Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

“Yeah! I heard it was a really good school. Ms. Walker mentioned how great it would be for you!”

  Ma’s tone felt suggestive, leading down a road I wasn’t interested in.

  “But I want to go to Banneker.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s good to have options, right?”

  Options, yes. But what were Monday’s options? After what April said, did that even matter anymore?

  As we made our way off our block, Ma made a right on Good Hope Road rather than the left, toward church.

  “Why we going this way?”

  “’Cause we have to pick up Michael.”

  “What? Why?”

  Ma took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at me. “His mother is at a teachers’ conference this weekend,” she said. “Asked if we could give him a ride to service. It’s too cold for him to walk all that way. I thought . . . that you wouldn’t mind.”

  Yeah, I mind, I wanted to scream. Michael and I didn’t leave on good terms. Scratch that, he didn’t say one word to me. Slouched in his seat, arms crossed for the rest of the game.

  Ma parked in front of Michael’s house and honked twice. Michael came out in his thick gray wool coat, slacks, and dress shoes, his cold stare landing on me before he climbed into the back seat.

  “Good morning, Michael,” Ma said sweetly.

  “Morning, Mrs. Coleman,” Michael said, his voice low. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Ma stared pointedly at me and I held back a groan.

  “Morning, Michael,” I muttered to the floor.

  “Morning,” he mumbled.

  Ma’s eyes flickered between us before she chuckled. “Okay, then.”

  After a frosty car ride to church, we parked in the main lot and Michael jumped out, almost speeding two steps ahead of us. He greeted Pastor Duncan by the front door and ran inside. Ma grabbed my arm as we passed the stairs. “Okay, what’s going on between you two?”

  I shrugged, balancing the boxes of pies. “Nothing.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Claudia Mae, don’t you lie to me.”

  “If you think I’m lying, then why don’t you ask golden boy?”

  Ma’s head almost spun off. “Girl, have you lost your mind with all that sass? You want to be on punishment for the rest of your life?”

  I took a deep breath to steady myself.

  “Sorry, Ma,” I muttered. “Can we go inside now? It’s cold.”

  Ma’s eyes narrowed before she stomped inside.

  We greeted Pastor and dropped the pies off in the kitchen. I sat in the very back pew while Ma hung out in the nursery room. She liked caring for the babies during service. She could quiet even the fussiest one. Michael walked around like the church greeter—shaking hands and giving soft hugs. Everyone seemed at ease with him. I seemed to be the only one who noticed the strain behind his eyes, his exhaustion, as if he hadn’t slept in days. He glanced at me across the room, his fake smile fading. He quickly headed to the balcony and reported to his post in the audio booth before the call to worship.

  After service, we trooped back to the car. Michael followed but kept his distance, hands stuffed in his pockets, feet dragging.

  Ma grinned at me as she unlocked the doors. “Michael, you have any plans for dinner?”

  I cocked my head to the side, pursing my lips.

  Michael glanced at me then back at Ma. “Um, no, ma’am.”

  “Well, why don’t you come home with us? I’m making chicken-fried steak. You’re more than welcome!”

  His eyes brightened at the word steak. “Yeah! I mean, thank you.”

  “Thanks, Michael. You can put those down in the kitchen,” Ma said, holding the front door open.

  Michael insisted on carrying all the groceries inside by himself. I don’t think I ever rolled my eyes so much in my entire life.

  “Claudia, take his coat, then help me put these away,” Ma ordered. “Michael, make yourself at home.”

  Michael stood by the door, taking in our living room. He gently handed me his coat, staring at the TV.

  “Why’s your TV sitting on those big speakers?” First words he’d spoken directly to me all day.

  “It’s been broke for a while. Daddy just hasn’t had a chance to fix it yet.”

  Michael slowly approached the set, kneeling like a paramedic checking for a pulse.

  “Will it live?” I chuckled.

  He looked up at the wall, tapping on a few spots with his knuckle, and leaned in to listen. “You know where your dad keeps his tools?”

