“Really?” Ma frowned. “Well, maybe she’ll be there tomorrow. Just be patient!”
I tried to be patient. After all, if I asked too many questions, I could draw attention to the fact that I had no friends, and it’d be open season for nonstop teasing. But Monday didn’t show up on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. By Friday, with my stomach clenched tight from all the knots it tied itself into, I mustered up enough courage to ask one of the kids that lived in her complex if he had seen her.
“Naw,” Darrell Singleton said, standing by his locker, packing his school lunch leftovers in his bag. “Haven’t seen her all summer.” Darrell was the biggest kid in the whole school, towering over everyone with a greasy, meaty face full of hills, valleys, and potholes. His uniform barely fit, and his locker forever smelled like the rotting food he squandered.
“All summer? You sure?”
“Yeah. Why, wasn’t she with you?”
Darrell has had a crush on Monday since the fourth grade, but she never paid him the time of day. Of all people, I was sure he would have been checking for her. I clutched my math textbook to my chest.
“I was away all summer.”
“Oh,” he mumbled, squirming more than usual. “Well, I saw her mom a couple days ago. She stopped by next door. . . .” His voice drifted, eyes darting away. Everyone knew the house next to Darrell’s was what Monday called the pit stop. Folks from New York to Florida stopped by, dropping off or picking up packages. Any drug you could ever think of, the pit stop had your twenty-one flavors.
“What about her brother or sisters?”
He scratched his head, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Even though I wasn’t allowed to go over to Monday’s without an adult, I pedaled my purple bike down the sidewalk—not brave enough to ride in the busy street. With Ma wrapping up her double shift and Daddy on the way home from his last delivery, I had a short window of opportunity to disappear. A whole week and no word from Monday? Something was up, and I had to find out what, with or without them.
Maybe Monday had the flu again. She’d had it before, out of school a month. But why hadn’t she responded to any of my letters? And if she was sick, why hadn’t her brother shown up for school either? Could they all be sick? And what’s up with her phone?
Monday lived in Ed Borough Complex, one of DC’s biggest public housing areas—a village of identical cream row houses, stacked together like Monopoly houses, shaded by giant trees along the river, sectioned off by highways, about fifteen minutes away from my house. As Ma and Daddy would say, Ed Borough was the hood! I mean, no part of Southeast is a cakewalk, but Ed Borough . . . you don’t want to be caught there late at night.
In all the time I’d known Monday, I’d never been inside her house, not even once. Ma wouldn’t allow it, and neither would Monday, for reasons I wouldn’t know until much later. Whenever we dropped Monday at home, Ma would wait for her to walk inside, jittery, looking over her shoulder every second, triple-locking the car doors.
So I pedaled fast, past the Ed Borough apartment complex sign, up two blocks, past the famous basketball court that hosted the summer league tournament, and stopped at the path leading to Monday’s house. I leaned my bike against the tall tree shading over the building and walked up the cracked cement sidewalk. The dingy brown door of house number 804 had no doorbell. I knocked twice, my blood pumping. I had never been this close to her house before.
A television hammered through the door. Someone watching The Simpsons, so loud they could probably hear it in the White House. I knocked again, picking at my chipped nail polish as a thought leaped through my head: Monday hates The Simpsons.
“Who is it?” a woman barked, her voice punching through the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Charles? It’s Claudia.”
There was a pause, some shuffling and grumbling before the locks clicked and the door cracked open to a slit. A yellowish eye peered out.
“Who?”
“Um . . . C-Claudia,” I stammered.
She stared as if she didn’t recognize me—as if she hadn’t known me almost my entire life. My skin went cold, hands drenched in sweat. Mrs. Charles opened the door halfway, positioning herself in its frame so I couldn’t see inside. She was a tall woman, one of her boobs the size of my head. She stood in a man’s tank top, black sports bra, and red basketball shorts, her hair wrapped with bobby pins. I never noticed it, but she had the same paper-bag complexion as Monday.
“Claudia?” Her face scrunched up as if I stank. “What you doing here?”
