The words skipped like a song in my head as I headed to my next class.
Find Monday. Find Monday. Find Monday. Find—dang, I’m late for class!
With my new route, it took twice as long to make my way. Running through the hall, I took the stairs by the parking lot two at a time and slammed right into Ms. Valente. She screamed, her papers flying up in the air and swinging down to the floor like snowflakes.
“Shit! Claudia? What’re you doing back here?”
“Oh, uh, s-sorry,” I stuttered, dropping to the floor to help gather her files.
“Keep your sorry. I said, what you doing back here?”
“I’m . . . going to . . . social studies.”
She frowned, cocking her head to the side to study me.
“There’s no eighth-grade social studies this way. So where are you really headed to?”
I thought about all the stories, about kids making out in the hallways between classes. Ms. Valente must have heard about those stories too.
“Not going to! I’m coming from . . . TLC,” I admitted.
Her mouth formed a little O and she nodded.
“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I heard about that. They sent a memo last week.”
My head popped up. “They sent a memo around about me?”
“Yes. They send memos to all the team leads—”
“What? But what if someone sees that memo on a desk or something? Then everybody’s gonna know! They gonna think I’m stupid!”
She threw her hands up. “Whoa, calm down! It was an email. They send one monthly to the faculty on students who need additional services.”
My eyes blurred as my heart raced.
“But what if they do? What if someone . . . and they . . .”
My knees gave in and I crashed down on the step, whimpering. My lungs burned as I tried wheezing up air. Ms. Valente sat next to me, pushing my head between my legs and rubbing my back.
“Breathe, Claudia. Big, deep breaths. Come on—there you go. Just breathe. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. The air outside my bubble felt stiff, heavy, contaminated. How could anyone breathe in this? How was Monday breathing without me? After a few minutes of heaving at the floor, my tears spilled over, my cries echoing through the empty stairwell.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. “It may help.”
I dried my eyes with my sweater and I shook my head with a sniff, sighing at the floor.
“Claudia, you have to talk to someone. You can’t keep stuff all bottled in. How about we start small, hm? Why are you walking this way to class?”
“’Cause I don’t want people knowing.” I looked up at her, feeling the tears boiling up. “Ms. Valente, I don’t want to be in the stupid kids’ class.”
Ms. Valente pursed her lips.
“First of all, there are no stupid kids in TLC. That’s just some silly rumor started by other kids who ain’t brave enough to ask for help when they need it. Second, there are brilliant kids who go to TLC, because they want to be the best!”
“But . . . I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
Ms. Valente patted my knee with a heavy sigh. “Claudia, I feel like I failed you.”
“You? Why?”
“Because . . . I thought you might have had a problem last year. That’s why I was so determined to work with you. But I was so caught up with exams, grading, grad school, and planning a wedding.” She shook her head. “The signs were there, I just didn’t act on them the way I should have.”
I scooted away from her. “So you think I’m dumb too, then.”
“I didn’t say—”
“First, they think I’m a lesbian. Now everybody gonna say I’m stupid too!”
“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian—”
“Great, now you think I’m one too!”
Ms. Valente grabbed my shoulders hard. “I didn’t say that! Stop putting words in my mouth. You’re letting these rumors run you, rather than you running them. Now, I know you’re not, and even if you were, that is perfectly alright. But don’t let a bunch homophobic knuckleheaded—what’s the word y’all use again? Oh right—bammas make you feel like it’s wrong! I have a beautiful wife and a wonderful family, so who gives a fuck what they think?”
I huffed, holding back tears. I never heard a teacher curse before.
“Sorry,” she chuckled. “Got a little carried away. But, Claudia, I think you’re very bright. You just . . . absorb things differently than other students. But so do a lot of other people, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that. I only wish I had said something sooner. Maybe I could have saved you some of the pain you’re going through now.
“I tried to bring it up before, but folks just told me to keep you moving. Everything about this school is driven by our ranking. No one has time to just take a moment and really be with our students. You’re old enough to know this now, but sometimes, all you are to this school is a score that adds up with the overall score. And the higher the score, the better the reputation. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. “But there ain’t nothing wrong with me! This just been a big mistake. I’ve just . . . there’s been a lot on my mind, and Monday ain’t around—”
Her eyes widened. “Wait, you mean, you still haven’t heard from her? You haven’t seen her at all?”
“Naw.”
“I . . . I thought they told you? Or someone would’ve told you.”
My stomach tensed. “Tell me what?”
“They talked to her mother. Her mother withdrew her from school for homeschooling.”
My mouth dropped. “Homeschooling?”
She nodded. “I spoke to the social worker a week or so ago. I’ll admit, I’ve only met her mother twice, found it kind of hard to believe . . . but it’s not my place to tell a woman how to raise her child.”
“But . . . she ain’t even home! How can she be homeschooled if she’s not even HOME!”
Ms. Valente bit her bottom lip. “She is home, Claudia.”
“What?”
“The social worker said she’s at home.”
