Michael frowned, looking around like he couldn’t figure out who I was talking to. He stood up, carrying a large shopping bag, and met me midway, shoving a free hand in his pocket.
“I should ask you the same thing.”
I’d never seen him in regular clothes before. Heck, I had trouble believing he even owned a pair of sneakers. But there he was, in jeans, a copper sweatshirt, and a baseball hat.
“My tutor lives here,” I admitted, trying to hide the annoyance in my voice. I didn’t want him—of all people—knowing, but I couldn’t figure out a lie quick enough.
“Oh, you mean my grandma? She said she had a new student from church. I didn’t know it was you!”
“Ms. Walker’s your grandma?” I asked, skeptical. “I thought Ms. Evans was your grandma.”
“I don’t know about you, but I got two parents and they weren’t hatched out of pods. Grandma, or Ms. Walker, is my dad’s mom. She kept her maiden name.”
Strangling my book bag straps, I huffed. “Well . . . how was I supposed to know? Ain’t like I got your family tree hanging up on my wall that I stay studying every day.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what are you studying?”
An alarm went off—loud and shrieking. What if his grandma told him how I read stuff backward? Can’t have the cute boy from high school thinking I’m stupid.
“Whatever,” I spat, heading back to the gate.
“Claudia, wait,” he said, chasing after me. “Where you going? I thought you had tutoring?”
“I . . . I got the days mixed up,” I lied, walking faster.
He jogged next to me. “Can you slow down?”
“Nope.”
“Just hold up a second!” He jumped in front of me. His arms extended as if to stop me, and my boobs ran right into his open hands.
“Ah!” I shrieked, clutching my coat.
“Oh shit! I’m sorry!” he hollered. “I’m so sorry! I . . . I didn’t mean that . . . just please don’t tell Grandma.”
A laugh escaped me. “Alright! I get it! You’re sorry.”
Michael smiled. “Well, now that that’s out the way . . . if you don’t have tutoring, what you doing for the rest of the day?”
“Um . . . nothing.”
“Well, you want to chill? I have to take something back to the mall for my grandma.”
“The mall?” I glanced at Snoopy’s red hat. “Um . . . I don’t know.”
“It’ll be quick. Promise.”
“Uh. I guess. Sure.”
Pentagon City Mall is in Crystal City, Virginia, surrounded by a whole heap of hotels and big high-rise condos. Monday and I would beg Ma to take us to the mall on Saturdays. We didn’t have money like that, but nothing beats trying on outfits in Forever 21, sampling lotions in Bath & Body Works, and eating fries in the food court. The thrill of walking around for two hours unsupervised—like real adults.
I didn’t know how I was going to explain it to Ma: skipping tutoring, taking the Metro, running off to the mall with some boy. But I didn’t care. I needed an escape, if only for a few hours. Plus, it’s Michael—from church. Everyone’s favorite Goody Two-shoes, Mr. Reliable. No one would worry about him.
The speakers hummed Christmas carols in every store decked out with garland and lights. Inside Macy’s, we navigated through the crowded department store, returning two pairs of shoes for Ms. Walker.
“Sorry about the trouble, ma’am,” Michael said to the cashier. “My grandma said these heels are too high for her.”
From managers to customers, Michael befriended everyone in sight. I stood back and watched him work the room; it was like he was campaigning for teen mayor. He reminded me of Monday. They could both sweet-talk just about anybody. Except I didn’t like Monday being all friendly to everyone—I wanted her to myself.
“No trouble, young man,” the gray-haired lady said as she opened the drawer to collect his refund. “So nice of you to come all this way for her.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“That’s so sweet. Okay, here’s your change and your receipt.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am. You have a blessed day.”
The cashier beamed. “You do the same! Such a sweetheart.”
“All set,” he said to me, dusting his hands free of the shopping bag.
“You always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . extra friendly?”
He frowned, crossing his arms. “What do you mean?”
At that moment, two girls with long braids sauntered by, giggling. “Hey, Michael,” they sang in unison.
