A Week of Mondays by Jessica Brody Page B

anything.
    I glance at Tristan out of the corner of my eye and he gives me a conspiratorial half smile. I feel relief fill me up and I expect it to lull me into a state of calm. But for some reason it doesn’t. It’s like taking a deep breath but never being able to exhale.
    It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything is totally completely fine.
    Isn’t it?
    Why do I still feel so uneasy? Like there’s something I’m missing?
    I tear a piece of notebook paper from my binder and quickly scribble “Are we good?” then slide it onto Tristan’s desk.
    He gives me an adorable wink and whispers, “Yeah,” just as Señora Mendoza says, “¡Nosotros veremos!” in her bright, bubbly tone.
    My head whips to the front of the room.
    Didn’t we conjugate this same verb yester—
    But the thought is cut short as a massive black blur crashes against the classroom window.

 
    Oh, I Believe In Yesterday
    There’s only one rational explanation. The local crows have formed a suicide pact. I saw a documentary about this once. Not with birds, obviously, but with people. A bunch of lonely souls get together and decide to commit suicide around the same time.
    I’m no avian expert, but I imagine it works the same with birds.
    I mean, how else do you explain two birds crashing to their deaths against the window of my Spanish class?
    It’s either that or they really hate the sound of Señora Mendoza’s voice.
    Fortunately, this time I don’t burst into tears. I got that little problem under control. But I do feel pretty queasy when Sadie Haskins confirms that the bird is dead. Tristan looks to me, almost like he expects me to start crying again, but I hold it together.
    See, I’m improving already.
    Reining in the drama.
    11:20 a.m.
    In history, Mr. Weylan actually hands out the exact same quiz as yesterday. When is this poor old man going to retire already? It’s kind of embarrassing.
    Although I guess what’s really embarrassing is the fact that I still don’t get all the questions right. I remember some of the correct answers from yesterday’s quiz, but I’m ashamed to say I don’t get a hundred percent today. And neither does Daphne Gray, whose test I have to grade again. I try to share a conspiratorial eye roll with her when we trade back papers. Something that says, “Can you believe this guy is allowed to keep teaching?” but I must not convey the sentiment properly, because she just stares blankly back at me. Like she can’t understand why I even exist.
    She hands me my test with a big 76 percent marked on the front. Well, it’s an improvement, at least. Let’s hope old man Weylan also managed to forget yesterday’s results and uses these instead. Or better yet, let’s hope he forgets again tomorrow. I’ll surely be able to ace it by then.
    â€œHomework for tonight,” Mr. Weylan announces in his wobbly voice as the class comes to an end. He turns and writes something on the whiteboard. His handwriting is so shaky it’s barely legible.
    For Tuesday: Read chapters 3 & 4.
    I let out a snort and Daphne turns her dark cat eyes on me. “What?”
    â€œHe assigned us the same thing yesterday. And he got the day wrong.”
    Not that I did the assignment anyway. I was too busy getting ambiguously broken up with.
    â€œUm, are you on drugs?” she asks in response.
    First I’m a drunk. Now I’ve apparently upgraded to drug addict.
    No, I want to reply, equally snotty, but then I look around the room and notice that everyone is furiously writing down the assignment. Like the mistake doesn’t even faze them.
    It’s right then that a tingle starts in the pit of my stomach. Like a quiet murmuring of some foreboding truth.
    I turn back to Daphne and whisper, “Isn’t today Tuesday?”
    She shakes her head at me, clearly believing I really am on drugs. “No,