Freaky Monday (2 page)

On my way
into school, I saw Milly Albright approaching, mostly because it's impossible to miss those braces glimmering under the fluorescent lighting. Milly's smile was massive, but it wasn't entirely convincing. I always sensed a sadness lurking nearby despite her huge grin.

“HEY, HADLEY!” Milly singsonged.

“Hey, Milly,” I said, and wanted to keep in motion.

“You okay?! You seem sorta down!” Milly asked with way too much enthusiasm. Poor thing. She really was sincere (which, truth be told, only made the situation worse).

“I'll be fine,” I mumbled.

“Maybe you should stop by the You Rock! Self Matters! group after school. Because it really does rock!”

Oh, boy.

A school group on self-esteem was
so
not in the cards today. (Or ever, for that matter.) Besides, I'd seen the motley
collection of students who attended Ms. Pitt's weird group with tragically low enrollment. That self-esteem group could use some self-esteem.

“I'm sorta tied up today, Milly,” I said, and saw her eyes cloud with rejection. “But thanks for the offer.”

“You betcha then! See ya!” Milly turned and headed off, bobbing like a human pogo stick. Milly gave off the distinct aura that she would always be unable to find the rhythm for the clap-along at the end of any concert.

As I watched Milly awkwardly navigate down the hallway, I realized that thus far, junior high had been a colossal disappointment.

I had always imagined junior high would mean having boyfriends and getting big groups to go to the water park together on hot summer days. But there's no boyfriend in sight and the closest water park is in San Diego, and since no one drives yet, the water park is out.

So for now, junior high is about groups on self-esteem and the like.

I had hoped things at junior high would be more adult, more civil…. Wrong. It's just more homework. Sometimes I miss the elementary school slumber parties and pizza parties and getting way too excited about owning a hamster (which for all intents and purposes is a worthless pet). It was also a whole lot easier to get gold stars and
TERRIFIC! written across the top of papers.

Maybe I thought things would be great at junior high because things looked great for Tatum. She always had this cool posse of friends coming and going when she was in junior high, and they did exciting things together, like going to the beach. Her hair was always in place and she styled it several different ways, all of which were flattering and fabulous. She IM'd at night with her friends, which in my estimation was ridiculously glamorous. What secrets were they sharing? Glossy, gossipy, important ones, I was convinced. Tatum went to dances, wore kitten heels, and wore lotions that smelled like yummy fruit.

Anyway, maybe it wasn't as great for Tatum as it seemed to me, but I was really bummed to realize, when I finally got to junior high, I didn't evolve into her. I stayed the same wound-too-tight Hadley. What a letdown.

And Lord, how I wish I could be Tatum Fox when I walked down the hall. Heads would turn and things would happen. I just know with every fiber in my being that Zane Henderson would absolutely, most definitely, positively notice me if that were the case.

Okay. Let me back up. Zane Henderson, second only to Ryan Gosling in
The Notebook
, is the love of my life. For one, Zane has green eyes. Not brown eyes with flecks of green, but green eyes. Like piercing Hulk green, almost
otherworldly. Nan disagrees and says they're really more hazel but she's wrong. For another thing, he wore an old Police T-shirt once (not the-long-arm-of-the-law police, but the band the Police) to school. While most stuff from the eighties sounds, well, like cheeseball stuff from the eighties, the Police's music STILL rocks. I thought that was really cool and I just know we could have long conversations about how awesome their lyrics are…because I'm sure Zane is the sort of guy who actually pays attention to the lyrics themselves. (Take “Everything Little Thing She Does Is Magic” and the genius lyric: “It's a big enough umbrella, but it's always me that ends up getting wet.” That pretty much sums up my life so far.)

Bottom line, Zane isn't a muscle-head moron. At least I sure hope not…I don't know him particularly well. Let's just say we haven't exactly had a lot of conversations. There was a “hey” back in September (which was staggeringly fabulous) and nothing since. But in my fantasy-prone mind, Zane and I just talk and talk and go to the beach and he always remembers my favorite sandwich is egg salad, which is really an underrated sandwich. Zane's so thoughtful that way.