“Oh, what’s up, Kim? Jazzy Jaz from Georgia Ave!” he cheered, greeting them with a smile and a wave. The girls looked me over before whispering to each other as they walked off.
“You know, you’d be good on the mic,” I laughed.
“Like a rapper?”
“Nah, like in a go-go band! I can see you shouting out folks.”
“Ha! I keep forgetting you still listen to that old stuff,” he said as we walk into the main mall. “You ever been to a show?”
“Naw. Ma won’t let me. She’s scared, says there’s too many fights and shootings happening at them. They ain’t like that anymore. But as soon as I’m eighteen, I’mma be in the front row with my name on my shirt so they can’t mess it up!”
Michael bopped his shoulders, cuffing his hands around his mouth, making his voice deep and loud.
“Hey, I see you over there, Claudia, repping Southeast! South Southeast!”
“Are you crazy?” I cackled. “You gonna tell the whole world my—”
“Yoooo, big man! What up?”
A tall, lanky, light-skinned kid with a low cut called from behind us. Walking next to him was Megan from dance class. We caught eyes, and a small look of panic grew across her face that she quickly wiped away. A lump knotted in the back of my throat.
“Ohhh what up, Kam?” Michael said, dapping him up.
“Thought I heard your big-ass mouth from the parking lot,” Kam said, wrapping an arm around Megan to snuggle her closer. She painted on a strained smile.
“Man, you can probably hear a tree fall in the rain forest with them big-ass ears of yours,” Michael shot back.
Megan avoided eye contact. She seemed so much older outside of her dance gear. Touches of makeup, long hair pressed straight, a tight black sweater and jeans with high boots. Maybe she didn’t want anyone knowing she knew me. I played it cool, like her, but I couldn’t help wondering: was she embarrassed of me?
“Yeah, yeah, youngin’. You talk this much smack on the field?”
“Ha, when they let me,” Michael said, turning to Megan. “What’s up, Megan?”
“Hi, Michael,” she said as if laughing at some inside joke.
“So! Y’all doing some Christmas shopping?”
“Yeah. Plus, she wanted to get out the house,” Kam said, gazing down at Megan with tender eyes. I wondered how it felt to have a boy look at me that way. “Aye, yo, you think you can help me with that thing I was telling you about?”
“The TV hookup? Yeah, sure,” Michael said, all businesslike. “But you still got to get them cables I was telling you about. And the mount.”
Kam nodded. “Bet. That’s up in Best Buy, right?”
“Yeah, they probably got the cheapest. All you got to do is . . .”
Something about Kam’s light eyes and his crooked grin felt familiar. I tried to think back to where I might know him. Maybe church or school or maybe he lived around the hood, but I couldn’t place him anywhere. If Monday were with us, she would have known. She was good at names, dates, places, and directions.
My eyes flicked over to Megan, her hard eyes locked on mine. Staring at me staring at her man. Her cold arching eyebrow chilled me to the bone. I shifted, bumping right into Michael.
“Oh my bad, y’all! This Claudia. She goes to my church.”
Kam and Megan nodded and I managed a stiff smile
. That’s it? I thought. I’m just some girl from church. Why did he have to make it like I’m some kid he had to babysit?
“Wait, Claudia?” Kam questioned, his brows furrowing. “Oh right, Monday’s homegirl.”
An electrical shock sizzled up my arms, bouncing behind my eyes. He knew Monday! He must be from Ed Borough. He must’ve saw us together, that must be where I remembered him from!
Megan cleared her throat. “Babe! I want some ice cream.”
“Oh, yeah, babe,” Kam said, and turned to Michael. “My bad, I didn’t mean to hold you up, cuz.”
“All good! Not like I’m that busy.”
I swallowed back the ugly thoughts I had roasting in my brain—fiery hot and ready to burn him. Megan cleared her throat again and tugged at Kam’s hand.
“See you Monday, Michael,” she said.
“Alright, later, y’all.”
“I’mma text you tomorrow, big man,” Kam yelled.
“Anytime. Cool!”