  For the next hour, Michael went to work pulling wires, drilling holes, measuring, and fastening brackets to the wall. I watched him from the kitchen, helping Ma peel sweet potatoes for mash.

  After April left me for dead in the classroom, the look Michael had given me when I returned to the gym could’ve shredded me down to crayon flakes. Never want him to look at me like that again.

  “Offer him some water,” Ma said under her breath.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “He’s fine.”

  “Claudia Mae, I just about had it with you today. Offer that boy some water. Now!”

  I huffed, slamming everything I could get my hands on—cupboard, cup, counter—and poured him a glass.

  “Thanks,” Michael said as I passed him the drink, wiping the sweat off this forehead, his sleeves rolled up and tie long gone. He took a long sip with a refreshing “ahhh,” then pulled out his cell phone. “I need to look up the make and model of these speakers. What’s your Wi-Fi password?”

  “We don’t have Wi-Fi.”

  Michael flinched and shook the water out his ears. “What? But . . . the box is right there!”

  I shrugged. “It’s doesn’t work.”

  He sighed. “You got a flashlight?”

  For the next thirty minutes, Michael rewired our modem, hooked up the Wi-Fi, and reconfigured our computer. By the time Daddy walked in the door, Michael had finished screwing closed the speakers.

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Coleman,” Michael said with a wave. “Glad you’re here. Can you help me lift this? It’s a two-man job.”

  Daddy dropped his bag by the door as he looked every which way, like he had walked into the wrong house.

  “Who are you?” he barked. “And what you doing with my tools?”

  “Hi, Mr. Coleman. I’m Michael,” he laughed. “From church.”

  Daddy glanced over at me, sitting at the computer, then back to him. “Mikey?”

  “It’s Michael now, baby,” Ma said, walking out to kiss him. “Dinner’s almost ready. Do what the young man says.”

  Daddy scowled, following her into the kitchen.

  “What is this boy doing in my house? Playing with my TV?” Daddy asked in a loud whisper.

  “Shhh . . . that’s Sweet Pea’s friend.”

  “Woman, I said she needed more friends. Not a BOYfriend.”

  Michael and I locked eyes, my face a thousand degrees, praying the day would end already.

  “Calm down. He’s a nice young man.”

  “Young man indeed. And ain’t he in high school? He too old for her.”

  Ma chuckled. “And you too old for me. Now go help the boy before he hurt himself lifting that thing.”

  Daddy sucked his teeth.

  “Gerald! If nothing else, your daughter sure got your stubbornness.”

  Daddy marched back into the living room, grumbling. He lifted and balanced the TV on the bracket with ease.

  “This TV’s pretty cool, Mr. Coleman,” Michael said, tightening the screws.

  “Yeah, thanks. Won it at a work raffle. Just . . . haven’t had a chance to fix it yet.”

  “My coach could use one of these for his office for when we’re going over tapes. He got one of those old TVs with the fat backs.”

  Daddy raised an eyebrow. “You play football?”

  “Offensive tackle,” Michael said, smiling proud.

  “Hmm. What’s your forty?”

  “Five-point-twenty.”

&n
bsp; “Really?”

  Next thing you know, Michael and Daddy are talking nonstop about football. On and on, even through dinner. Made sense, folks just fall in love with Michael without him even trying. Ma laughed, serving Michael seconds and throwing me sympathetic looks as I sulked.

  Ma and Daddy offered to clean up the kitchen while Michael and I ate dessert in the living room. I played with the flaky crust on my slice of blueberry pie before dropping my spoon, fed up with the awkwardness.

  “You really just gonna stay mad at me? What you want me to say, I’m sorry?”

  He sucked his teeth. “Man, I don’t want your fake apology. That was just real dumb what you did. Chasing after that ’ho like that.”

  “How you know her? And how you know she’s a ’ho?”

  “You were there, weren’t you? Coach always says, call it like you see it.”

  “Still. Don’t talk about her like that. She’s my best friend’s sister.”