And since I'm in flat-out fantasy mode here…let me just come right out and say it. Okay. So how cool does Hadley Henderson sound? Doesn't it have great
alliteration and sound wonderful together? I know it's antifeminist, blah blah blah, but still, it does, right? And hey, my grandparents met when they were eleven. Stranger things have happened….

Soup thinks Zane's a quasi-dork and pointed out he's never heard him say much. I contend Zane's just misunderstood and shy. That can happen to boys, too, I suppose.

Of course it makes perfect sense that Zane Henderson should choose this Monday to actually speak to me. The Monday on which my friends are angry at me and my skin has a sick whitish pallor. The day my eyes are crazed and panicked. If Zane were to speak to me, I would hope it would be a Friday when there was a buzz of anticipation in the air and at least my hair would look semi-decent. But oh no. He had to speak to me today.

I had grabbed my books out of my locker. (And for the record, I do not decorate my locker. I get so tired of everyone trying to show how cool they are by their locker decor. It's like:
Look at all the concerts I've been to! See the concert stubs? Don't I have great taste when it comes to music?! And see these pictures I have up—don't I just have the most friends ever?!
Anyway, in protest, I refuse to hang one darn thing and all you can see in my locker is foul brown paint and books.)

I was making my way to first-period English, my head ponging with thoughts of panic about my oral presentation and whether my friends would forgive my weirdness. That's when I saw Zane. He was leaning against his locker and I was positive he sort of lit up when he saw me. At least I think that's what happened. Maybe there was someone behind me? I turned to see who he was looking at, but apparently he seemed to recognize me. Me being the one with the wild eyes and clammy white skin, remember.

“Uh, hey. Hadley,” Zane offered as I approached in virtual slow-motion.

Was this happening? Was Zane speaking to ME?

“Uh, yeah,” I responded. I mentioned I was witty, right? I was extremely proud of that especially frothy response.
Uh, yeah?

“Hey,” he responded back.

Hadn't he already said “hey”? Who cares, it was something. “Hey,” I volleyed yet again. Keep it going….

“So, uh, I was wondering if I, uh, saw you this weekend.”

What? You were wondering if you saw ME this weekend?
“Oh yeah?” I said in a very squeaky dork voice. My body was leaving me, floating above the halls of Burroughs Junior High, observing me being a monosyllabic moron.

“Yeah.” He grinned and I grinned back. God, this was surreal! We were grinning at each other—I'm absolutely certain of it! And of course my hand reached for my hair and I did one of those lame-o hand-comb moves I had seen all the cheerleaders do before—you know, where they flick their hair ever-so-shampoo-commercially. I always thought it looked so fakey-flirty—the hand through the hair, that is—but I didn't realize until that very moment that the gesture truly is grounded in instinct. You like a boy, he's talking to you, and whammo! You just have to use your fingers to do a comb-through of the hair! I had no idea! It was like I was an ACTUAL TEENAGER!

“Because, uh, I was at a tennis match,” Zane said, continuing with his fantastic conversation that absolutely had me floating.

“Oh yeah?”

“And I was wondering…isn't your sister on the tennis team?”

WHAT?

Zane must have seen my total teenager smile melt off my face. Actually, it felt like I was losing more than just a smile, it also felt like there was actual flesh dripping off. You know, like at the end of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

“Tatum? Isn't she your sister?”

Of course. He loves Tatum. Everyone loves Tatum.
God, for a nanosecond I actually entertained the idea that it was possible for someone—preferably a boy and more preferably, Zane Henderson—to actually find me attractive. How stupid could I be? “Uh, yeah. She is.”

“She's good.” He smiled to himself, probably lost in the thought of Tatum's teen-dream face.

Oh, did I mention to you that Tatum's on the high school tennis team and undefeated this year as the number one singles player? I know. It gets worse, right?

“At tennis, I mean, she's good. Because I saw her play. You know, at the high school. Against Thompson Valley, I think.” Was his face getting red?

