“Hey, Claudia, what color is that?” Monday chuckled.
“Hmmm . . . it’s like a mix of rust and apricot with a yellow undertone.”
She laughed. “You so weird. Oooh! Let’s stop by the carryout. I’m starving.”
Monday dragged me into Mr. Chang’s Carryout—the Chinese food spot a few blocks away from home, our favorite Friday after-school snack.
“So, you really think I should just . . . play sick?” I asked as we waited in line.
“You can’t just play sick. You gonna have to drop out. That’s the only way to keep them from asking you again.”
“Drop out? Of church? You crazy! Ma would kill me!”
“Well, what other choice you got? You gonna get up and read in front of all them people? Read all them words?”
I gulped, gripping the straps on my book bag with sweaty hands. Monday was right. They would ask me again and I couldn’t risk being embarrassed in front of the entire congregation.
“How am I gonna drop out?” I mumbled to the floor.
She shrugged. “Tell your mom you don’t want to do it anymore. Say it’s corny.”
Monday lied with matter-of-fact precision, in a self-preservation type of way. I could never manage it, even to save my own ass.
“Dang, Ma’s gonna be so mad.” I hated the idea of disappointing her.
Monday grunted, staring off. “She never gets that mad.”
When we reached the counter, Monday stepped up to order for us. Being the voice of our duo, she always spoke up first while I hung back. I mean, I’m not really shy or nothing, but Monday was just better at talking to strangers. Folks were just drawn to her, and I hated the idea of sharing her.
“Let me get two chicken and mambo sauce, with extra salt on the fries.”
“All that salt ain’t good for you, you know,” I chided.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Granny, I know. Oh dang, think I forgot my wallet at home. You got any money?”
I give her a look, pulling out the ten dollars Daddy had given me.
She grinned. “Thanks. I’ll get you back next time. And we have enough for some iced tea!”
The door swung open behind us and in piled a group of boys, thick ’fros, long black T-shirts and hoodies, one carrying a basketball. I huddled closer to Monday, as her eyes roamed over their gear quick, seeming unimpressed.
“Big news?” she whispered to me in the secret language we made up in the fifth grade. Are you okay?
“Noodles.” I’m cool.
She nodded, taking another look at the boys.
“If ten on the left not safe.” The one on the right is cute.
“Me right sane?” Are you crazy?
She smirked and turned back to the man behind the bulletproof glass. “Dang, what’s taking so long? We ain’t got all day, you know!”
One of the boys stared at the back of her exposed legs, muttering something to the others before chuckling. I moved closer to her, confused by the jealousy bubbling in my chest.
“Y’all twins or something?” one of the boys asked as the others laughed.
We loved questions like that, since we already walked around pretending to be twins. But we weren’t taking their weak bait. Monday cut her eyes as the man behind the glass handed her our food. She grabbed my hand and headed for the door right as one of the boys stepped in our path. She ran into him, chest first, bouncing back.
He smirked, looking her up and down. “My bad, shorty. Excuse me!”
A deer caught in headlights, she reeled with a gasp, backing into me. His bulky frame blocked the door while the rest of his friends trickled out of their seats and surrounded us. That trapped and cornered feeling slipped into my skin, and I quickly looped her arm. With a two-step dodge, I rushed his left side, and made an offensive play out the door.
We walked two blocks in silence before she exhaled. “He was cute, though.”
“Girl, he was like seventeen! They in high school! Ain’t got no business with us.”
She shrugged with a smirk. “So. He was still cute. And it’s not like we babies!”
That year, the conversation about boys had turned from hypothetical dreams of rappers and movie stars to realities of neighbors and classmates.
“You was feeling one of them, weren’t you?” she teased.
I sucked my teeth. “Ain’t nobody worried about them bammas. Smelling like they Momma’s kitchen grease. Don’t look like they had a proper shower in days.”
Monday laughed. “Whatever!”
We skipped through the doors of the Anacostia Library, where Ms. Paul sat at the information desk.
“Hi, Ms. Paul,” we said in unison.
