stared deeply into my eyes for five long seconds before guiding my mouth to his.
He kissed me.
In front of everyone. In spite of everyone.
I’d never felt more significant in my life.
“I thought you were going to be up front,” he said, pouting.
I laughed. “There was no room. I would have had to drive a tractor in there to hack through all of your adoring fans.”
“You’re the only adoring fan I care about.”
My knees gave out. It was a good thing Tristan’s hands were still holding me up.
“I’ll stand in front next time.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
First thing the next morning, I called the director of Camp Awahili and told him I wouldn’t be coming this summer.
THE SIXTH MONDAY
I Look Inside Myself and See My Heart Is Black
7:04 a.m.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
I must be dead.
There is no other explanation. I’ve died and am now living in some kind of purgatory.
Please, just let me out.
Shut it down. Stop the ride. I want off. I can’t do this anymore. I take back everything I said about wanting another chance. I take back everything I said about everything. Just don’t make me do this again.
What if I don’t open my eyes? What if I refuse to wake up? As long as my eyes stay closed, anything is possible, right? Owen is still lying next to me. The text message that I just received is a wrong number. The sun is shining outside my window.
Today is Tuesday.
The universe is not a cruel, devious prankster who thinks it’s funny to trap poor, innocent teenagers in the same horrific day over and over and over.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
Don’t do it, I scold myself. Whatever you do. Don’t open your eyes. Let’s just go on pretending.
I open my eyes. The space next to me is empty. I search for a stray strand of Owen’s hair, a crease in the pillow, a lingering scent. Something to prove he was there. To prove that last night happened.
But there’s nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
My life is one big meaningless cycle of nothingness.
See, some nagging voice in the back of my head says. This is why you don’t open your eyes.
I shut off my ringer, roll over, and try to go back to sleep.
Maybe I can sleep through the rest of the day.
Maybe I can sleep through the rest of my life, which coincidentally is the same thing. My life is this day. There’s no escape.
I’m trapped here forever.
What did I ever do to deserve this? Was it the candy bar I stole from the supermarket when I was six? The four dollars and eighty-five cents in fines that I’ve owed to the library since last year? That time I lied to my teacher about our dog being sick so I could get an extra day to finish my paper?
We didn’t even have a dog. And now I’m paying for it.
My dad knocks on the door and sticks his head in. “Ells? Owen is on the landline for you.”
Owen.
My mind instantly flashes back to the Ferris wheel. To his lips brushing ever-so-slightly against mine. And then, to that thing he said just before I fell asleep. Was that real? Did that really happen, or was I dreaming?
I push the memory from my mind. I can’t deal with that right now.
“He said he’s been calling your phone but it goes straight to voice mail,” my dad goes on. “Are you sick?”
“No,” I correct. “I’m dead.”
My dad huffs out a laugh. “You look pretty alive to me.”
“It’s an illusion.” I pull the pillow over my head. “I can’t go to school. Call Owen and tell him he needs to find another ride.”
“What about softball tryouts?” my dad asks, disappointed.
I pound the pillow with my fist. “I’m not going to those either.”
“But it’s your chance at varsity.”
I tear the pillow from my face. “You know what, Dad? Maybe I don’t care about making varsity. Maybe I don’t want to play softball. Maybe I don’t want to do anything. Maybe all I want to do for the rest of my life is lie here.”
Comprehension flashes across his face. He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Ah. Is this about a boy? Is this about Tristan?”
Pillow. Face.
My father lets out a sigh. “Well, I’m sorry if you’re having … boy trouble, but that’s no reason to miss school. Junior year is incredibly important when it comes to colleges, and you can’t let a little crush ruin your chances at a good future.”
“I’m not going to school,” I mumble into the fabric. “Ever again.”
“Well,” my dad says, “if