“Aren’t you excited about Halloween?”
“No,” I muttered, digging my nails into my thigh.
“Really? Why not? You and Monday sure drove us crazy every year when it came to trick-or-treating.”
Just the mention of her name sent me into a tailspin. My whole body shook before the tears that had built up over the last few weeks finally exploded.
“’Cause me and Monday were supposed to go as sexy cops and now she ain’t here and I got no one to go trick-or-treating with ’cause I got no friends!”
Ma dropped the apples in the sink and ran to my side as I slammed my head into my textbook.
“Hey, hey, hey,” she cooed, rubbing gentle circles on my back. “Why you talking crazy? Of course you have friends!”
“No I don’t,” I sobbed. “Nobody likes me! Nobody wants to be my friend!”
Ma shook her head, as if to say “silly girl” and wiped my tears away with a dish towel. She didn’t believe that her only child could be so corny. With a sigh, she cleaned up my dishes, taking a carton of ice cream out of the fridge. I sniffled, ruining the pages of my textbook.
“How about this . . . why don’t we go by Monday’s house one day after church?” Ma said, her back to me. Her voice sounded unsure as she scooped spoonfuls of chocolate-chip ice cream into two bowls. “I’ll have a chat with her momma and see. How’s that sound?”
She sat next to me, offering a spoon and a closed-mouth smile. She didn’t like the idea, I could tell, but she would do anything to make me happy. I nodded with a sniff and reached for the spoon before she pulled it out of reach.
“But under one condition. I want you to join the teen ministry at church.”
“Ugh . . . Ma, no,” I groaned, slamming my head back down.
Ma tried to make me join the teen ministry—a group full of nerdy Bible geeks—every year. If kids at school found out, they’d add on another label to a long list I couldn’t shake.
“It’ll be good for you to make some friends. More friends, I mean. They’re even having a little Halloween party. Well, Harvest Party, but they’ll have candy, and games. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”
It sounded like hell. Especially when I hadn’t been to a party, Bible study, or Sunday school since I quit the dance ministry. Would they even accept me back?
“So, what d’you think? You join the group and I’ll talk to Monday’s mother. Deal?”
I didn’t have many options.
“Okay. Deal.”
The After
Dear Monday,
Happy halloowen! Guess no sexy cop costumes this year. Can’t were that to church. Got two look decent, so I’m wearing all black. Do you halve my orang cardigan? I can’t find it. Gonna be the dryest halloowen party in the world. No scary movies. No costumes. Probably won’t even half kandy.
The church basement is a large open space with yellow linoleum tiles, cream walls, and scriptures written in navy cursive next to paintings of black Jesus. On the left is a big industrial-sized kitchen that Ma volunteered in during the holidays and for our annual soup kitchen day; on the right are three small classrooms for Sunday school. During events like Halloween (or Harvest Night, since no good Christian would ever celebrate some devil holiday) they set up chairs and tables against the walls with Christian activities while gospel music hums out of the speakers set up by the media ministry. I stood at the refreshments table, draped in an orange plastic cloth and fall leaves, clutching a cup of lemonade and the last bites of Ma’s apple pie she donated. In my red sweater, I was the most festive girl in the room. The party needed some good music to get folks dancing, but I couldn’t imagine this crowd twerking.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” a voice said behind me.
Who the hell is clocking my moves like a hall monitor? I thought, searching for the culprit. A boy—tall, muscular, dark skin like Daddy, dressed in black slacks and a lemon shirt that matched the floor—leaned up against the wall behind the snack table.
“You haven’t moved from that spot in an hour,” he chuckled.
Stunned, my mouth dropped.
“Are you . . . new here or something?”
He laughed. “You kidding? We’ve been going to Sunday school together since the first grade. Claudia, it’s me. Michael.”
Moving closer, I stared hard before finally recognizing his eyes. They used to squint when he smiled, his thick cheeks mashing them shut.
“Oh. Hi, Mikey.”
