the chair across from him. “Great to see ya. Really swell. I'm Mr. Goodman. But you can call me Mr.
Great
man, if you want.” Har. Har. Swat. Swat. “Just joshin' ya! So how ya doing? Ya holding up okay?”

“I'm great, Mr.
Great
man. Just swell!”

He brightens at my enthusiasm.

“Good to hear it! Good. To. Hear. Now, let's get down to business. Junior year. It's a toughie, am I right? Or am I
riiight
?”

Wink. Wink.

“It sure is! Wow. This day alone has been a trial, let me tell ya.”

“And don't forget about those colleges. It's time to start thinking about your future.” He forms his hands into pistols and shoots them at me. “Pow! Pow!”

I do my best imitation of someone being shot in the heart. It cracks him up. His laugh could easily be confused with a donkey's bray. I wake up from the dead and laugh along with him.

“Okay, time to get serious,” he says, wiping the amusement from his face by pantomiming a windshield wiper. “Us trusty guidance counselors have been assigned to meet with every student in the junior class to talk about the next two years. Have you given any thought to where you want to apply?”

“Not yet,” I say with a sigh, “but I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”

 

Something Tells Me I'm into Something Good

3:20 p.m.

I close my locker and check the clock on my phone. Two minutes and counting.

I'm not sure why I'm so nervous. Maybe it's because today is the day I actually care about what happens.

I tap my fingers anxiously against the screen of my phone, willing the time to move faster.

“Hey!”

I pop my head up to see Tristan walking toward me with his usual sexy swagger. “That was some speech you gave today. You were amazing up there.”

I grin. “Thanks.”

“I also wanted to say thank you for the tip about the carnival. I was able to get us the gig for tonight! By the way, how did you know that—”

I shush him when I hear the ding of the announcement system. I bite my lip and knead my hands together as the school secretary starts to speak.

“Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today's election.”

This is it. Judgment day.

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

My heart pounds in my chest.

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

Tristan grabs my hand. I listen intently as the results of the freshman and sophomore classes are read first.

“For the junior class, we had a bit of an unusual situation.”

Unusual?

That can't be good. Unusual is never good.

“There was an abnormally high number of students who utilized the write-in feature of the ballot this year. After tallying up the votes, including the write-in additions, we can now confirm that your new junior class president is…”

Tristan squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

“… Ellison Sparks!”

I drop Tristan's hand.

What?

Tristan lets out a whoop and picks me up, swinging me around. When he sets me back on my feet he's beaming, but I'm scowling in confusion.

“You won!” he exclaims.

“B-b-but how?” I stammer. “I didn't even run for president.”

“Enough people wrote your name in. Everyone wants you to be their president.”

“They do?”

“The people have spoken,” Tristan says in a deep movie-trailer voice. He gazes at me with something in his eyes that I'm not sure I've ever seen before. I don't even recognize it at first, but after a moment I'm pretty convinced that it's pride.

“President Sparks,” he says ceremoniously. “I like the way that sounds.”

He leans toward me, his dimple practically glowing. I feel myself being pulled into his gravity, his energy, his atmosphere.

Our lips touch just as I hear someone screech my name. It's not a pleasant sound. It ranks somewhere up there next to nails on a chalkboard and metal grinding against metal.

Tristan and I both look up at once. Rhiannon Marshall is barreling down the hallway like a fireball in one of those highly unrealistic explosion scenes. This is the part where Tristan and I are supposed to start running so we can dive in slow motion under a car and avoid being blasted to bits.

But neither one of us moves.

“How dare you!” Rhiannon shrieks when she reaches me. “How dare you swoop in and steal
my
presidency.”

Tristan steps in front of me, opening his mouth to speak, but I gently push him aside. “I didn't steal anything, Rhiannon,” I say calmly. “The students voted for me.”

“You sabotaged me. You rigged this election.”

Her accusation stuns me. “And exactly how did I do that?”

Her face turns every shade of red as she angrily fumbles for a comeback. “I may not have an answer to that right now, but trust me, there will be a full investigation. I will get to the bottom of this.”

I nod. “You do that. Let me know what you find out.” I close my locker door with a decisive slam and walk away.

Tristan jogs to catch up with me. “Don't worry about Rhiannon. She's all talk.”