“She's undefeated.” I tried to smile but it felt like my face was betraying me. I might pass out….

“Cool. Anyway…thought maybe you were there, so…”

“Nope, I didn't see her match. I had a lot of homework this weekend. I had to make a model of an atom for science. I almost chose a walnut shell.” And the walnut shell nugget helped me look that much more cool! I should spare him this torture and end this exchange now. He didn't want to speak to me, anyway. He just wanted the Tatum 4-1-1. “So I'll see ya,” I managed to squeak out.

“Yeah. I've got my oral presentation….” And with
that, Zane strolled into Ms. Pitt's English class and panic reflooded my body. Great. Not only was the love of my life salivating over my sister, but I was about to have my first and most thunderous academic failure.

I walked into
class with what must have been a pretty stunned expression on my face. Nan swooped up and whispered, “I forgive you for being a freak, if and only if you tell me that Zane Henderson just asked you out.”

“Nan. This is me you're dealing with, remember? Of course he didn't ask me out.” Again, I couldn't feel my fingers, I swear.

“Why not? Boys—and this does not apply to our Soup—don't talk to girls otherwise. I mean, what would we ever talk about with them about? Football?”

“No. Tennis, apparently.”

“He likes you. I could tell—”

Before Nan could say another word, I cut her off and whispered, “Zane likes Tatum. That's all he wanted to talk about.”

“Oh.”

I concurred. “I know. Of course, right?”

Nan tried to make me feel better, I'll give her that. “Maybe he just—”

“He went to see Tatum play at the tennis match this weekend. He said she's so talented or something.”

“Oh.” This “oh” sounded more defeated. Nan gave me a “buck up” half grin. “Man, your day REALLY isn't going well, is it.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I responded.

Just then, there was a—

GONG!

Ms. Pitt's gong started class. She always struck that annoying gong and did a little Chinese bow to the class. It was just so organic-fruit of her and wannabe-hippie obvious—you know, like slapping a
LOVE ANIMALS
,
DON'T EAT THEM
! bumper sticker on your Prius or something. Come to think of it, I think Ms. Pitt may have that exact bumper sticker on that exact car….

And now it was too late to approach her and plead my case…. I needed an extension, a get-out-of-jail-free card, something. I had to try. “Ms. Pitt, could I speak to you?” I asked. “It's really—”

“After class, Hadley. Okay? We have a big day—I think you're making your oral presentation today, aren't you?” Ms. Pitt surveyed the room, barely scanning my obviously desperate face. Nothing was registering with Ms. Pitt.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about—”

“You're not sick?”

“Well, no—”

“No family tragedy or anything?”

“No.” She was so impossible!

“Then it can wait until after class when I am more than available.” She smiled at me and gestured for me to take my seat.

How could anyone be more clueless??

I walked back to my seat like I was being led to my lethal injection. Soup, who sits in front of me, saw my state and said, “Dead man walking!” Soup thought this was hilarious.

“Not funny.” I put my head down on my desk.

“I shouldn't be talking to you, anyway. You have GOT to learn how to chill—”

Ms. Pitt gestured “shhh” to Soup, and the school announcements began over the PA. She pointed to the speaker on the wall, indicating its grave importance. I failed to see why information about book drives and cafeteria lunch specials were that essential.

“Good morning, fellow Mustangs, this is your Student Council President, Kaya Tisch, with some biiiiig news!”
Kaya Tisch was so over the top, she even made sunny Milly Albright seem like Buzzkill Betty.

Let me tell ya, Kaya Tisch was not even vaguely disappointed with the junior high experience. Not in the slightest. She was vibrating with glee and joy and profound enthusiasm. She was a walking rainbow.

“Tonight is a Burroughs Junior High first, and I am SO psyched to tell you about it now! And believe me, there was some SERIOUS arm-twisting behind the scenes to get this to happen, but when I ran for Student Council President I promised I would deliver FUN, NEW activities for the school, and Kaya Tisch is DELIVERING on her campaign promise!”

I couldn't take it. Maybe I was already dead and this was officially hell.

“So! Let me get RIGHT to it!”