His smile dropped. “Not Mikey. Michael. I hate Mikey.”
“My bad, Michael,” I said, rolling my eyes with a grin. Sure, I’d known him my entire life but (and there’s no other way to say this) Mikey was always the chubby kid at church. I hadn’t seen him since June, when the church surprised him with a gift card for graduating middle school with honors. He’d grown into a giant overnight, the weight melting off him like butter.
“Aren’t you too cool to be with us church kids? With your new name and all.”
“I’m slumming it,” he said, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs, popping one in his mouth. “And Mrs. Duncan asked if I could help set up the DJ equipment.”
“What DJ? All I’ve heard is gospel music on repeat.”
“Man, don’t act like you can’t party to Kirk Franklin,” he said, bopping his shoulders.
I didn’t remember him being so funny. He’d barely spoken more than three words at a time to me, always so busy helping the media ministry during services and gospel celebrations.
“You right, you right.”
“Ohhhh, wait, I forgot. You love you some go-go. Got any go-go gospel tracks you want to request?”
I laughed and it felt good. “Well . . . yeah. You got the Agape band, Radical Praise, New Found Love . . . they some of them got hits you can really dance to.”
His face lit up. “Oh, so you want to dance? Does that mean you’re back and gonna join the dance ministry again?”
My smile dropped a tad. “Nah. I’m just . . . really busy with . . . stuff.”
“Aw man. I thought you . . . it’s just, you’re a really good dancer. But, anyways, I saw you come in, so I figured I’d stay and enjoy the party. It’s good to see you.”
“Um, yeah,” I muttered, confused. We weren’t close. Half the time I didn’t pay him any attention. Why was he acting so friendly? And when did he get so cute?
“Why you seem so surprised?” he laughed.
“I’m not,” I said, feeling my face flush and changed the subject. “So how’s high school?”
He cocked his head to the side with a curious stare before grinning. “Man, it’s crazy cool. You get to pick your own schedule. You don’t have to wear a uniform. There’s way more kids. And I’m on the football team!”
“Is that how you lost all that weight?” The question slipped out my mouth before I could stop it.
He shrugged. “I guess. But I wasn’t that big, was I?”
“Um, naw. Not really.”
A group of girls, huddled in a circle, smirked, eyeing us with hushed whispers. Sidestepping away from him, I fixed my hair, wishing I had on a cuter outfit.
“You’ve never been to the Harvest Party before,” Michael said, offering me a cheese puff. “Why not?”
I didn’t know what to say without sounding crazy. I mean, how could I explain what I didn’t understand myself? My best friend dropped off the face of the earth and I had no other friends to skip around to collect candy with.
“It’s just that I used to go trick-or-treating . . . with my friend.”
“Oh,” he gasped, like someone socked him in the stomach, his eyes widening.
“But . . . that’s kid stuff!” I quickly added, trying to downplay it.
He motioned to the room with a small grin. “And this is better?”
“Dang, you ask a lot of questions!”
Wounded, he stepped back. “Listen, I’m just making conversation. You ain’t making it easy. Sheesh!”
My back
tightened as I thought of Monday and what she would do. She made friends so easily, even when I didn’t want her to.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Just, this is not what I expected to be doing tonight. But plans changed.”
He brightened. “Like my dad always says, shit happens.”
“Michael! Cursing in the house of the Lawd!”
“Man, we in his basement. He understands,” he laughed. “Hey, you know, we should hang out sometime.”
I glanced over at the girls in the corner again, hoping they didn’t hear him or see me turn into a cherry.
“Um. Why would you want to hang out with me? We barely know each other.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just saying, we go to the same church and stuff.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed, still uneasy.
“And it seems like you could use a friend.”
“How would you know . . . wait, did my ma put you up to this?”
His smile fell into a straight line. “Well, I saw her leaving . . . and I know . . .”
I threw my cup in the trash can and stormed off.