“I'm not worried.”

“Where are you going?” Tristan asks. “Isn't the locker room the other way?”

“To the auditorium,” I tell him. “The auditions for the school play are tomorrow. I've decided to sign up.”

Tristan sputters to a halt. “The play? But you hate singing in front of people.”

“Actually,” I say, stopping in front of the signup sheet and scribbling my name under the role of Maureen, “it turns out, I kind of like it.”

An alarm goes off on my phone. I check the screen and turn to Tristan. “I gotta run.”

He looks flustered. “What? Where are you going? Should I come with you?”

I shake my head. “That's okay. I got this.”

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. “Should I come over later, then?” He's using that seductive voice. The one that not only usually melts me, but melts all my resolve as well.

“You should get ready for your gig,” I point out, untangling myself from him. “I'll see you at the carnival tonight, okay?”

Before he can respond, I'm already halfway down the hallway.

 

Wooly Bully

3:55 p.m.

By the time I pull into the parking lot of the middle school next door and hop out of my car, the buses have left and the parent pickup line has mostly emptied. I park the car and run to the side door of the building, the one I saw the girls exit from.

I carefully ease it open to find that it leads to the school's security office, which is currently empty. Everyone must be at some kind of staff meeting. I hear whispers coming from the other end of the office and I quickly duck behind a file cabinet. A moment later, the girls are there. One of them—a tall brunette who is undoubtedly their leader—sits down at the desk and switches on the computer. I peer around the side of the cabinet to get a view of the monitor. She clicks the mouse a few times and suddenly a video feed of the soccer field is on the screen.

Security cameras.

The school must have them installed throughout the building.

There's movement on the feed and the girls start to giggle. The leader shushes them and points to the screen. Quietly, I take my phone out of my pocket, pull up the video camera, and press Record.

“She's walking onto the field now,” the leader says. “I told her that Avery would meet her out there in a few minutes. She thinks he wants to make out with her. Can you believe she actually thought someone like Avery Frahm would want to kiss her? She's so freaking gullible.”

My blood boils as the girls burst into laughter.

This is what my sister has been dealing with? These horrible girls making her life miserable? No wonder she buries herself in those movies and books. She hasn't only been turning to them for wisdom, she's been turning to them for a distraction.

“Like he would ever want to touch those hideous frog lips of hers,” one of the other girls chimes in, leading to another round of laughter at my sister's expense.

“Look,” the leader says, “she's in the middle of the field. Activating the sprinkler system in five, four, three, two—”

“This is all very entertaining,” I say, stepping out from behind the file cabinet.

The girls jump. Two of them actually let out a shriek.

The tall brunette takes charge, standing up from her throne to face me. “Who are you?” she asks rudely.

“An interested party.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, why don't you make yourself useful and go away. We're busy.”

“Yes.” I nod. “I can see that. You're clearly very,
very
busy, and I'm sure your principal would be extremely interested to know just how busy you are.”

Pink Miniskirt groans, like I'm wasting her time. “Do whatever you want.” She resumes her place behind the computer.

It takes all of my strength not to reach out and smack her across the head, but I force myself to stay calm and keep my cool.

“Oh, I will,” I say, taking a step toward her. I queue up the video. “And what I really want to do is push Send on the email I've drafted with this video attached.” I push Play and the girls' voices are echoed back at them through my phone's tiny speakers.

“She's walking onto the field now. I told her that Avery would meet her out there in a few minutes. She thinks he wants to make out with her. Can you believe she actually thought someone like Avery Frahm would want to kiss her? She's so freaking gullible…”

I turn the phone around and hover my finger over the screen.

The leader stands up again. “What do you want?”

“I want you to apologize to Hadley Sparks. Right now.”

She shakes her head like this is all so juvenile. “That's it?”

I shrug. “Yup. That's it.”

She huffs. “Fine. Let's go.” With a cock of her bony hip, she leaves the office, the other girls following closely behind her.

“And if you ever mess with her again,” I call after them, “this video will also find its way to the police.”

I send a quick text to my sister and then hurry over to the computer monitor. Through the feed, I can see Hadley checking her phone. She looks confused by my text, but thankfully starts walking toward the parking lot.