A Week of Mondays by Jessica Brody

Author:Jessica Brody
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780374382728
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

The Way We Were (Part 3)

Five months ago …

“I beg to differ,” I argued, pulling my wet legs out of the pool and hugging them to my chest in an effort to thwart the bitter wind that was sweeping through Daphne Gray’s backyard. “I have amazing taste in music. If my taste in music were an ice cream flavor, it would be—”

“Rocky Road,” we both said at once.

Tristan grinned. “I don’t know, Ellie,” he said, sounding like an old-timey boxer about to challenge me to a fight. “I’m having serious doubts.”

“Just because I thought your music was…” I trailed off.

“Noise,” he was nice enough to remind me. “You called it noise.”

My cheeks turned the color of cherry tomatoes. The super-ripe ones. “Sorry about that.”

“So, if you don’t like my music, what kind of music do you like?”

“Um,” I bumbled, “you know, like, old music.”

“Old music? Are we talking Renaissance? Medieval? Because I could play you a really mean Baroque concerto on the electric guitar.”

I giggled. “No, I mean like from the sixties.”

“Ah. So you’re a hippie?”

“Not all sixties music is hippie music.”

He leaned back. “Okay, hippie. What’s your favorite song from the sixties?”

I slumped. “That’s impossible. You can’t make me pick.”

“Um, I think I just did.”

“Um, I don’t have to answer.”

He reached around me and grabbed one of my sneakers, clutching it possessively to his chest. “If you want your shoe back, you do.”

Of course, as my heart was racing like a hamster on a hamster wheel, all I could think was I really hope that shoe doesn’t smell.

“Hey!” I made an effort to reach for the shoe.

He pulled it out of reach. “Nuh-uh. Shoe for song.”

“I can’t choose my favorite! There are too many.”

“You don’t have to write it in blood. No one’s going to know if it’s really your favorite or not. I won’t wake up Jim Morrison in his grave and tell him you gave him the shaft.”

I let out a huff. “Fine. I guess I would say ‘You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me’ by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.”

He pursed his lips in deep concentration, and then declared, “Nope. Don’t know that one.”

My mouth fell open. “How could you not know that song? It’s a classic. And you call yourself a musician.”

He slammed the sole of my shoe against his chest like it was a dagger burying into his heart. “Ouch!”

I recoiled. “Oops. Sorry. Again. But seriously. You have to know that song.”

He shrugged. “I don’t. How does it go? Sing it for me.”

I instinctively scooted away from him. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no.”

He threw his hands up. “What?”

“I am not singing. Especially not for you.”

“Me? I’m only a guy who calls himself a musician, but in reality I’m just a bunch of noise.”

The words were hostile but his face was one hundred percent flirt.

“Go on,” he urged. “Sing. I’m waiting to hear this classic masterpiece of a song that is so not noise.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Not doing it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t sing!”

“Everyone can sing.

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