  He blinked in shock as if I spoke Japanese, struggling to find a recognizable word.

  “But . . . that don’t mean she’s your friend, Claudia.”

  My tongue swelled. He was right. April wasn’t my friend or even family. Without Monday, April was just a few steps away from being a stranger—a dangerous stranger.

  “Anyways, I’m not mad at you. Just mad we didn’t really get to chill the way I wanted to.”

  “You wanted to? Thought I was ‘just some girl from church.’”

  Michael fidgeted. “Well, I didn’t want people thinking we . . . you know, unless you wanted them to. Folks talk. You of all people should know.”

  Was that it? He was protecting me . . . from rumors?

  “Hey, what y’all talking about in here?” Daddy said, emerging with cans of root beer, Ma following.

  “We were talking about your band,” Michael said, winking at me. “I want to come to your next gig.”

  I smirked, playing along. “Daddy got a new song he’s been working on.”

  Daddy laughed. “Just coming from the studio today.”

  “Really? Let’s hear it!” Michael said. “We can hook it up to the speakers.”

  “Go on, baby,” Ma cheered. “Show us what you got.”

  Dear Monday,

  Last nite Daddy played his new song and I teach Ma some dance moves. Since today was Presidents’ Day and we had off, Michael came over to chill. We watched videos on YouTube, them stupid ones you like, laughing till we cry. Then Daddy came home wit some crab legs and corn so we had a crab boil—right in our kitcen! Ma even made that sour cream pound cake you like.

  I think you’d like Michael. I already know what you thinking nd NO! I don’t like him like tht. Well, maybe I do. He kinda cute and real sweat.

  I saw Aprul the other day and she told me some things . . . and I don’t know. Aprul April lies but you ain’t hear to clear anything up. It’s been months and you just leave witout saying nothing? What’s up with that?

  The Before

  Somewhere in the middle of it all I started liking the Learning Center.

  I sat in the back of the room with The Secret Life of Bees streaming through my headphones. TLC tutors gave me books on CD so I could read along, like the way Monday used to read to me. I didn’t want them thinking I belonged there forever, but for the first time in months, I started to feel like my old self. My grades weren’t in the trash, my admission essay was on point, and my interview at Banneker was scheduled for the next month. Aside from the constant feeling that I was forgetting to do something, I floated on a blissful cloud.

  That is until Ms. Valente rushed in the room, as if being chased, bringing me back down to earth.

  “Ms. E, can I borrow Claudia for a bit?” Ms. Valente said sweetly, smoothing her dress down with shaky hands, her eyes strained. “She’s . . . um . . . helping me with a . . . special project I’m working on.”

  Ms. E shrugged, closing her workbook. “Sure, of course.”

  Ms. Valente gave me a tight smile, nodding at the door. I collected my books, avoiding the curious stares from my classmates.

  Ms. Valente sped down the hall, her heels clicking fast. I trailed, almost jogging to keep up with her. She stopped short, glancing both ways before dipping into the teachers’ lounge, slamming the door behind us and holding it as if to keep the world out. She breathed through her nose hard and stared at me, her face crumbling into a thousand different expressions, like she didn’t know what to say or where to begin.

  “You were right,” she said, pressing the door once more before taking staggering steps toward the kitchenette. I took a long blink at the empty spot she left.

  “What?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

  She rinsed a mug off in the sink and let her thumb trace the rim. “I went by the house yesterday,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee, hands still trembling.

  I shifted closer, my heart racing as if I had danced for hours straight. “What happened?”

  She shook her head. “That woman . . . there’s something wrong with her.”

  We caught eyes for a second before sitting at a table by the window.

  “She wouldn’t let me in. Wouldn’t tell me anything. I couldn’t really see inside . . . but there was this little girl . . . standing in some dirty underwear. And that woman, she slammed the door in my face.”

  Tuesday smelled like pee, I thought with a gulp. “What did you do?”

  “I called 911. I tried to get them to come by right away.”

  “Did they come? Did you see Monday?”

  She shook her head. “Social services said an officer went by and everyone was accounted for.”

