Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

I sat on a desk in front of her as she reshuffled packs of work sheets and essays. She wore a blue—no, more like pewter, maybe even a slate—sweater over her black dress. Blue was her color; I wondered if anyone had ever told her that.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked, without looking up. “Trying to grade these papers before tonight’s meeting. I’m a part of the admissions committee and we’re starting to review applicants.”

  “Already?”

  “Work never stops around here.”

  I nodded, squeezing my book bag straps.

  “Are you . . . still mad at me?”

  Stunned, she frowned. “Claudia, I was never mad! Just disappointed. I expected more from you than fighting. Fighting is never, ever the answer. Three against one . . . you could have been seriously hurt, or worse. You’re only a few short months away from graduating. Why would you jeopardize that?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just promise me that next time, if you’re in trouble . . . you’ll come find me or another teacher. Okay?”

  I shook my head, thankful. “I swear. I won’t do nothing like that again.”

  She gave me a small smile and nodded. “I believe you.”

  “But I need a really big favor. And you’re the only one that’ll listen.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll hear you out.”

  I inhaled deeply. “Can you go by Monday’s house?”

  Ms. Valente slouched in her seat, her eyes rolling. “Claudia . . .”

  “Ms. Valente, something ain’t right. School saying she’s home but she ain’t home. Her mom saying she’s at her dad’s and her sister saying she’s at her aunt’s.”

  She sat up straight. “You spoke to her sister?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ms. Valente rubbed her temple with a frown. “Hm. I’ve . . . met her before. Why would she lie?”

  “I don’t know. But I know something’s wrong. And no matter how mad she is at me, I just want to make sure she’s okay. I just have to know.”

  “Why do you think she’s mad at you?”

  “Why else wouldn’t she call me? Why else wouldn’t she want to be my friend anymore?”

  Ms. Valente placed her pencil down, folded her hands together and studied my face. “Okay, not saying that I don’t believe everything you’re saying . . . but what if it’s just that simple and she really doesn’t want to be your friend anymore? You sure you can handle it?”

  My hands gripped tighter before I nodded. “Anything is better than not knowing.”

  She shook her head and groaned.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll go. Not sure if it’ll be anytime soon, but we’ll see.”

  The After

  First Monday was at her aunt’s, then she was being homeschooled, then she was at her dad’s. Nothing added up. About time I found out why.

  With my door closed, I hid in our tent and dialed the number Ms. Moser wrote on a Post-it. A woman picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  I sit up straight.

  “Hi, Ms. Orman?” I said, using my best adult voice.

  “No, this is her daughter, Giselle. Who is this?”

  “Um, this is . . . Claudia. I go to Warren Kent. Ms. Orman is . . . I mean, was our nurse.”

  The phone went silent before she coughed a gasp. “Claudia, how’d you get this number? The school give it to you? They ain’t got the right.”

  “Um . . . Ms. Orman left it . . . for me. In case of emergencies. Can I speak to her?”

  “About what?”

  “I’m just . . . checking on her.” I’m a terrible liar.

  She sighed. “Listen, Claudia. I appreciate you calling in to check in on my mother but . . . well. I don’t know if you remember, but my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. You know what that is?”

  Of course I knew. One of Grandmamma’s friends had it. She’d pour salt in her iced tea and snapped at anyone that tried to tell her differently. Poor Ms. Orman. No wonder she retired.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, if you know, then you know she can have her good days and her bad. Sometimes she gets real confused.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just looking for my friend Monday and—”

  “Monday,” she exclaimed, as if she had heard the name before. “Look, this is a real delicate time and I don’t want to upset her with all that. You understand?”

  “Yes. But . . . it’s just a few questions that only she would know the answers to.”

  “That’s if she could remember any of the answers at all.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  She sighed. “Okay, Claudia. If it can help you, we can try. But if this gets out of hand, I’m hanging up.”

  “I promise it won’t! Thank you.”

  The phone ruffled and went silent. I jumped out of my tent and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the falling snow softly hitting the library.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice said on the other line.

  “Ms. Orman? Hi, this is Claudia Coleman!”

  “Yes?”

  No recognition. I gulped and pressed on.

  “I’m Monday’s friend.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yes, um, Monday Charles.”

  “What happened? Did something happen?”

  Suddenly it felt as if I was standing outside in the snow in my underwear.

  “Um, why you ask?”

  “Well, I . . . well, what’s this all about?”

  “I was just wondering if you can tell me a little bit about Monday being so sick.”

  She chuckled. “I can’t just share her personal business, dear.”

  “Please,” I begged. “I’m looking for her.”

  “Looking?”

  “Yeah, Monday’s not at school anymore.”

  “She . . . Well, where is she?” she asked, her voice dropping low and serious.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. And she was always in your office . . . I thought maybe you knew something or maybe where she could be?”

  Heavy breathing sounds tracked her brief pause.

  “Monday was never sick,” Ms. Orman said.

  I gripped the phone tighter. “Naw, Ms. Orman, remember? She had that really bad flu and was out of school for weeks. And she was always having them fevers.”

  “Monday was never sick. She never had the flu.”

