A Week of Mondays by Jessica Brody Page A

destined to be the laughingstock of the yearbook.
    9:50 a.m.
    As soon as the bell rings, I make a beeline to the girls’ restroom. Priority number one is to fix my face before I see Tristan. I can’t get back together with my hot boyfriend looking like a zombie fish.
    But I’m startled when I see Tristan standing outside my classroom.
    He’s waiting for me?
    Well, well, well, how the tables have turned. I guess my little no-show act worked like a charm.
    â€œHey,” he says, sidling up and falling into step beside me.
    â€œHey,” I say back. Very cucumber-like.
    I can feel him peering at me out of the corner of my eye, studying my face. “Are you trying out for the school play?”
    I slow. Did he really ask me that a second time?
    â€œNo, it’s raining again. Remember?”
    He looks momentarily confused before saying, “You didn’t show up this morning. I waited at my locker.” He sounds like an injured puppy. My heart does a little quickstep in my chest. He’s sad that I stood him up.
    Oh, this is so happening right now.
    â€œSorry.” I coat the word with a smooth nonchalance. “I was running late. Had to head straight to second—er, first period.”
    He nods. “I was hoping we could talk.”
    â€œIsn’t that what we’re doing?” I hoped for that to sound coy and flirtatious, but he clearly doesn’t interpret it that way.
    Tristan inhales sharply. “You’re still mad.”
    I feign innocence. “About what?”
    â€œAbout last night.”
    â€œMad? No. A little confused maybe.”
    â€œYeah,” he says, running his hand over the back of his neck. “Me, too.”
    Ah- ha ! Confusion! Confusion equals second-guessing equals regret equals we are so getting back together.
    But the third-period bell is about to ring, so let’s move it along.
    â€œWhat are you confused about?” I ask, hoping it will encourage him to spit it out already.
    He sighs. “About some of the things you said last night.”
    â€œMe?” I blurt out. I can’t help it. The idea that I had anything to do with the events of last night is preposterous. I was the one standing there speechless while he was the one who destroyed everything we had in a matter of minutes. “ You’re the one who broke up with me .”
    Wow. He really is confused. I can see it all over his face. He stops walking. “Broke up?” he sputters. “Ellie, we had a fight . ”
    â€œYeah,” I say helplessly. “And then you broke up with me?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. I was upset, sure. But I never said I wanted to break up.” His eyes fixate on a spot above my head, like he’s trying to remember the exact conversation.
    Meanwhile, I remember the conversation perfectly, and he said …
    Wait a second.
    My pulse sputters to a stop. My mind is reeling. Did he ever actually say the words “I want to break up?” Or anything remotely similar?
    I replay his words in my head.
    I can’t do this anymore.
    This isn’t working.
    Something is broken and I don’t know how to fix it.
    Holy crap on a stick. Did I completely make this up in my head? Did I misinterpret the whole thing? Was it really just another fight?
    Did I cry myself to sleep for nothing ?
    â€œSo you didn’t break up with me?” I ask slowly, unsure if I can trust the words coming out of my mouth.
    He takes way too long to answer. “No…” It sounds like he wants to add more, but he falls silent.
    And then I very eloquently say, “Oh.”
    Oh?
    The worst night of my life has been revealed to be an illusion and all I can say is “Oh”?
    â€œBut I still think we should talk about—”
    Just then the bell rings. We look at each other and then make a dash to Spanish class. Señora Mendoza gives us a sour look as we slip into our seats, but thankfully she doesn’t say