Two Years Before the Before
“Come on, girls! Dump them bags right over here,” Mrs. Charles said, grinning, making room on our kitchen table to spread out. August clung to her leg in his red-and-blue Transformer costume. “I want to check y’all candy before you start eating it. Folks put all kinda pills and razor blades in stuff.”
Monday and I fluttered into the house, two bumblebees in yellow-and-black-striped dresses, antennas, and honey pots. Ma came in right behind us, snickering as she closed the door.
“Buzzzzzzzzz,” Monday giggled, circling me.
“Hey, April,” Ma said, shaking her head. “What’s it doing?”
A glowing April looked up from her seat on our sofa, with little Tuesday asleep in her arms. She’d offered to stay home with the baby and watch horror movies while we went out trick-or-treating.
“Hey,” she whispered with a warm smile across her lips. “She’s knocked out cold.”
Ma crept over to the sofa, gazing down at Tuesday dressed as a baby pumpkin.
“Awww . . . so precious,” she whispered, softly brushing Tuesday’s cheek with the back of her finger.
April beamed proudly. “Yeah. Think she can be a little model or baby actress. Need to take some good pictures of her and send ’em to those Hollywood agents.”
Ma nodded in agreement—a longing in her eyes. “Yes. She’s . . . perfect.”
I swallowed, rushing over to her. “Um, Ma? Ma!”
Ma shook out of a trance, blinking as if all the lights had turned on at once.
“Yes, Sweet Pea. Sorry. Say what now?”
“Um, can Monday sleep over tonight?”
“Yes, of course,” she muttered.
We walked into the kitchen to find August rolling around under the table and Monday carefully monitoring her mom. Didn’t want her stealing any of our hard-earned candy.
“Claudia!” Ma said, glancing at the table. “Did you leave any candy for the rest of the children in DC?”
“Yes! I left them plenty of that mushy stuff Grandmamma likes,” I laughed, hopping over to the fridge. Monday grabbed the cranberry juice with Mrs. Charles watching her every move.
“Janet,” Mrs. Charles said in a low voice. “Did you see Dedria’s face when she opened that door?”
My ears perked up at the mention of Shayla’s mother. Monday and I caught eyes.
Ma pursed her lips. “Yes, I did.”
Mrs. Charles shook her head. “Look like that man took a foot to her face this time.”
Ma sighed, her eyes flickering in my direction as Monday and I pretended not to listen, pouring our juice slowly.
“Well. I’m praying for her.”
“We got to do more than pray,” Mrs. Charles said. “That man could kill her.”
“That’s private married folks’ business.”
Mrs. Charles’s face turned up. “They private business ain’t so private when it’s written all over her face.”
“You can’t tell a woman to leave her husband.”
“So what you want them to do? Go to therapy or something?”
“Of course not. Don’t need some doctor telling them how to handle family business!”
“Well, at least we agree on that. But no man should put his hands on no female. Not ever! I teach my girls that every day. I lived through that long enough to know.”
“I know . . . but you can’t tell a woman to do something she don’t want to do!”
“You can tell her mother, though. She’ll listen. She go to church with you, don’t she? Think of her daughter. Would you want Claudia seeing you that way?”
Ma blinked hard, her eyes narrowed and the room tensed. Monday and I shared a nervous glance. Our mothers weren’t the best of friends. They only tolerated each other for our sake. So we frequently tried to extinguish fires before they spread.
“Excuse me, Ma,” I said timidly. “Can we use the computer, please?”
Ma sniffed before taking her glare off Mrs. Charles. “Still doesn’t work, Sweet Pea. Your father thinks it got some type of virus.”
Mrs. Charles huffed. “You don’t wanna be messing with them computers anyways. The government, they watching you on those things. Tracking your every move. They looking at the food you buy, what music you listen to. Hell, they even watching the books you taking out that library.”
