Freaky Monday Read online

  Freaky Monday

  Mary Rodgers and Heather Hach

  To Sophie and Clara

  —M.R.

  For Harper

  —H.H.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  I hate Mondays.

  Chapter 2

  At that moment I saw Ms. Pitt flash by, ridiculous…

  Chapter 3

  On my way into school, I saw Milly Albright approaching,…

  Chapter 4

  I walked into class with what must have been a…

  Chapter 5

  “Hadley. This is so unlike you,” Ms. Pitt stated the…

  Chapter 6

  I Scotch-taped my class schedule to the inside of my…

  Chapter 7

  Just as I exited the teacher’s lounge with a strong…

  Chapter 8

  I sat Ms. Pitt’s posterior down into a seat across…

  Chapter 9

  I stood outside the school waiting for my ride. I…

  Chapter 10

  I stood there, dazed, absorbing this bizarre news.

  Chapter 11

  We pulled up in front of our house and I…

  Chapter 12

  The building where the school board met was sterile and…

  Chapter 13

  I opened the car door and jumped into the backseat.

  Chapter 14

  When I got to the parking lot, I turned to…

  Chapter 15

  Hadley climbed out of the car when we drove up…

  Chapter 16

  I had barely managed to stray from my sad heap…

  Chapter 17

  Back in the depths of Ms. Pitt’s closet, I found…

  Chapter 18

  I zigzagged through a throng of students littering the walkway…

  Chapter 19

  The real Ms. Pitt and I finally found an area…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  I hate Mondays.

  Okay, so it’s not an original thought. So does most of the planet.

  But seriously, I’m positively allergic and my soul breaks out into hives at the very thought. Mondays. It’s like the February of days—no one likes it at all, and they should make every Monday shorter somehow, just like they had the good sense to make February the shortest month. (I’d suggest every Monday be fifteen hours, for example.)

  I should back up first. I’m rambling and you have no idea who I am or why I hate Mondays or any of it. First off, I’m thirteen and my name is Hadley, which for years I thought sounded like a brand of car more than a human name, but I’m just now beginning to realize it may be cool. It’s certainly not Jessica or Jennifer, though I’m sure those are two names that would make me instantly more popular.

  And while we’re on the topic of being instantly more popular, I should mention my older sister, Tatum. Even her name sounds exotic, huh? Tatums don’t sweat or break out or still pathetically wear underwear with days of the week on them (unlike some people I know). Tatum’s beauty is at once exotic and somehow all-American—a sort of teenage supermodel. If you walk down the beauty aisle of your local drugstore, you’re bound to see Tatum-worthy beauties staring back at you from the shampoo bottles, giggling through a Photoshop-perfect smile. Tatum seriously has that shimmery rare prettiness that makes you instantly think Hair Commercial. And the irony is Tatum is actually the brunette and I’m the (mousy) blonde, yet still our fortunes could not be reversed. In movies, brunette is code for “friend” and blonde translates to “girlfriend.” But this movie logic isn’t my reality. Tatum’s dark hair—even when thrown together in a sloppy updo—looks ravishing. My hair looks like burnt straw.

  To make matters worse, Tatum’s genuinely cool. Her musical taste runs more indie, not crappy bubblegum stuff. And she’s been volunteering with Habitat for Humanity since, like, the sixth grade. Seriously, she’s a freak of nature—she looks like MTV but can talk like PBS. She’s truly bright and creative and bubbles in a way I’m never going to bubble. She’s gifted in every arena known to mankind except one: academics. Math, more specifically. Seriously, her math abilities are somewhere on a par with Bubbles the chimp. Maybe she just doesn’t apply herself (something I’ll never have to grapple with—more on that in a second)…or maybe Tatum has some medical condition, a sort of math dyslexia or something. Who knows.

  All I know is that it’s impossible to hate Tatum, though lots of people have probably tried. And it would be easy to lump her into the Mean Girls category based upon appearance alone. Yet Tatum treats everyone really decently—that’s her jujitsu offense. And it seems to work.