I couldn’t think with the television blaring behind her. What am I doing here?
“Um . . . is Monday home?”
She blinked twice and shifted her stance, her hands on her hips. “She ain’t here.”
“Oh, um. Is she coming to school on Monday?”
Her blackened lips cocked to the side as she snarled. “Why you asking so many questions? I said she ain’t here. Now, go on! You know your bougie-ass mother don’t want you around here.”
The whole neighborhood could hear her yelling, but they couldn’t smell the liquor on her breath like I could. Every hair on my body stood up, calling to my bike. She had never talked to me like this before. Maybe I crossed a line by coming to look for Monday, asking her questions and talking fresh to grown-ups, as Ma would say. But I couldn’t just go. Not when the other half of me was missing.
“But . . . where’s Monday? Is something wrong?”
She lunged toward me. I stumbled back, tripping over a crack and landing hard on the concrete, scratching my thighs on some scattered pebbles without a moment to scream.
“I said, she ain’t here! NOW GO HOME!”
My throat closed as she stood over me, leaning so far down we could have bumped foreheads. Her hands balled into fists as her leg cocked back, ready to kick through my side. A siren went off in my head, but I couldn’t feel my feet or move. Frozen to the ground, I braced for the pain. But she stopped short, glancing past me. A curtain pulled back in the window of the house next door.
She sniffed and glared at me, as if still deciding what she wanted to do.
“Get your ass out of here,” she mumbled, slamming the door shut.
My elbows collapsed and I fell flat on my back, coughing out air, the TV sounding as if it was right beside me. On the ground, trembling, I stared up at the passing clouds, wondering how Monday could live with such a monster.
On Saturday, Daddy came home from what he called a short trip, down to Texas and back. A truck driver for a car factory, he drove brand-new shiny cars to dealerships around the country and could be gone weeks at a time, depending on the schedule.
“Hey, Sweet Pea!” he said, lifting me up as soon as he walked through the door, giving me a raspberry on my cheek.
“Daddy! Stop that! I’m not a baby anymore,” I said, trying to sound serious but giggling regardless.
He laughed. “You’re always gonna be my baby girl! You had dance class today?”
“Dance don’t start till next week.”
“Well, let me know what size leotard I need to join you.”
“Cut it out, Daddy!”
“I’m serious. I can at least fit in an extra large. Just got to lay off the chicken wings.”
“Daddy!” I laughed as we headed into the kitchen.
“Well, I hope you’ve been at least getting out the house some. Maybe take that bike around for a spin.”
I winced a smile, thinking of my long ride back from Monday’s house.
Ma stood at the stove, frying up some catfish. Hot corn bread and lima beans sat on the table. Daddy kissed her neck and she squirmed, shooing him away with a dish towel and a grin. Those two lovesick teenagers can make a whole room gag.
Ma and Daddy met at a truck stop outside Atlanta where Ma was flipping pancakes. Daddy says it was love at first sight, happily volunteering to take the long route down south just to see her. After six months, he asked her to marry him, bringing her home to DC. H
e was twenty-nine. Ma had just turned nineteen.
Daddy is a big, burly man with a shiny bald head and arms the size of toddlers. He played football in college, defense, before hurting his knee junior year. With no scholarship, he had to drop out. But Ma says college isn’t for everyone. Degrees don’t mean you’re smart, and Daddy’s the smartest man I know. He saved every dime he made as a truck driver before meeting Ma. Enough to buy our first home.
Ma pulled the mac and cheese out of the oven, and we sat at the table for dinner—our Saturday-night ritual.
“So,” Daddy said, his mouth full. “How was your first week of school?”
“Monday wasn’t there.”
“Really? Where she at?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You try calling her?”
“Her phone don’t work.”
“Her phone does not work,” Ma corrected me, passing Daddy the hot sauce. “You’ve got to speak proper English, baby. I don’t want you going places and people thinking you don’t got no home training or nothing.”
Daddy smirked at her. “Listen to your mother, Sweet Pea. No matter how crazy she sounds.”