“Why would they track us at the library?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“’Cause they want to know what you reading.” She stabbed a finger in her temple. “Get inside your head and know what you think so they can—”
“Girls!” Ma barked, catching wind of her own tone and cleared her throat. “It’s getting late. Why don’t y’all head upstairs and get ready for bed.”
Monday grabbed her cup, making a run for it.
“Hey, fast ass,” Mrs. Charles sneered. “Where’s my kiss?”
Monday froze, her face tight. She tiptoed back and slowly pecked her mom on the cheek.
Mrs. Charles smirked. “Alright, you behave!”
Monday nodded quickly before sprinting out of the kitchen. I followed, climbing the stairs slow, worried about leaving them alone.
“Anyway, are you going to talk to Dedria’s mother tomorrow or what?”
I stopped, peering over the banister.
Ma shook her head. “Patti, she got to leave on her own terms. It ain’t my place!”
Mrs. Charles glared at her. “Janet, that man is going to kill her one of these days! Are you going to be able to look yourself in the mirror when he does?”
Ma’s face dropped as she wrung her hands together, torn. Her eyes shot up, looking directly at me on the stairs. I bolted to my room and dove into the tent with Monday.
We slurped our juice, listening to Mrs. Charles, April, August, and Tuesday pile into a friend’s car and head home.
“You did see Shayla’s mom’s face, though, right?” Monday mumbled without looking at me. “All them bruises?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Shayla said she had an accident.”
Monday chuckled. “Yeah, the type of accident where her dad’s fist had a run-in with her mom’s jaw.”
“You don’t know if that’s what happened.”
She pursed her lips. “You don’t know if that didn’t happen.”
She climbed out the tent, stood at the window, and stared at the library, expressionless.
“What? You see someone in there?” I asked, only half joking as I joined her, admiring our reflection—us as twins.
Monday crossed her arms. “You really think they tracking us? The government?”
I shrugged. “If they are, all they’re going to see is a bunch of kiddie books. Books that don’t mean we’re trying to take over the world.”
“Right,” she laughed. “Hey! I heard they had a Halloween party at the rec center.”
“You wanted to go to
the rec center?” Monday swore she hated the Ed Borough Recreational Center. Too many kids from her neighborhood went there and she tried to stay as far away from them as possible.
She shrugged. “Maybe . . .”
The next day at church, Ma talked to Shayla’s grandma. Mrs. Charles talked to the school. And Shayla’s father went into hiding.
November
If Mrs. Charles were a color, she’d be yellow—bright, cheerful, golden rays of sunshine. A ripe banana, a fresh highlighter, sweet like pineapples, tart like lemons, you could lose her in a field of dandelions. One drop of her coloring could turn plain buttercream frosting into the sweetest Easter cake.
But one drop of another color could spoil her brightness. Leave her out in the heat too long and her banana peel would start to rot. The tip of her highlighter blackens with wear. The prickling of her pineapple skin sometimes leaves her impossible to open.
And dandelions are nothing but pretty weeds.
The Before
If God could hear my prayers, he’d help the mailman lose my mid-quarter grades. He’d make it so that my parents would never see how I was failing almost every class except biology. The pressure pushed down against the top of my bubble like a spatula trying to flatten a pancake. School should have been my biggest priority, but finding Monday topped everything. Once she’s back, things will be normal again.
I just need an assist from another player on my team.
“Hi, Ms. Valente,” I blurted outside her classroom, paying her another visit in desperation.
“Claudia!” she yelped, confused but pleased. “Uh . . . how’s it going?”
“It’s . . . going.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Hm. You want to share a turkey sandwich?”
“Yeah!”
I sat down, appreciating the decor: grammar posters, Shakespeare quotes, black history trivia. Unlike Ms. O’Donnell, she had a well-cared-for classroom. Ms. Valente was the only English teacher I’d ever liked. She was patient, kind, gentle as a feather but tough as metal. She even worked with me after class. Monday worried she’d know about my problem if I got too close to her. But when you’re always cold, it’s easy to be drawn to the sun.
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