  Her voice was a heavy rock thrown through a small window of doubt.

  “But . . . she was . . .”

  “It was all smoke and mirrors. I had to get her out.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  Another long pause, her breathing not as steady and even as before. “Hello?”

  “Yes. Ms. Orman. What do you mean?” I pressed.

  “What I mean about what?”

  “About Monday?”

  “What about it?”

  It? Oh no. “No, Monday. Monday Charles! What happened to her?”

  “Oh God, what if something happened to her? I got to . . . find her. I got to . . . wait. Hello? Hello? Giselle, I don’t know what this is about.”

  “I told you this was going to upset her!” Giselle barked into the phone. Had she been listening the entire time?

  “Wait, please! She was starting to remember!”

  “Don’t call back here! She can’t help you!”

  “But you don’t—”

  “Do your parents know what you’re up to? Let me speak to your mother!”

  I clicked End on the call quick, my heart hammering against my chest. What did she mean she had to get her out? Out of what?

  RINGGGGGG!

  I dropped the phone on the bed as if it burned my palm with a yelp. The red light blinked. Giselle was calling back to talk to Ma—to rat me out. Shit! What am I going to do?

  RINNNGGGGG!

  But Ms. Orman remembered something. Even if only for a split second, she remembered Monday. Which meant she wasn’t lying about Monday not being sick. Ma might f
lip about me snooping in grown folks’ business, but maybe if she hears about Monday not having the flu . . . maybe it’ll burn a fire under her hot enough to help me find her!

  I jumped up, yanking the door open.

  RINNNNG—

  I stopped short, neck snapping toward the bed. The red light held a steady green on the cordless. Ma answered from somewhere in the house. I could hear her mumbling, talking in fast whispers. My brain scrambled to come up with my side of the story. How would I save myself?

  It was all smoke and mirrors . . . .

  If she didn’t have the flu, where did she go for a whole month? Why would she . . .

  “Claudia!” Ma hollered. “Claudia!”

  I flinched and inched closer to the door. “Yes, Ma,” I answered.

  “Michael is on the phone for you!”

  I coughed out a breath, clutching my chest. Michael? What does he want?

  “Okay,” I croaked and took a few calming breaths before answering the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey! What’s up?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  “Why you sound like that?” he chuckled.

  I cleared my throat. “Like what?”

  “Like you scared.”

  “Just . . . surprised, that’s all.”

  “Oh, well, anyway, they having this big basketball game at my school, against our rivals next week. My mom said I can take you to it. I asked your mom if you can come and she said yes.”

  I gripped the phone tighter, holding in a shriek as I danced in a little circle. I’d never been to a high school basketball game. But still, I couldn’t be that pressed.

  “How come you asked my ma before you asked me?”

  “Figured I’d start with the hardest part first.”

  “Well, how’d you know I would want to go?”

  “Well, do you want to go?”

  I paused for dramatic effect. “Maybe.”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s next Friday. You think you’ll know by then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, so when you decided—whenever that’ll be—your mom is gonna drop you off at school and my mom will drop you back home after the game.”

  I stifled a giggle. “Okay.”

  One Year Before the Before

  “So y’all really gay for real, huh?” Trevor said, snickering as he approached us in the hall.

  “Dang, we can’t even take our coats off before you come with the bullshit,” Monday said, winking at me.

  Trevor bit down on his fist, his face lighting up with a goofy grin as he pointed at us.

  “I saw that! I was just messing with y’all, but you out in public like that, though?”

  Monday rolled her eyes. “Don’t pay him no mind,” she whispered to me.

  Any other day, I wouldn’t have. I mean, the whole “we gay” rumor was plain dumb. But the way everyone in the hall stared, the hush that fell as we walked by . . . something felt off.

  “What are you talking about?” I snapped.

  Monday waved him off like a fly. “Whatever.”

  Trevor did a little dance, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, swiping his screen open. “There you go!”

  He shoved the phone in our faces and I yelped, putting a hand up to my mouth as I backed away. Monday inched closer, brows cutting a deep V down the middle of her face.

  There, on Facebook, for the whole world to see, was a picture of us sitting on the floor in the school bathroom, with Monday’s head in my lap. From the high angle and the way her head was positioned, as if in my crotch, wiping tears off on my skirt, and the way my head titled back with a laugh, the picture looked . . . confusing.

  “What the . . . who took this?” Monday demanded, grabbing the phone out of his hand. “Who the fuck put this up?”

  I read the stats below. Two hundred and ninety-three shares. One thousand likes. My mouth dried.

  “Man, I don’t know,” Trevor said, snatching his phone back. “It just showed up on Friday.”

  “Oh my God,” I cried, and noticed Jacob standing near his locker. His face blank, mouth closed, one eyebrow raised, staring at Monday. We locked eyes and he turned away.

  “Claudia . . . ,” Monday breathed.

  Over the weekend, while we ate brownies and danced to Junk Yard Band, everybody and their grandmamma had seen the picture. Whether from posts on Facebook or Instagram, the rumor ran up to folks’ doorsteps and let itself in. Aside from her burnt hair and the way her face turned into my skirt, you couldn’t tell it was Monday. But my face, my laughing smile, was clear as day. If I’d had a cell phone, I would have known about the fire we were walking into and who started it.