Ma gave him a look but blushed at his smile.
I gently wiggled in my seat, my butt still bruised from the fall outside Monday’s house. I didn’t tell Ma what had happened. She wouldn’t care how crazy Mrs. Charles acted—she’d be more upset that I was over there in the first place. But I couldn’t shake the look Mrs. Charles had given me or the sharp edge in her husky voice. Monday’s mom wasn’t the sweetest pie, but she wasn’t bitter greens either. And Monday never mentioned anything about her hot temper. Maybe she was just in a bad mood.
“Daddy, can you drive me to Monday’s tomorrow?” I figured if I brought some muscle as backup, Mrs. Charles would act right the next time I saw her.
Daddy sighed. “Aww, man, Sweet Pea, can’t I sleep in tomorrow? I’m tired as I don’t know what. Plus, I got practice with the fellas.”
Daddy played the congas in a go-go band called the Shaw Boyz with my uncle Robby. Go-go is music homegrown in Washington, DC. Bands like Junk Yard, Rare Essence, E.U., and the Godfather of Go-Go, Chuck Brown, helped put DC on the map for more than just politics. Daddy and Uncle Robby started their band in high school, back when chop-shop spots were packed for hours. They’re not super famous, but to people in Southeast, that didn’t matter if you’re cranking and shouting out their hood or block. Kids my age don’t listen to it like they used to. Monday used to say I was born in the wrong decade.
“And we have church tomorrow,” Ma jumped in. “Lest you forget.”
I sighed. “No, I didn’t forget.”
Ma chuckled. “Maybe she’s just sick. She probably will be there first thing Monday morning! You know how she do.”
The thought made me grin. “Right. Monday!”
Mondays were Monday’s favorite day of the week, and not just ’cause she was named after it. She loved the day itself. She’d be at school, early as ever, brighter than sunshine, even in the dead of winter with wind that could freeze our eyelids shut. She’d stand outside the gate, bundled in her thin coat and mismatched scarf, waiting for the doors to open.
“Why you so happy to go to school?” I would grumble, missing the warmth of my bed. “No one is happy to go to school. Especially on Mondays.”
She would shrug. “I love school.”
I’d roll my eyes. “School don’t love us.”
She’d laughed. “Mondays are the best days! Like, aren’t you excited about the start of a new week? It’s like a new chapter in a book. And the best part, even though we at school, we get to be together again—all day, all week.”
So on Monday morning, I hopped off the bus and waited by the gate with a slice of Ma’s pineapple upside-down cake snuck in my bag. Monday loved Ma’s cooking, and being sick for so long, I was sure she could use something sweet. I waited and waited until the bell rang. Monday never showed.
Back at home, I tried Monday’s number again, and the same automatic lady told me I was wrong. I slammed the phone down with a scream. I wasn’t wrong! We’ve been friends forever. I knew her more than I knew myself: her favorite color was pink, she loved crab legs and corn on the cob, hated running late, and was allergic to peanuts. Knowing all this, I couldn’t ignore that voice shouting in my ear.
Something was wrong.
The After
I love the dusty particles a fresh colored pencil leaves behind with the first stroke, the sound it makes kissing the page when I’m done filling in voids. That first spot of rich color on a crisp white page, the start of something new. Feels like all I do is color since Daddy read in some article that it’s therapeutic for me. Glad he stopped buying those kiddie books and started buying ones with more intricate complex designs. Geometric and psychedelic shapes, mosaics, and mandalas . . . There is a calm in the chaos that most folks don’t see.
I take my time picking the right shade. There’s a distinct difference between periwinkle and cobalt blue. Has to be right or the whole picture will be ruined.
Without Monday, I felt ruined too.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Ma asked, holding a fresh load of laundry.
“It’s Saturday,” I said with a grin as I lay spread out on the sofa, coloring book in my lap, blasting music. I would watch TV, but Daddy ain’t fixed it yet. It sat on two old speaker boxes, untouched for who knows how long.
“That don’t mean you can’t do your work and get it out the way so you’re not rushing to do it after church tomorrow.”