Kam and Megan walked off, with Kam sneaking a second look. I wanted to follow him, to ask if he’d seen Monday and where. Once you absorbed a fraction of her energy, she was impossible to forget. But I didn’t want Megan to assume I was chasing after her man.
Michael grinned, oblivious. “Alright, you ready?”
We headed to the Apple store then two other stores, and his superstar status followed us everywhere, like the whole mall knew him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked on the escalator heading down to the first floor.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice clipped.
Maybe it was my silence, or maybe he felt the ruby-red anger sizzling off my skin, but his upbeat mood dwindled with each step.
“Uh . . . you hungry?” he asked near the food court.
“No,” I snapped.
“You tired?”
“No.”
“Um, you have to call your mom or someone?” he asked as we reached the end of the west side of the mall. He dug into his pocket, offering his phone. Even Michael, the Goody-Two shoes from church, had a phone and I didn’t.
“No,” I hissed, really wishing I could call Monday. The mall didn’t feel the same without her.
He sighed. “Well, is there anything you want to do?”
“I want to go here.” I stopped short in front of a Starbucks.
“Here? Ain’t you too young to be drinking coffee?”
Ready to slap the grin off him I shouted, “I ain’t a baby! And I don’t want coffee anyways. It’s bad for you.”
“Okay, soooo, what you gonna get that’s any better?”
I blinked hard before mumbling. “Um . . . hot chocolate.”
He smiled. “Sounds good,” he said, and held the door open like a true gentleman.
“Gooooood afternoon, ma’am,” Michael said to the cashier as we approached. “Can I have two hot chocolates with whipped cream, please?”
“Name for your order?”
“Uh, hello? Don’t you recognize me?”
The cashier glanced up from her register, her eyebrow arched.
Michael pointed to himself. “Chris Brown. The one and only.”
The cashier and I shared a look and shook our heads.
“What? Don’t I look like him?” he said with a wink.
I couldn’t help snickering. “Such a clown.”
“They make hot chocolate look so complicated, right?” he said as we waited by the counter. “All these machines and gadgets.”
“I thought you liked machines, computers, and audio stuff.”
“Yeah, but that’s stuff people need! I make hot chocolate with plain hot water, powder, God’s good grace, and mine turns out just fine.”
The barista handed our cups to Michael and smirked. Michael took two packs of brown sugar and ripped them open, dumping them into his cup.
“What you doing?” I yelped, trying to stop him.
“Dang, what?”
“You crazy? It’s already chocolaty!”
“So? I like mine extra sweet.”
“That’s too much sugar! Your teeth are gonna fall out your head into the sink.”
He laughed, taking a quick sip. “Okay, Grandma.”
No one called me that except Monday.
We sat on the bench outside the Starbucks, watching shoppers walk by with their massive bags, couples holding hands, and children running amok. People watching used to be Monday’s and my favorite pastime. We’d spend hours cackling over folks’ outfits, eavesdropping on conversations, and swooning over PDA. Sitting there with Michael only reminded me that I hadn’t done much of anything without her.
Couldn’t believe she’d just ditch me like this. She knew I needed her, knew if she wasn’t around teachers would find out about me. She was carrying me worse than Jacob ever carried her. How could she do this to me? Why hasn’t she called?
And why do I feel so alone?
Michael interrupted my thoughts. “So, like, what kind of stuff is my grandma making you do?”
I shook Monday out of my head. “She’s . . . helping me, with stuff to get ready for high school.”
“Oh. Do you . . . know what school you want to go to yet?”
“Banneker.”
His face screwed up. “You want to go there? Everybodyyyyy and they momma want to go there. Isn’t it, like, a real hard school to get into?”
“I guess, but that’s why your grandma is helping me with my essay.”
“What’s the essay about?”
“Why I want to attend Banneker.”
“Good question. Why do you?”
I swallowed back the real answer: because Monday wants to go.
“It’s . . . a good school and it’ll help me g-get into a . . . um, a good college.”