“Hello, girls! Happy Friday!”
“We’re just checking in,” I said.
“Just like books,” Ms. Paul giggled. “Okay, I’ll let your mother know you stopped by.”
“Thanks, Ms. Paul!”
Every day after school I’d go to the library, where Ms. Paul would watch me until Ma came home. Ma slipped her a few dollars a week and plates of food at church on Sundays. It was kind of cool. I spent hours in the media center watching movies or flipping through magazines. At least three days a week, Monday would hang with me, and we would use the computers to watch music videos on YouTube. Ma would let us hang out at home, but only if we stopped by first. Breadcrumbs.
We took our to-go plates back to my house, washing down our sauce-soaked fried chicken with super-sweet iced tea in my room. Monday had the stomach of a grown man—she could eat enough for three people some days. As I cleaned up our mess, since Ma hated when we ate in my room, Monday grabbed two of my Barbie dolls off the shelf.
“You think them boys would’ve tried to get with us? Like, for real?” She plopped down on my bed, Ken and Barbie dancing in front of her.
“Yeah. Seems like it.”
Monday grinned, her face lighting up as she kicked her legs.
“Hey, girl!” she said, her voice deep like Ken’s. “What yo’ name is?” She switched voices for Barbie. “My name is Claudia. Hm. Claudia? Nice! How old are you? Ha, old enough. Alright, well, let’s get it!”
She shoved the dolls together, making kissing noises and moans.
“Cut it out!” I giggled, swatting her away. “And stop being fresh with Barbie.”
“Yes, Grandma,” she laughed. “Aight. It’s time for rehearsal!” She hopped up to turn on my iPod hooked up to a speaker.
I took my position next to her. “Ready.”
“Okay, first, when the music drops, we’ll do this!” Monday popped out of a crouching pose, throwing her hands in the air. “Then we’ll spin, and break into this.” She posed and vogued, her arms motioning like an air traffic controller. Boom. Beat, beat, step, step. I recognized the move from a YouTube video of a Texas dance team.
Most afternoons were spent making up routines to songs we’d listen to over and over until I could hear every beat in my head like a pulse. Monday could dance her ass off. Ain’t no other way to describe it. I mean, she only had to watch Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” three times before knowing the whole routine. Mrs. Charles couldn’t afford dance school. My parents could barely afford it, so I would teach her turns and leaps, and she’d end up doing them better than me.
I followed her lead, adding my own spin to it. We liked talking out our choreography, counting out the steps, and naming our crazy dances—the hot oil and flour, the butt pinch, and the pumpkin patch.
“Girl, loosen up! Why you so stiff?” Monday laughed.
“I am loose!”
This was us, in our own world, with our own language and customs. We lived inside a thick, shiny bubble that no needle was sharp enough to pop.
“Hey! You know what?” Monday said, out of breath as she turned down the music. “Maybe we should go to them cheerleading tryouts!”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What?”
“I heard Ms. Valente talking to Shayla and Ashley about it. Ms. Valente used to be
a cheerleader and said it was fun. We should do it too!”
I nibbled at my bottom lip. When did she talk to Ms. Valente without me?
“I thought we were going to wait until high school and try out for the dance team.”
“We can do both!”
“But . . . why?”
She shrugged, not meeting my eye. “I don’t know. It’d be cool, though. And we better dancers than them anyways.”
We had enough problems with Shayla and Ashley that we really didn’t need to go crouching on their territory to add to them. “Naw, I don’t want to.”
“What? You scared or something? Come on, they’d love us! Especially you, you know all them flips and stuff.”
She was right about one thing: they would love Monday. Love her enough to steal her away from me.
“Naw, it’s just . . . well, we should be working on our routines. Not wasting our time cheering for some stupid boys who always losing games. And I heard America’s Dance Challenge is probably going to have auditions in DC soon.”
Monday straightened, her eyes sparkling. “For real? They coming to DC? When?”
I shrugged, innocently playing it off. “I don’t know. Probably soon, though, so we should be ready.”