  Tatum doesn’t hate Mondays. They’re “opportunities.” Okay, she’s never used that term, but she is an optimistic person, the make-lemonade-out-of-lemons sort of girl. Then again, I would be too, if Mom and Dad had passed along her DNA salad to me.

  So back to this morning…at breakfast, which, for the record, I firmly believe should include coffee. I need some pep but Mom refuses to let me drink it. Like coffee’s some adult mystery. And this wouldn’t happen in France, incidentally. Drinking coffee—and no one’s died of a coffee overdose, am I right?—would probably be encouraged, as would beret wearing and meaningful conversations. Anyway—I mentioned I ramble, right?—at breakfast, Tatum was eating her sensible all-the-food-groups-are-represented breakfast (she got the good metabolism, too), and Mom went ballistic on me for not feeding Higgins the cat or making my bed. She probably wanted to throw in a “Why can’t you be more like your sister, Tatum?” but has watched enough Oprah to realize this is a bad idea. In protest, I snuck some of her coffee behind her back. And it was not decaf.

  Before you think I’m really a Rebel Yell, defiant-fist-in-the-air sort of teenager, also consider that when a report aired this morning on the Today show about how an unusual comet got a wee bit too close to Earth for astronomers’ comfort, I instantly Wikipedia-ed “comet” to find out exactly what a comet is in case it came up in a pop quiz in earth science. (If you’re wondering, comets are small solar-system bodies that orbit the sun and, when close enough to the sun, exhibit a visible coma and/or tail.) Like I said, I apply myself way too hard and I’m a classic nerd. Even when I try to watch silly reality TV at night like a normal teenage girl should, I get itchy and nervous and have to dash to my room to go over my reading just one more time. Seriously, it’s pathological. At least I have a 4.3 GPA (because of all my extra-credit assignments, thank you very much) to show for it.

  Back to my morning.

  After all this comet-crash-studying and my mom’s tirade, Tatum drove me to school. She always drops me off at junior high before she goes on to her high school. The drive is actually one of my favorite times of the day. We listen to NPR and talk like civilized adults. Being in the car with Tatum is almost like being in our own private world, safe from the nonsense. Tatum always makes me think I’m the only person in the world.

  And our world—at least on paper—sounds cooler than it actually is. We live in San Marino, California, where occasionally movie crews come to film our quaint little town, trying to capture that slice of Americana that doesn’t really exist except in the movies or on TV. I live there and I wish life was like a movie, let me tell you! Just because we’re close to Los Angeles, don’t think that I know Reese Witherspoon or anything. I wish. I don’t shop at fancy boutiques or tan 24/7. I don’t surf. And the only celebrity I’ve ever spoken to was the Quaker Oats guy. (Not that I knew his name off the bat. I Googled him when I got home, and within three clicks, I had my man.) We were both waiting at the same dentist’s office reception area, and he was reading one of thos
e women’s magazines about sexy secrets (those are cool) and tasty new chicken recipes (those are not). He said to me while perusing some article, “It’s about time she got a job.” And I had zero idea who he was talking about or what the context was, but like I said, I recognized him from TV, so I nodded and said, “Yeah,” and actually hoped he’d continue to talk to me. Then I realized he may have been slightly insane and no one would care that I had this big conversation with the guy who pitches oatmeal on TV. I was telling Tatum this story just the other day on our way to school and she guffawed…which made me feel great. I just love our time in the morning driving to school together.

  But our sealed-off utopia always has to come to an end. She pulls up to my Burroughs Junior High and I can see these teenage dorks salivating at the sight of her. Her ’93 Accord seriously causes the sea—or at least the parking lot—to part. Last year Eddie Potts actually asked me how Tatum could possibly be my sister. Maybe there was a mix-up at the hospital? Did your mom get remarried and THEN have you? Everyone died laughing and I felt my heart freeze-dry and shatter.