“We're waiting….” Soup said, and I had to nearly smile. Nearly.

“Surprise! Tonight is the inaugural I-Hate-Mondays DANCE! It's the first dance EVER in the history of the school on a MONDAY!”
Kaya might explode from glee.
“Because if you hate Mondays like I hate Mondays, then we ALL deserve a big change of pace! It is going to be SO cool!”

Maybe Zane can ask Tatum to chaperone, I thought bitterly to myself as I stared over at his sublime profile. God, the way he was studying a pencil was beautiful.

“Oh, joy. I've
always
wanted to celebrate
Monday
,” Nan noted darkly. Despite Nan's snarky comment, the class seemed to buzz with a low-grade excitement. I had to hand it to Kaya—an impromptu Monday-night dance was different. And…what if Zane wanted to talk about Tatum more at the dance? At least we'd be talking, right?

“So we'll see you all there in the school cafeteria, eight
P.M
. TONIGHT!”
You'd think Kaya had single-handedly coordinated Middle East peace.

Ms. Pitt stepped forward to quell the hubbub. “All right, class, all right. Let's all settle down, we've got a lot to tackle this morning.”

Right, like my total downfall.

“We've got to get right to our
To Kill a Mockingbird
oral presentations if we're to get through them all. I so look forward to your thoughts and what you have to share with the class,” said Ms. Pitt. “To start the day, I'd also like to share a review I found this weekend from
The Washington Post
, which originally ran about this transcendent book.” Ms. Pitt paused for dramatic effect.
“‘A hundred pounds of sermons of tolerance will weigh far less in the scale of enlightenment than a mere 18 ounces of new fiction bearing the title
To Kill a Mockingbird.'” Ms. Pitt paused and placed a hand
on her heart, suggesting to what degree she was moved. (Which was big-time, apparently.)

Her emotional moment was interrupted by a knock at the door. She went to answer it and the A/V librarian technician with astoundingly poor posture rolled in a TV and DVD. “Delivery for Henderson?”

Zane raised his hand, and Ms. Pitt was clearly thrown. Zane said, “That's for me. It's for my oral presentation.” Ms. Pitt's face registered concern.

“You didn't discuss using visual aids….”

Zane pulled a DVD out of his bag. “I thought you'd be okay with it. My mom says it's a classic. Is that cool?”

“Well, what is it?” Ms. Pitt was more exasperated than usual. That made two of us.

“
In Cold Blood
. And don't worry, Ms. Pitt. Because in this scene no one dies or swears or is naked or anything.” The class twittered at that one.

Ms. Pitt sat down at her desk and gestured to go on. I wouldn't have allowed A/V equipment in
my
classroom, even if it had been requested by Zane Henderson.

“Okay. So,” Zane started with his trademark understated grace. “This movie's about this sick murder that really took place in Kansas in nineteen fifty-nine. Here, let me show ya.”

Zane hit
PLAY
and a grim scene played out in which
two guys shot an entire family. It was horrible even though you didn't see
that
much actual gore. My mind was reeling:

1.My oral presentation is going to
tank
. Crash and burn. Fiery death. Plagues and locusts and famine.

2.What in the world does this violent scene have to do with
To Kill a Mockingbird
again?

3.Why is Ms. Pitt so oblivious to positively everything exactly?

But more important:

4. Then again, who cared? This oral presentation gave me an excuse to stare at Zane Henderson without any risk of looking like a stalker. At least I had that going for me.

Zane hit
STOP
and pivoted toward the class. His face got a bit red and you could tell he was shy. It was painfully endearing, like he was my own little secret. “So, uh…you're probably wondering what, uh, this movie has to do with
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

Sally Kirk raised her hand. “I know! I know!”

Zane paused, unsure how to respond.

“Both movies are in black-and-white?” She waited expectantly with moon eyes.

“Uh, what?” responded Zane. In his defense, her answer was lame.

“
To Kill a Mockingbird
? We watched it in class? And it was in black-and-white, too?” Sally spoke in perpetual question marks.