She grinned, nodding her head. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Anyways, let’s start with homework before your mom gets home. I have to read that packet to you.”
I blew out a sigh of relief. “Probably be easier if I just copied yours.”
Folks in Southeast talk about crack often.
How crystallized powder turned DC into a city of zombies during the ’80s and ’90s, hitting Southeast the hardest. Crack led to desperation, desperation led to crime, and crime led to murders and destruction. Everybody knew somebody affected by it: Daddy’s family, Monday’s family, church congregations, the Mayor, even teachers at school. Over time, folks rebuilt, families healed, but the evidence remained like a funny-shaped cloud that hung above our heads, occasionally blocking the sun with its memories.
“Hey, Dre! Turn that up!”
DJ Dre from WKYS volunteered to DJ at the Ed Borough Recreation Center annual block party every year. He grew up in Ed Borough and was proud of it. The block party was held by the courts and the whole community comes out to have fun. Balloons, face paint, clowns, barbecue, games, and music. Daddy’s band was booked for the closing entertainment. Ma sold her pies, Mrs. Charles played cards with neighbors, while Monday and I ran around, eating hot dogs, dancing by the DJ booth, and playing in the bouncy house with August.
That’s the thing, people remember the past and hold on to the rumors. Folks think all of Southeast is so dangerous and ghetto. But we just like everybody else. We love a good cookout, some crankin’ go-go, family and friends. You can pick up this block party and put it anywhere in the world.
The Capitol Housing Authority built the Edward Borough housing projects during World War II on land originally given to freed slaves during the 1800s. It was meant to be a place of community, a place to start again, a place for the American dream.
Later on, developers realized how valuable the land was, sitting right on the river, with easy access to the city. Too valuable for black folks to have.
How convenient that crack would ravish the area developers wanted most.
Everyone’s afraid of Ed Borough, while Ed Borough should have been afraid of everyone else.
Dancing by the DJ booth, a stray bee made its way from the trash can to the back of my ear.
“Ah,” I screamed, running in circles trying to escape it.
“Girl, what kind of dance is that? Relax! It’s just a bug.”
“Naw, those things kill folk!”
“Buzzzzzzzzz.” Monday circled me with that mischievous grin that always cut through my butter-leather skin.
“Quit playing,” I laughed, swatting her away.
We buzzed around each other, trying to out-buzz each other with fits of laughter in between until we grabbed hands and started spinning, spinning until the world blurred and we fell into the grass, staring up at the passing clouds.
“Girls,” Ma called from a table near the grill. “Y’all want some pie?”
“Yes!” we said in unison, and scrambled to our feet.
“Wait now,” Mrs. Charles said, lightly jogging over from a card game with a grin. “Let me bring a couple of slices over to the fellas first. Kids don’t need all this sugar.”
Monday giggled, reaching for a slice Ma had already cut before Mrs. Charles slapped her hand away.
“I said wait!” Mrs. Charles growled. “Damn! Little fast ass won’t listen! Fast since the day she was born, I swear.”
Monday backed away from her in a frantic panic, crashing into the table behind us. Ma blinked, her brows pinching together. Monday’s teary eyes glanced between Ma and me a thousand times before she gulped. No longer buzzing, she rushed to my side and we linked pinkie fingers, her chin trembling.
“Big news?” I whispered. You okay?
Monday only nodded.
October
Red flags.
Not blush red, orange red, wine, or ruby red. No, bloody red flags. Did you see them, Claudia? Did you?
Did you see any red flags?
That’s the question they asked me over and over again, hoping to find answers. Hoping to understand what no one could. Signs. Were there any signs Monday was in trouble? Did you see anything out of the ordinary, anything unusual?
No. Nothing.
In so many words, they called me a liar. That hurt more than losing my best friend.
If Monday were a color, she’d be red. Crisp, striking, vivid, you couldn’t miss her—a bull’s-eye in the room, a crackling flame.
I saw so much red that it blinded me to any flags.