  “The officer saw Monday in the house?”

  Her lips pursed. “That’s what they say.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t believe shit anyone says around here anymore,” she mumbled. “I filed a report with CFSA. I don’t care about breaking protocol. Someone has to do something.”

  Fear sharpened its claws on my rib cage, preparing to dig deeper into me.

  “There’s something else,” Ms. Valente added. “Remember a time when Monday was out of school for a few weeks? Well . . . she wasn’t sick.”

  My body suddenly felt hollow, everything inside turned to dust.

  “Oh God.”

  “Two years ago,” Ms. Valente said, talking in hushed whispers, like the whole school was listening, “Monday, August, and her sisters were taken out of the house for neglect.”

  “Neglect? Like child abuse?”

  “Neglect can mean a lot of things,” she said, taking a long sip of her coffee. “But Mrs. Charles took some court-ordered parenting classes, which allowed her to regain custody. CFSA was supposed to do a follow-up visit, but I’m not sure if those visits were confirmed.” She looked at me. “Did Monday ever mention . . . anything?”

  I shook my head. “Naw.”

  “Nothing? Nothing about her mother? Was she scared of her?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, who isn’t scared of their mother?”

  The corner of her mouth crept into the faintest grin.

  “Yes, but more than normal,” she pressed. “Can you think of anytime she was just petrified?”

  My mind flashed back to the fight at school. The way Monday trembled in the principal’s office. “We need to find her. Now.”

  “We can’t barge into the woman’s home and take her children. The authorities have to follow up.”

  I clutched my stomach, the room growing humid as more questions scratched at my throat.

  “Do you think something . . . bad has happened to her?”

  Ms. Valente placed her cup on the table.

  “No. Oh God, no, Claudia. Nothing like that! I’m sure she’s fine. She’s . . . somewhere safe, but we just got to figure out where.” She nodded a few times. “But you must promise me, Claudia, promise me that no matter what, you won’t go near that house again. Between her, that report, and what I saw . . . I don’t know .
. . there’s something about that woman . . . makes my skin crawl.”

  I nodded, knowing it was a promise I had no intention on keeping.

  March

  March used to be my favorite month. Spring break happens in March. Good Friday and Easter sometimes happen in March. And my birthday happens in March.

  April was supposed to be born in March. Instead, she popped out a whole two weeks later—on April Fool’s Day no less, and she’s been lying ever since. You never know what to expect with her. She falls somewhere between brownish yellow, amber, caramel, and copper with a shimmer of fairy dust.

  Her color is gold, so similar to her mother, yet drastically different.

  People melt, shift, and mold her into jewelry that they can wear when they want to feel regal. You’re drawn to her solidness, strength, and pure beauty.

  But when she is not gold, when her insides are hollowed to the point where there is nothing left, she can turn your skin green.

  The After

  Adele has a haunting voice. Unearthly. Triggering.

  Instead of finishing Ms. Walker’s work sheets in the library as promised, I stared out the window at the passing cars on Good Hope Road, holding one of my filter gels up to my face and letting the whole world turn mossy green. Michael helped download “All I Ask” on my iPod, and I listened to it on repeat, trying to find the pulse of the song.

  She sings to the person she loves, knowing it’s over, but begs for one last moment, questioning whether she’ll love someone the same. At the end of the song, the tempo picks up, and Adele sings more desperately, pleading to hold on to one last memory of the way they were. I closed my eyes, envisioning it, trying to think of anyone I would beg for one more moment with, but only Monday came to mind. I loved her. Well, I mean, not like that. I didn’t love her in a way a girl loved a girl, like romantically. I loved her more like a soul mate loved a soul mate. Who makes up the rules for who your soul belongs to? But what if April was right? What if I didn’t really know Monday? It’d explain why she’d leave me like this.

  Something slammed on the table and jolted me out of the moment. Michael huffed, his book bag on the table, his face hardened. I gathered up my work sheets and stuffed them into my bag. “What are you doing here?”