“Oh, yeah. But no. See, this movie is based on the book
In Cold Blood
, which is by Truman Capote. That famous author, I think he's dead, and he was like four feet tall.”

Blank stares. Maybe my presentation couldn't be too much worse than this….

“Anyway,
In Cold Blood
was written by Truman Capote and he was the best friend of Harper Lee, who wrote
To Kill a Mockingbird
. They grew up in the South together and supposedly the character of Dill is based on Truman.”

He pulled out a picture of Truman Capote and displayed it for the class. Unfortunately, the picture was practically postage-stamp minuscule and even when straining, you could barely see him. Teddy Hasert (who had the largest head on the planet, though it contained a rather tiny brain), sat in the front row, and apparently he
could see the picture: “Oh yeah. I know that dude.”

“Harper Lee went to Kansas with Truman to do research for the book and stayed there for, like, years. Or a really long time at least, you know, interviewing people and stuff. They say he couldn't have written it without her.” Zane paused, and Ms. Pitt finally jumped in.

“How many people knew this before Zane's presentation, the connection between Harper Lee and Truman Capote?”

One hand went up. Sally Kirk. Of course. Actually I knew, too, but I didn't want to be in the Sally Kirk smarty-pants world.

Ms. Pitt smiled at Sally. “So most of us have learned something today. Zane, why is the book
In Cold Blood
so important?”

Crickets were chirping somewhere. “Uh…because…”

Ms. Pitt tried to help him along. “Because it was a revolutionary event of literature—”

“—that blurred the line between, you know…reality and fiction,” Zane blurted, almost stunning himself. “When Truman Capote wrote it, he used, like, newspaper writing and then he combined it with creative writing, basically.”

Ms. Pitt raised her eyebrows. “Very good. And how did his writing change because of Harper Lee?”

“Well, we'll never know. I wasn't there. Just as Capote wasn't there the night Perry and Smith killed that family in Holcomb, Kansas.” He sort of smiled, maybe a bit proud. That was it. I was officially in love. I knew he was the sort who had to be coaxed and once they were on a roll, they'd be unstoppable. “But I can imagine that Truman as a…well, let's just say not a lot of dudes like Truman were showing up much in Kansas. He was pretty flamboyant and I bet having Harper with him made the townspeople open up and trust him more. I bet he got a better story because of her.”

“And I bet you're right. Great work, Zane. Okay, Hadley. You're up next.”

Soup and Nan spun in their seats and shot daggers my way. I froze in my chair.

“Hadley? I said you're up.” I had no choice. I felt myself walk to the front of the classroom, empty-handed. No oral presentation to cling to and read from. My heart thump-thumped, thump-thumped in my chest.

“Whenever you're ready…” Ms. Pitt offered.

Except I wasn't ready. I was dying! Couldn't she see that?

Ms. Pitt cleared her throat as if to say “begin already.”

I cleared my throat in response. And gulped. I had to begin. “So, uh…
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Great book. Harper Lee knows how to write a book. And she did write one. Which is the one we read.” I just knew it, I couldn't put any thoughts together. My head was swirling.

Nan and Soup shared a look and I knew this was going to be as bad as I thought. Ms. Pitt leaned in, concerned.

“So the book…the book was,” I heard myself say. Was that even a sentence? “
To Kill a Mockingbird
. I mentioned that…is about this girl. I mean it is and it isn't. There's also a trial, so…” The room was getting fuzzy.

“Hadley, isn't your topic about how race impacts justice?” Ms. Pitt said.

I just nodded vaguely.

“Would you like to talk about that, then?”

Zane was wincing while he watched me, as if he was sucking on lemons.
Focus, focus, focus, you idiot! Think of something!

“Um…yeah. So O. J. Simpson…?”

“What about him?”

“He, uh…well, you know…I have no idea,” I mumbled. This was more pronounced than any other
panic attack I'd ever had. I was defenseless and mute.

“Hadley, I need to speak to you in the hallway.” Ms. Pitt trotted out of the class into the hall and I had no choice but to follow.

I had never hated a Monday more in my entire life.