The Before
September came and left, and Monday never showed. I called every day, but the same lady would tell me I’m stupid for trying. Last time we’d gone this long without seeing each other, well, at least during the school year, Monday had that crazy flu and ended up passing it to the rest of her family. With a fever of 104, she couldn’t even talk. Ma wouldn’t let me near her.
I tried to keep myself busy. Coloring, keeping my nails tight, watching Redskins games with Daddy. We even went tailgating at FedEx stadium and Ma barbecued ribs on Uncle Robby’s truck bed. Daddy’s been teaching me football since I could crawl. Sometimes I think he wishes I were a boy, though he swears he likes being in a house full of women.
But school was . . . lonely. Every day without Monday made her absence grow bigger and bigger in my head, like the tumor my great-aunt Jackie died from.
“So your girlfriend ain’t here,” Shayla said, standing over my desk as I tried to finish my English packet. “Awwww, you miss your boo? Can’t feel each other up in the bathroom no more?”
I rolled my eyes and attempted to refocus, flexing to feel my bubble surround me. Shayla reached down and swatted the paper off my desk. The other girls snickered.
“You dummy, everyone’s been finished. Why you so slow?”
The girls cackled behind her. My hand twitched and I reached down for my packet. Shayla stomped on it with her burgundy sneakers, leaving footprints like tire tracks. I jumped up, forgetting she had a good five inches on me.
Ms. O’Donnell tapped a ruler on her desk.
“Hey! Young ladies,” she scolded. “What’s going on back there?”
The girls scattered back to their seats.
“Claudia, you should be focused on your packet, not chatting with your friends. You’re the only one still working on it.”
“But she started it!” I said, voice cracking.
“Snitch,” someone muttered under her breath.
My stomach dropped as I slipped back in my seat, lips trembling.
“She ain’t my friend,” Shayla heckled. “She ain’t got no friends.”
The class laughed as Shayla high-fived Ashley like she’d just scored a touchdown.
�
��Enough! Everyone take out your books and read chapter three,” Ms. O’Donnell ordered. “I want that done today, Claudia.”
The entire class had finished their packet, and I was only on page three.
The school lunch line ran the entire cafeteria wall. It took twenty minutes just to get a tray, which only left about ten minutes to eat. Monday and I used to entertain ourselves, playing hand games, plotting our dance routines, and picking our favorite go-go remixes. Up until the second grade, Ma packed my lunch every day. Monday’s Ma couldn’t afford to do that, so I asked Ma if I could get school lunch too. So we could be together—inseparable twins.
Without her, the line went on for eternity. Without her, I ate alone. Being alone made you a target, though, and ain’t nobody got time for stupid boys throwing food at your head. That day, I skipped out on spaghetti and meatballs and went looking for the only other person in school that knew her best.
“Claudia? What are you doing in here?”
Ms. Valente, my seventh-grade English teacher, my favorite teacher of all time, stood cleaning off the whiteboard in her classroom. She was that young, cool, down-to-earth teacher that dressed fly every day and knew all the music us kids listened to. Ma said she reminded her of Halle Berry, and Daddy happily agreed.
“Hi, Ms. Valente.”
“Don’t ‘hi’ me. Why aren’t you in the cafeteria with Monday?”
I almost tripped over my own feet. “You saw her! Where?”
She crossed her arms with a hint of a smile. “Well, no, not today. But I know she’s here—Lord knows she doesn’t miss a day of school.”
The disappointment felt like a bucket of ice water to the face as all my hopes crashed to the floor.
“She’s not here,” I mumbled.
Ms. Valente blinked. “What do you mean?”
I shook my head. “She hasn’t been coming to school.”
“So . . . where is she?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you knew. Or heard anything?”
Ms. Valente frowned and placed her eraser on the table. “Come on. Let’s drop by the office and see what we can find out.”
Together, we walked down the hall to the main office. She told me about her summer wedding and honeymoon trip she took with her wife to Europe, and I told her about spending the summer with my grandmamma. I always felt I could relate to Ms. Valente, so I had no problem admitting that I hadn’t seen Monday since June and I was real worried about her.
Monday's Not Coming Page 3
