A Week of Mondays by Jessica Brody

handle.
    â€œUm…” 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.
    â€œOuch,” Owen says, cringing.
    â€œShut up,” I snap.
    â€œObjection. Argumentative.”
    â€œWithdrawn,” 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.
    â€œExcuse 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.
    I glance around the room. Actually, I don’t recognize any of these people.
    â€œEllison,” Mr. Henshaw says, staring strangely at me from the front of the classroom. “If I remember correctly, you’re in my second-period class.”
    â€œThis is second period,” I say, but there is no confidence in my words.
    Isn’t it?
    Daphne leads the room in a round of laughter.
    â€œToday is an odd day,” Mr. Henshaw says.
    It most certainly is.
    What on earth is going on around here? Tuesdays have always been even days. Since I started going to this school. Did they suddenly change it up this year?
    â€œThis is my first-period algebra class,” Mr. Henshaw continues.
    Daphne clears her throat. “Ahem. My seat.”
    I slowly stand and pull my bag over my shoulder.
    â€œYou should get to your first-period class.” Mr. Henshaw enunciates “first-period” as if I might actually be hard of hearing.
    As I make the walk of shame to the door, I hear Daphne hide the word “drunk” under a cough, causing the whole class to erupt in laughter again.
    I race down the hall and up the stairs to chemistry. When I get there, all the students are filing out of the classroom, chattering noisily.
    â€œOkay,” Mr. Briggs calls out, clapping his hands. “Can we keep it down? There are classes in session.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask, shoving my way to the teacher.
    â€œSchool pictures,” Mr. Briggs says. I can tell he’s trying to decide whether or not to reprimand me for being late. But then Aaron Hutchinson starts playing drums on a nearby row of lockers and Mr. Briggs scowls and darts away, deeming that the more heinous crime.
    School pictures?
    But we did that yesterday. Are they doing retakes already? I thought they waited at least a few weeks for that. Maybe something happened to the photos. Maybe the photographer lost the memory card and now we have to redo them.
    As I stand in line in the cafeteria, waiting to get my picture taken for the second time this week, I’m suddenly reminded of my hair. It’s a disaster.
    Again.
    â€œSay ‘Two more years!’” the photographer trills as I sit down on the stool.
    My mouth falls open in shock just as she snaps the photo.
    â€œLovely! Next!”
    As I’m shuffled away, I steal a peek at the camera’s viewfinder again. This time I look like a dying fish. Tack on the scariness of the hair and smudged makeup and I’m a dying zombie fish.
    So there goes that. I don’t think I can count on the memory card being lost a second time. I guess I’m