“No! She’s not home. She’s lying! If she was home, she would have called me!”
Wouldn’t she?
“Yes, young lady. How can I help you?” an officer sitting behind a high desk asked as I entered the police station, not more than ten minutes from Monday’s house. I picked it on purpose. They’re used to going over to Ed Borough.
Find Monday. Find Monday. Find Monday.
Ma and Daddy won’t listen, Mr. Hill ain’t no help, and something ain’t right about that social worker’s story. No way Monday would be home and not call me. I can’t go over there again without getting in trouble, but the police sure can.
I cleared my throat, giving him my best adult voice.
“Yes, hello. I’m here about a friend who lives in Ed Borough. I think she’s in trouble. Can somebody go by her house?”
“Trouble?”
“She hasn’t been to school and no one’s seen her.”
The officer frowned. “So . . . she’s missing?”
The word MISSING popped like a hard hand on a conga drum.
“No, naw,” I coughed. “She’s not missing like that. She’s . . . um . . . I just don’t know where she is.”
“What do you mean ‘like that’?”
A tall, balding man dressed in gray slacks and a white business shirt approached, stepping between us, smiling at me.
“Relax, Warren, I got this,” he said, balancing a stack of folders under his arm. “Step this way, young lady, let’s have a chat. I’m Detective Carson. What’s your name?”
“Claudia,” I said, following him to his desk.
“Okay, Claudia, I overheard you mentioning your friend is missing. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
I told the detective everything. About Monday not showing up for school and how her mom and sister were acting all weird. The detective nodded through my story, le
aning back in his chair, hands folded on his belly. Shouldn’t he be taking notes or something?
“Have you talked to your parents about this?”
“Sort of.”
“Okay,” he chuckled. “Tell me, how do you know for sure she’s not home? Have you been inside her house?”
“Naw. But she ain’t there, I just know it. And her mom keeps saying she ain’t home.”
“Maybe she’s living with another relative. Maybe her father.”
I shook my head. “Naw. She would have told me.”
He smiled. “Well, sometimes, family business is family business.”
“It ain’t like that,” I said. “Not with us.”
“Hm, okay. Let’s say she really is missing. Do you know if her mother filed a missing persons report?”
There’s that word again. Missing. Why does it sound like a squealing brake before a car crash?
“Um. Naw. She’s not that type of mom.”
He frowned. “Trouble at home?”
“Just . . . regular stuff.”
“Okay, is it at all possible she ran away from home?”
“What? Naw, she wouldn’t leave me . . . like that.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes girls run away from their problems rather than ask for help.”
I wanted to scream “no,” but then I thought about the bruises and my tongue latched itself to the roof of my mouth.
Carson sighed, rubbing his bald head. “Claudia, I want to show you something. Follow me.”
We walked toward the front of station to a large bulletin board hanging by the door, filled with missing persons flyers, detailing names, dates, ages, and locations, along with photos. Staring at the wall of bright, smiling faces, I couldn’t escape one glaring fact: there was nothing but girls on the wall. And they all looked like Monday.
“Is your friend on this board?”
I held my breath, scanning the wall again.
“No. But she’s not missing, like these girls. Or . . . I don’t think—”
“I want you to take a good look at this board,” Carson said, his voice hardening. “Over the last few months we’ve had dozens of girls around here reported missing, close to fifty in one week. Alleged kidnappings when most of them just run off away from home ’cause they can’t do what they want.”
“But shouldn’t you still be looking for them anyways?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearing his throat.
“Yes, but, Claudia, I want you to remember, when you come into a police station, claiming your friend is ‘missing,’ it means us officers have to take our focus away from these girls. Girls who could really be in trouble.”
Tears prickled, and I avoided his glare.
“Now, if your friend’s really missing and she’s not on this board, then only a parent can file a missing persons report. And if her mother won’t, the only person left would be her father or a legal guardian.”
I sucked in a breath to keep from crying. Everyone was looking for these girls, while I was the only one looking for Monday.
“I swear, every year your father buys the biggest tree and expect us to manage it alone.”
Ma stood on the stepladder next to our Christmas tree, her arms stretched, attempting to hook an elf near the top.
“Either this tree is bigger than last year’s or I’m shrinking.”
I sat on the floor, surrounded by strands of half-working Christmas lights and boxes of decorations, adding new hooks to the ornaments, replacing the ones that had rusted over the years. Ma’s favorite soulful Christmas albums grooved out the speakers: Nat King Cole, Jackson 5, Temptations, and Vanessa Williams.
“You’re not that tall to begin with,” I laughed, detangling a ball of ribbons.
“That’s no way to speak to your mother,” she said, smirking. “Okay, hand me another one.”
I jumped up with two wooden nutcrackers, the tree already filled with snowmen, ballerinas, black Santas, and glass candy canes. Ma loved Christmas, so the tree had to be perfect or Christmas would be canceled. Monday used to help us decorate, untangling lights and scattering tinsel. Just the thought of her made my heart ache.
Missing.