  When I jump out of the car, Tatum always grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze, telling me, “Have a great day, okay?” And I always respond back, “Ditto, kiddo.” This whole exchange sounds sort of Mom, but it’s actually quite nice. She also tells me to say hi to Ms. Pitt, my English teacher and her favorite junior high teacher. Tatum’s always going on and on about how awesome Ms. Pitt is. And frankly, I fail to grasp the greatness of her. I mean, sure, she’s not your average geriatric teacher and she drives a hybrid, but she’s also a little…I don’t know, self-help or something. Like that aunt who drinks too much wine at Thanksgiving and wants to “really talk” and all you want to do is proofread your English essay before school starts up again on Monday.

  So Tatum and I said our good-byes and as I headed into school, watching the morons crane their necks and whisper about my goddess sister, it dawned on me.

  IT WAS MONDAY.

  MONDAY THE SIXTEENTH OF OCTOBER.

  THE DAY I WAS SUPPOSED TO GIVE MY ORAL PRESENTATION ON TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD.

  From my use of ALL CAPS, I suppose you’ve jumped to the conclusion that I was not prepared. At all.

  You see, I switched to a new Super Student Planner Plus last week, which is supposed to be the most super-duper academically organized way to go (at least according to Cindy Pang, who is only the most brilliant student at Burroughs Junior High—and possibly the entire industrialized world—and I’ll believe anything she says when it comes to scholastics…), but I must have been studying too late one night and been tired or something. Because right there under Monday, October 16, is a big fat goose egg of nothing where ORAL PRESENTATION should be written.

  Great.

  For the first time in the history of my life I was going to tank at school. I blew it. Big-time.

  CHAPTER 2

  At that moment I saw Ms. Pitt flash by, ridiculous peasant skirt trailing behind. She was a swirling dervish, let’s be honest. And as Tatum seems to think Ms. Pitt’s this Second Coming, you’d imagine she would home in on my total and complete emotional breakdown, right?

  Oh no.

  So much for being plugged into the “teenage experience.” Ms. Pitt was clearly clueless, obsessed with her own reality and oblivious to my own. I even tried to send out an emotional SOS with my eyes, pleading with her to take notice. Nothing.

  Did I mention Ms. Pitt likes to be called by her first name, Carol? Oh, I know—it’s cringe-worthy, right? She contends that attempts at educational formality are ridiculous and this respectability so valued in public schools is more about vacuous tradition and not rooted in truth. I contend that she should stick to the curriculum so I have a chance of getting into a good college. Anyway, when I’m a strict stubborn traditionalist and call Ms. Pitt Ms. Pitt—which is her name, thank you very much—she gently chides me and tells me to “just call me Carol. It is my name, after all, and we’re all equals in this learning environment together!”

  Equals?

  Please. Look, I’m in this learning environment, and I’ve done just fine calling teachers named Mr. Evans Mr. Evans, not Bob. And I manage to learn just fine.

  I heard through the grapevine that Ms. Pitt was up to chair the entire English department. Great—that probably meant “Kumbaya” lesson plans would soon follow.

  Regardless, Ms. Pitt sailed past before I could disclose my unprepared-for-the-first-time-in-my-entire-life predicament. I was about to get even more upset by her dismissal when I saw her SMASH right into Mr. Wells.

  As in Principal Wells. Who sits on the school board.

  Ms. Pitt’s Earth-friendly, reusable coffee mug contents (my guess? An organic soy chai latte) splatted all over Mr. Wells’s shirt.

  “Oh no! What a klutz! Could I be more clumsy? I am so so sorry!” Ms. Pitt clucked as she attempted to pat down Mr. Wells’s huge chai splotch with random loose papers, only making the situation way worse.

  “Oh dear. Oh my.” Mr. Wells didn’t do a good job of withholding his disdain.

  “I think I have some Tidy Wipes in my car,” Ms. Pitt offered.

  “Those are ineffective. I have Shout Wipes in my office for precisely this sort of situation. And a change of clothes.”

  “There you go! Well, this too shall pass, eh?”

