his chair and faces the giant display of pamphlets on the back wall. He scans them with his index finger, plucking an orange one from the bottom row and sliding it across the desk at me. “This should do the trick.”
“Another pamphlet?” I ask incredulously.
“Have I given you one before?”
I sigh and pick up the brochure. This one reads:
Saying No to Drugs: A Guide for Teens
It shows a blurry photograph of a girl with her hand outstretched against an unseen stranger who’s clearly offering her something illicit. The only part of the picture that’s in focus is the palm of her hand.
This one is admittedly more artistic than the last.
As I stare at the brochure, I quickly realize what a massive waste of time this has been. This guy’s not going to help me. Did he even go to guidance counselor school? Is there such a thing?
“Thanks,” I mumble, and stand up. “You’ve been a huge help.”
Mr. Goodman cracks a goofy smile and swipes at the air. “Aw, shucks.”
Clearly he doesn’t have a pamphlet back there about the meaning of sarcasm.
Discouraged, I shuffle out of his office. If this man is helping shape the minds of America’s youth, we’re all doomed.
Take a Sad Song and Make It Better
2:02 p.m.
I’ve got it. I’ve finally figured it out.
I’m on a reality show.
Everyone I know must be in on it. My family, Owen, Tristan, Daphne Gray, even the counseling office receptionist who hands me a pass back to class. They’re being paid to pretend this is real. There’s probably hidden cameras set up all over the school. Then three months from now, I’m going to be a hit show on a major network.
It’ll be called something snazzy like “Sparks Will Fly” or “Ellie’s Island.”
Although that doesn’t really explain the date on all those Web pages I checked. I highly doubt a reality show would hack into a government Web site just to fool me into believing some big, elaborate scheme.
Okay, let’s think about this for a minute.
What if I really am repeating the same day—even if it’s just a dream, or a result of over-the-counter painkillers gone bad, or whatever. Shouldn’t I at least make the most of it? Shouldn’t I use my knowledge of yesterday to improve today? That’s the smart, opportunistic thing to do, right?
I think back to all the horrible things that happened the first time I barely survived this day. Obviously one thing stands out above everything else: the carnival.
Tristan barely even gave it a shot. We didn’t get to do any of the things on my romantic fantasy date list. Maybe if we had, he’d realize that we aren’t broken. That we do still work. He was too bent out of shape about the stage being empty and his band missing the opportunity to perform.
I cover my hand with my mouth to keep the gasp from escaping.
That’s it.
That’s what I have to fix. That’s what set the whole night on the wrong track.
I glance down at the pass in my hand. Too bad it’s stamped with a time. Otherwise, I might have been able to pull this off without getting into trouble. I’ll just have to try really hard not to get caught.
I’ve never, ever ditched school in my life.
Like I said to Owen, I’m sugar and spice and all things nice.
And look how well that’s turned out for me so far.
This is my moment. If I have any hope of winning back Tristan’s affections and making him forget about that stupid fight, I have to do this.
If I succeed, it may not just save my relationship, it may save my whole Monday.
Worryin’ ’bout the Way Things Might Have Been
3:09 p.m.
Success!
I am victorious. I have triumphed!
Playing tonight on the main stage (okay, the only stage) at the final farewell evening of the town carnival is …
Whack-a-Mole!
(Cue the applause and confetti!)
I’m actually surprised by how easy it was to convince the carnival manager to let Tristan’s band play. Maybe he’s in on the reality show, too. I arrived at the fairgrounds ready to desperately plead my case like the losing attorney in a crumbling civil suit, armed with one of the Whack-a-Mole demo CDs that I always keep handy in my bag for just this reason. I marched into the carnival’s messy (and smelly) trailer office, introduced myself as the band’s manager (which, okay, is technically not true, but you know, trivial), and started to zealously sing their musical praises.
The guy—a grubby planet of a man—stopped me before I