I held my breath until it burned in my chest, the word frightening. Is she missing? Missing from my life, yeah, but is she, like, missing for real? She couldn’t be, she has to be home. Right?
“Ma?”
“Yes, Sweet Pea.”
“I want to do homeschool.”
Ma’s neck snapped, the nutcracker held out in midair as she froze.
“Girl, what are you talking about?”
I gulped, twisting the ribbon around my hands. “I mean, can I do homeschool?”
“Homeschool? Are you crazy? I can’t stay home with you. I have to go to work!”
She hung the ornament hard, the branch popping back up, almost knocking the other ones off.
“But Monday is doing homeschool.”
Ma placed her hands on her hips. “If Monday jumped off a bridge would you want to do that too? Absolutely not, Claudia. I can’t believe you’d ask for such a foolish thing.”
I slumped back down to the floor by one of the boxes and peered inside. My stomach curled up with dread. There were only four ornaments left. The most beautiful ones with the ugliest history.
“And, well, you can’t get no proper education with homeschooling. Not with you needing . . . extra help and all.” She sighed, her voice softening. “Sweet Pea, you just need to stay in school. It’s what’s best right now.”
I nodded, sliding the lid on top of the box, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Hoping she wouldn’t ask for any more ornaments. Maybe this is the year I’ll break them. Shatter them so we don’t have to look at them anymore and remember. But Ma would never forgive me.
“Hey! You know”—Ma beamed, trying to soften the mood—“you haven’t said a word about what you want for Christmas this year. I was expecting your two-page list by now.”
I shrugged, my face falling limp. I didn’t want anything. I just wanted my best friend back.
Ma stepped back to admire her work. The tree belonged in a catalog.
“Beautiful! Just . . . one little spot, right there. Alright, pass me the next one.”
I swallowed, bracing myself. “There’s only four left,” I mumbled.
“That’s okay. Just hand me one of the—” Her whole body jerked as it hit her, eyes widening.
“Four,” she gasped out the word. “Well . . . okay, then. Hand one to me.”
I sighed and opened the box, taking out the four crystal angels specially made for the four angels we lost.
Ma took an uneasy step toward me, peering into the box like it was an open grave. Holding her breath, I carefully unwrapped the tissue protecting the first angel. She held it in her hands. She studied their delicate features before her fingers began to tremble.
“I can hang them,” I offered, springing up.
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got it,” she murmured, drifting back to the tree the way God hangs stars in the sky, gently placing each one on the branch. She stepped back to admire her work.
“There. Perfect.”
“Yes, perfect,” I breathed.
She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. Think I’m going to . . . head on to bed. You mind cleaning up down here?”
I nodded. “Sure, Ma. Of course.”
Lights sparkled off the tears in her eyes.
“Okay. Good night, Sweet Pea.”
She slogged toward the stairs.
I left the mess for Daddy to clean since he seemed to conveniently always have a gig the night we settled on decorating.
Two Years Before the Before
“What’s wrong with your mom?” Monday whispered as we tiptoed up the stairs with slices of pizza and cups of sweet tea.
Ma was spread out on the sofa, tucked under a red throw. Her eyes soft and unfocused, she stared at the muted telev
ision without even blinking.
We scurried to my room, where my bags sat packed by the door for our first Christmas vacation in Georgia.
“She lost the baby,” I mumbled.
“Dang, again?” Monday covered her mouth with a gasp. “Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.”
I knew she didn’t mean it, but the words picked a nerve and tears bubbled up. Ma had four babies up in heaven waiting for her. On earth, all Ma had was me, and some days I wondered if I was enough to quench her longing. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe they wanted a better version of me—a version that could read and write with no problems. Maybe that’s why they kept trying and failing. I hated seeing Ma in pain as much as I hated not being enough for her.
“It’s okay, don’t cry,” Monday said, rubbing my back. “You don’t want a bunch of other kids around. Then you got to share everything with them.”
“I would share.” I sniffled. “I share things with you.”
Monday’s face twitched and darkened. “It’s . . . different. Trust me. You’re better off without them.”
Monday climbed out of the tent, pretending her last words didn’t make the room turn colder.
“Anyways, I got something to cheer you up!”
“Really? What?”
“A Christmas present!”
“Are you for real?”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “I didn’t get a chance to wrap it, but since you leaving for Georgia tomorrow, I figured I’d give it to you now!”
She skipped over to her book bag and pulled out two matching journals, one pink and one purple, with a lock and a heart-shaped key. She handed me the purple one, a dizzy grin on her face. Monday had never been able to buy me anything before and I wanted to be grateful—instead I fought the urge not to throw it across the room.
“Why’d you do this?” I snapped. “You know I’m not good at writing!”
Monday’s grin dropped. “Yeah . . . but maybe if you practice every day, you can get better. And we’re both gonna do it! I’m going to write in one too, see?” She waved the pink journal like a tambourine. “Starting New Year’s.”
She didn’t see the thorns sticking out of her sweet actions. Not like I did.
Monday's Not Coming Page 11