“Ma, it’s just some . . .” The phone rang and I leaped off the sofa. “I’ve got it!”
Ma jumped out the way as I scrambled for the cordless. “Hello! Hello?”
“Hello? Claudia. Hi, there, it’s Sister Burke from church. How you doing? Is your mother around?”
My heart deflated faster than a pin in a balloon. “Hi, Ms. Burke. Hold on, she’s right here.”
My arm went limp as I passed the phone to Ma, and she gave me a sympathetic smile.
“Expecting somebody, Sweet Pea?”
I winced, shaking my head, and stomped back to the sofa.
“Hey, Sister Burke,” Ma said, balancing the basket on her hip. “Oh, she’s doing good. Real good. Being a lazy bum on my sofa but keep her in your prayers, okay? How you doing? And Mikey? Good, good. So you calling about that order, right? Yeah, I’ll have them pies for you tomorrow.”
Ma had a growing side catering business she’d started a few summers back. People loved her potato salad, chicken potpies, and most of all her BBQ spareribs.
“Dang it,” I grumbled. I’d chipped my pinkie nail running to catch the phone. I ran upstairs to grab polish remover out my kit. My kit was on point. Ask me for a color and I got you! Raspberry mocha, thin mint, stone gray . . . I’m so good at painting nails, I could open up my own shop. I told Ma this once and the next day she came home with college brochures.
The color was called devil’s plum, a deep matte purple that I accented with tiny lavender rhinestones—just like the color of the journal Monday gave me for Christmas last year. It had been sitting on the bookshelf next to the TV—untouched. Such a weird gift. I mean, Monday knew how much I hated English. And writing outside of school was straight-up torture. But I had so much to tell her. So much I needed her to know that without thinking twice I cracked it open. Gripping my pen with sweaty fingers, I attempted writing a few words, just to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
Dear Monday,
Were are you? I got a new bra wit Grandmmma. Are we the same sise now?
One Year Before the Before
“OMG, I can’t believe how cold it got. Like, overnight. And look how dark it is already. What’s that thing that happens—daylight saving time? When is that again?”
Monday wrapped a pilly red scarf around her neck, shivering in her jean jacket. Actually, it was my jacket that I let her borrow months ago. She didn’t have one, and it looked
better on her anyways. The wind wrapped around our exposed thighs as cars drove by on our walk home from school. Time to change into winter tights.
“Girl, are you even listening to me? You heard what I said? Pastor wants me, ME, to read the scripture this Sunday. In front of ALL those people! I can’t! I’mma mess up and then . . .”
Monday’s eyes softened, scratching at her pretty fishtail braids, secured with a red headband. Monday could braid just about anyone’s hair and make it look hot. When she slept over on the weekends, she would braid my hair the same pattern so we’d look like twins at school.
“So, just fake sick,” she said with a shrug, sucking on a cherry Blow Pop while I unwrapped my green apple.
“I can’t. I’m also in dance ministry, and we have a performance. We’ve been practicing for weeks. Ma already hemmed my costume and everything.”
Monday smirked, her lips sticky red. “Dang, that church got you working hard for Jesus. They paying you or something? Maybe I should join.”
“Shut up,” I laughed, playfully pushing her.
“I can be in the dance ministry. Watch!”
She skipped ahead of me, exaggerating her steps with her long limbs and swaying hips. During the summer before seventh grade, Monday somehow started to grow a body without me. Her breasts pushed against her button-down and a little booty had popped under her plaid skirt. Twice that week the hall monitors made her do the fingertip test, checking the length of her skirt. I was a stick standing next to her.
She spun around, faking a stoic face, lifting her arms in staggered motions to the sky, then bowing into a prayer pose.
I laughed. “You better quit playing before Jesus strikes you dead!”
Monday jumped up, grinning. “Yo, that was kinda tuff, though. We should add that to the routine when we get home.”
“Bet,” I said as a low-rider Cadillac creeped by, engine purring.
Monday's Not Coming Page 2