  My parents wasted no time rolling up to the school and threatened to sue if they didn’t have the picture taken down and launch an investigation. Ma filtered nosy calls, handling them with fierce grace. “So two little girls are close, and that makes them gay? What that say about you and your best friend, Sister Karen? . . . Don’t your son sleep over his little buddy’s house every weekend? . . . I’m not suggesting anything, just don’t call my house with foolish questions!”

  Monday and I hid in my room, waiting for the storm to blow over, trying not to worry about the permanent damage that would remain.

  “I bet it was Shayla,” Monday mumbled, pacing in a circle, thinking hard.

  “Naw, Shayla can’t hate us that bad,” I said, soaking a cotton ball in nail polish remover. I needed to do something to ease the tension, planning to paint my nails bright canary yellow with gold tips.

  “You lunchin’. That girl stays hating on us for no reason.”

  I felt the squeeze, the pressure building up around our bubble, threatening to break us.

  “What about Jacob?” I asked.

  Monday chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t do that.”

  “What? He was the one who started this whole rumor in the first place! Even after you kicked his ass and he stays lying to you, you defending him?”

  Monday shook her head, deep in thought. “Naw. It just don’t seem like him. It doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

  The After

  “Stop, stop!” Ms. Manis yelled, cutting off the music.

  I flinched mid-turn, almost falling on my face. Thank God we were alone—I couldn’t handle the embarrassment in front of the other girls.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, out of breath. Ten minutes of class left and I hadn’t perfected the ending of my piece. We seemed to keep stopping in the middle like an unfinished thought.

  With a tight-lipped smile, she gracefully walked across the room, hands on her hips.

  “Claudia, is everything okay?”

  I gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hm.” She tapped her chin twice, circling me like prey.

  Sweat dripped down my neck, legs tingling.

  “Your parents pay good money for you to come here. So, I’ll trust you’ll take what I’m about to say seriously. Yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She nodded and spoke softly. “A dance has to have emotion—a soul. Your piece is missing something. A passion, a spark of life! The solos are built for you to flex your creative muscles with guidance. But I’m wondering if you’re ready to do so.”

  I held my breath for five counts before blurting out, “I dance faster than this! This song . . . it’s too slow for me.”

  She frowned, her eyes growing hard.

  “In this life, you don’t always get what you want, but you must dance through it,” she said. “Listen to the piano, Claudia! It has the beat you crave. You just have to listen.”

  Dear Monday,

  Dang, girl, did you tke ALL my cloths? Naw, I playing but ain’t it crazy how you have a clozet full of clothes but never seem to have anythng to wear? I’m going to this game with Michael from church. I know wat you thinking but this ain’t a date! I tore up my room something crazy looking for the perfect outfit but everything I poot put on, I ripe
off. I can hear you now: “No, not that one . . . are you serious? You can’t wear that! Girl, you lunchin’, you look like you twelve!” Jus, don’t be mad that I went to a game witout you. O k?

  Sweat leaked out of places on my body I didn’t think could sweat in the middle of winter. Guess I never saw myself going to my first high school game without Monday, and the idea of it had me shook. But like Daddy said, I had to step out and shine. Even if that meant without her.

  Ma helped flat iron my hair and we compromised on some lip gloss and mascara. Dressed in black jeans, a fuzzy lavender V-neck sweater, and tall black boots, I traded my dark pomegranate puff coat for Ma’s black-licorice leather jacket. The one she wore on dates with Daddy. I painted my nails eggplant, drawing dark pink bows on the tips.

  We pulled up in front of the Cardozo High School steps to a sea of kids in dark purple and white. Two volunteers stood by the stairs passing out crimson flyers: “SAVE ED BOROUGH! It’s community! It’s home!”

  “Okay, Sweet Pea,” Ma said. “Have a good time! Enjoy the game!”

  The same fear that had gripped me on the first day of school sprung up again. I couldn’t just walk in there by myself. At least if I had Monday, our bubble would shield us from impending attacks.

  “What’s wrong?” Ma asked.

  I flipped down the visor, checking my lip gloss, buying myself some time. “Nothing.”

  Ma raised an eyebrow. “You nervous? You want me to walk in with you?”

  “Ma! I can’t walk in there with you like I’m being dropped off for day care. I was just . . .”

  A hard knock on the window made us both jump. Michael bent down and grinned through the frosty glass. Ma rolled down the window and his cologne hit me.

  “Hey, Michael,” Ma said.

  He waved and looked at me, his smile growing bigger.

  “Game’s about to start. Let go find a seat.”

  A roaring crowd filled the bleachers, jumping up at every swoosh of the ball hitting net. You could smell the sweat off the brows of every player, hear sneakers squeak against the shiny floor of a packed gymnasium, and be blinded by the bright lights bouncing off the cheerleaders’ curly pom-poms shaking in the air.

  I unzipped my jacket as we climbed to the top of the bleachers, squeezing in the very middle of the row.