  It doesn’t look like it’s going to pass anytime soon, I thought with a devious teeny-tiny smile on my face. I’m sorry, but it was oddly satisfying and a welcome distraction from my own dilemma. I don’t think Mr. Wells and Ms. Pitt even noticed me standing there.

  Mr. Wells smiled weakly. “Aren’t you slated for the English department chair interview today?”

  “I am indeed. I truly believe I can bring a real originality to the school’s curriculum in a way standardized testing never can.”

  “We shall see. And let’s hope this incident is NOT an omen for how today’s interview will go.”

  And with that, Mr. Wells moved on, a big sloppy chai mess. Ms. Pitt shook her head and continued on with her crazed trek into school.

  Which allowed me to get back to my panic attack, which was verging on full tilt. I could feel the blood draining from my fingers, realizing I was woefully unprepared for my oral presentation. That’s the first sign—tingly fingers (which scares me that I’ll have one of those Lifetime Channel diseases later in life). My breath was shallow and I couldn’t focus. I felt like I was sort of underwater, and my thoughts didn’t make sense…. It was more like an overwhelming blob of thoughts all coalescing into one confused reality.

  “Hello? Hadley? Anybody home?”

  I turned, vaguely recognizing this voice. I squinted into the sun and saw a fedora-wearing figure headed my way. Oh. Soup. And Nan was right behind him.

  My best friend, Soup (no one has any idea why he’s called that anymore, but he’s had the nickname for so long now that it has stuck, and he says anything is better than Sven, his God-given name), and with him was Nan. I’m probably a wee bit closer to Soup than to Nan, and I will admit to you and only you that it makes me feel a little bit cool and vaguely urban to have a guy best friend. Soup is the coolest despite being in the marching band, and he insists if the population would just see the obscure movie Drumline, his life would change forever because marching bands rule. He thinks football could not be played without the support of the marching band, which I find implausible. I contend that the high school football team is not exactly counting on the marching band’s version of “On Broadway” to seal the deal. I’ve never offered my argument to Soup personally; it seems mean.

  Nan grew up for the first ten years of her life in New York City, which is only the most excellent city on the planet along with Paris (which means I’ve never set foot in either place). But I’ve read and watched enough cable to get the gist of it—New York’s the best. After all, it produced Nan, who knows so much about everything, and thankfully, she is never, ever irritating about her amazing capacity for trivia. (We’ll b
e at Pizza Hut or something and she’ll randomly announce, “Did you know that in England the Speaker of the House is not allowed to speak?” To which I’ll respond, “I did not know that.” Because it’s always true—I didn’t know that.) Nan also is one of those funky beauties, who I bet people will look up in their yearbooks ten years after graduation—you know, after they know a little bit more about life and so on—and they’ll realize Nan was quite the hottie and they never even noticed.

  “Okay, we’ve only been calling your name for the past five minutes,” Nan said as they both approached.

  “Huh?” I was barely monosyllabic.

  “You look…What word am I searching for?” Soup scratched his hat.

  “Vacant,” Nan said.

  “Yeah. Vacant. What’s going on?” Soup asked.

  “Well, for starters, my life is over.”

  “But how important is your life, anyway…?” Nan smiled. I did not smile back.

  “I’m serious, Nan. My new Super Student Planner Plus that Cindy Pang recommended isn’t that super. I totally forgot to write down that today is my oral presentation for To Kill a Mockingbird,” I said breathlessly. Couldn’t they see this was a meltdown here?

  “You forgot? Hadley Fox forgot?? Okay, even I remembered to prepare for my oral. How is this possible?” Soup was NOT helping.

  “I have no idea how it’s possible!” Oh, dear. I sounded shrill.

  Nan wasn’t helping when she said, “Isn’t it, like, a quarter of your final grade?”

  With that I had to sit down. At least Soup acknowledged my panic and sat down beside me. He also put an arm around me. (Which is probably why everyone assumes we are going out. We’re always together and we’re usually laughing, but we’ve been friends for so long that we’re forever in each other’s “friends” column. He’s also not my type at all. Besides, I have a hard enough time thinking anyone could even find me attractive.)