“That’s it? But any school can help you get into college. Well, that’s what my dad says.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay, I ain’t gonna front. I wanted to go there too,” he said. “I mean, who wouldn’t? But they didn’t have football, and I really wanted to play. I was in training all summer with my dad before he left.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Dubai. You know where that is? It’s in the Middle East.”
“I thought Pastor said he retired from the air force.”
“He did. But he works out there now, fixing planes and stuff. They paying him crazy money. He said he’s going to buy me a new car, so we’ve been looking online together.”
“A car already? You too young. You don’t even know how to drive yet.”
Michael choked on a sip of hot chocolate. “I’m . . . working on it.”
“Oh. When is he coming back home?”
He sighed. “Three years.”
“Three years? Dang, that’s a long time.”
“Yeah, but the money is real good.” Michael tensed, rubbing his knees. “And when he gets back, he’s going to open some franchise business, and I won’t have to pay a dime to go to college.”
“Don’t you miss him?”
He shrugged. “I mean, yeah, but I FaceTime and text him all day. He’s seen me play at all my games because Mom Skypes him in. He’ll be here in June for a three-week vacation, and we’re going to drive across the country. My mom and him always wanted to do that.” He slurped up the last of his hot chocolate. “Anyway, come on, we got to go. I told Grandma I’d have you back by the time your mom came to get you.”
Fuming, I stood to face him. “I knew it! Ma put you up to this!”
“Nope,” he laughed. “My grandma did. She said she had a student that just seemed really . . . sad and needed a friend. I swear I didn’t know it was you. But . . . I’m kinda glad now. I’m glad it was you.”
With all the weight that had dropped off his face, dimples bookended a sexy crooked smile. Sexy? I just called his smile sexy! I gulped, spinning away from him—my face flushing.
“Oh. And . . . uh . . . well, what else did she tell you?” Is Ms. Walker going around telling everyone ho
w I can’t read?
He shrugged, taking my empty cup to the trash. “Just said you seem real sad. Like, depressed. She’s had a lot of students before, but none like you.”
“I’m not depressed,” I corrected. “And I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me.”
“Maybe you do.”
The hairs on my neck stood up, and I let out a fake laugh. “Well, I guess if anyone’s gonna cheer me up, it’s gonna be Mr. Popular.”
He laughed and pointed in the direction of the Metro. “Hey! Ain’t my fault people love me. But seriously, Claudia, you can talk to me. If you got no one to . . . you know . . . talk to, I’m here. If you want . . . here.” He pulled a pen and a crinkled-up Starbucks napkin out from his pockets. “This is my cell phone. You can call me whenever.”
He grabbed my hand and placed the napkin in my palm, smoothing my fingers closed over it with a smirk that made my knees weak. I bit my lip, clutching my fist tightly before walking away. I did feel comfortable around Michael, but he also felt like a sharp needle that could pop my newly airtight bubble and hurt me.
Just like it hurt Monday.
The Before
Any time you saw students from the West Wing head to the East Wing, you knew where they were going—the Learning Center, known also as TLC. Walking in its direction was like stepping onstage with dozens of blinding spotlights. So you had to be smart about your route. If I went down the stairs, sped through different hallways and back up the stairs near the back entrance, I could throw people off my scent.
There were four teachers, and an ESL coach helped the non-English-speaking students in TLC. During study hall and after school, they reviewed homework, broke down our assignments in small chunks, and organized our class notes. Twice a week, one of the teachers would show up to each of my classes to observe. Luckily, with so many kids, you could never tell which student they were there for, and they might as well been ghosts the way I pretended not to see them at all.
This is a big mistake, I thought, trying to keep my bitter resentfulness to myself, but it bled out my pores, oozing onto my homework. They did everything they were supposed to do to help me. But when help isn’t invited, it ain’t nothing but an unwanted houseguest.
If she comes back . . .
If she did, we could work on our essay together. Fix up my papers, come up with new moves for my solo. I wouldn’t need TLC. Together, we could fix it all back to the way it was. I have to find Monday.
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