I was born before that, but the first few years of anyone’s life are, by nature, dramatic.)
Me: Morning! Can’t wait to see you today!
I press Send with a flourish. Then I find “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” in my “Psych Me Up Buttercup” playlist and set the volume to Blast!
It’s almost impossible to feel down when Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell are cheering you on from the sidelines. It’s like this song was written specifically for impeding a breakup. It’s the Relationship Saver’s Anthem.
I prance into the bathroom, place the phone down on the counter, and sing along at the top of my lungs while I shower.
“Ain’t no mountain high enough … To keep me from getting to you, babe.”
On second thought, this song might also be the Stalker’s Anthem.
But it doesn’t matter. It works. As I step out of the shower and grab a towel, I actually have the nerve to think:
Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.
Talking ’bout My Generation
7:35 a.m.
Why do we have to pick out clothes every day? Why can’t we just live in one of those cheesy futuristic sci-fi movies where everyone wears the same neon space suit and no one really seems to care that they all look like clones?
Argh.
I stare hopelessly into my closet. It’s school picture day and I also have to give a speech to the entire student body for class elections. Rhiannon, my running mate, texted me last night, reminding me to “Look vice presidential!”
Now I have to find an outfit that not only reminds Tristan that he’s madly in love with me, but also makes every member of the junior class—or at least a deciding majority—want to vote for me, and it has to be something that won’t totally embarrass me in front of my grandchildren in fifty years when I show them my junior class picture.
So basically, no pressure.
I pull my pair of lucky skinny jeans from a hanger in the denim section of my closet and move over to the pinks. My wardrobe is coordinated by fabric, color, and season. It’s supposed to make clothing selection more efficient, according to an article I read in Getting Organized magazine two years ago. (I’ve been a subscriber since I was ten.) But today, I don’t think even a personal stylist could help me pick out the right thing to wear.
I settle on a conservative-but-not-totally-puritan baby pink button-down shirt with a navy cardigan from the autumn section. Then I brave the mirror.
Huh. Not bad.
Maybe I don’t need the neon space suit after all.
I blow-dry and flat-iron my hair until it’s (relatively) tamed, reprint my extra-credit English paper, and pack up my schoolbag.
7:45 a.m.
Downstairs, the Sparks Family Circus is in full swing. My father is trying to eat oatmeal while playing Words With Friends on his iPad, which usually just ends up with him wearing most of the oatmeal.
My mother, the hotshot real estate agent, is her own sideshow this morning. She bangs cabinets and drawers closed as she searches for God knows what.
And in the center ring is my thirteen-year-old sister, Hadley, noisily shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth between page turns of whatever contemporary young adult novel is at the top of the bestseller list. She has this obsession with reading about people in high school. I’ve tried to tell her that four years of high school is bad enough. Why on earth would she want to submerge herself early?
She eagerly looks up from her book when I walk into the kitchen and asks, “Did he call?”
I roll my eyes. Why oh why did I tell her about the fight? It was a momentary lapse of judgment. I was a weepy sack of emotions and she was … well, she was there. Popping her head out of her bedroom as I climbed the stairs. She asked me what was wrong and I told her the whole story. Even the part where I threw a garden gnome at Tristan’s head.
In my defense, it was the only thing within reach.
Then she proceeded to summarize the entire plot of 10 Things I Hate About You in an effort to make me feel better, which, incidentally, only made me feel like she was comparing me to a shrew.
“No,” I say dismissively, reaching into the fridge for the bread. “He texted this morning.”
My dad looks up from his iPad and I cringe, waiting for him to ask me what happened. I really don’t want to hash out my