Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “So, what are you gonna say when we see him?” he asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  There were so many things to say I barely knew where to begin. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I see you thought all of this through.”

  “I’m winging it.”

  “Good thing you brought some muscle with you,” he said, cracking his knuckles and fake flexing. “You know, as some insurance.”

  “Oh yeah, you sure figured me out,” I snickered, flinging a fry at him. He caught it in his mouth, shooting his arms up like I made a field goal.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to do this.”

  “Do what?” I laughed.

  He smirked, playing with a waffle fry before popping it into his mouth. “Take a girl to Phillips.”

  It felt as if the rain had stopped and nothing but sunshine beamed down on us. Only us. The place cleared out and we were the only ones left in the entire world.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Well, not this Phillips. Ever been? It’s wayyyy nice inside. My dad used to take my mom. Now all he talks about is how there’s no good seafood in Dubai.”

  He sighed, taking a sip of his soda, gazing off.

  “Did you ask if you could stay with your grandma yet?”

  “Yeah,” he huffed. “And they seem cool with it. But it’s just gonna suck without them. I’ll miss my mom, but I’m really going to miss my dad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded with a shrug. “Anyways, so what’s up with this recital I hear all you girls talking about?”

  I laughed. “What about it?”

  “Don’t you got a solo or something?”

  My back tensed thinking of Ms. Manis’s last comments. “Yeah.”

  “Dang, don’t sound so excited about it,” he chuckled. “The way Megan be talking at school, it’s a big deal. I’ve seen you dance at church and at that party. What you got to worry about? You can move!”

  I took a sip of my cherry Coke. “Well, I was excited. But my teacher picked this slow song.”

  He shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Problem is I wanted to show out with some of the dances I made up with Monday. Slow songs ain’t my thing!”

  “Ohhh. So . . . that’s why you want to find her?”

  “No! Not just that,” I said, my stomach clenching. “She’s in trouble. I don’t know how to explain it, but I can just feel it.”

  He stared at me for a moment before nodding, wiping his mouth with a balled-up napkin. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a lie. I wasn’t looking for her because I needed her—I was looking for her because she needed me. She needed my help.

  “You watch football?” Michael asked, stealing a pickle off my plate.

  “With Daddy, yeah.”

  “Ever see them do those instant replays?”

  I frowned. “Of course. Why?”

  “Well, I think sometimes, when something is going real fast, it can look real beautiful in slow motion. So, maybe you can do that. Do your same moves but slow motion.”

  I shook my head. “It don’t work like that.”

  He motioned to the empty space next to our table with a smirk. “Try it.”

  “What? Right now? In front of all these people? You lunchin’.”

  “So you can perform onstage in front of hundreds of people and in front of our whole congregation, yet you can’t perform in front of a bunch of tourists,” he cackled. “Come on, girl! I dare you.”

  Monday would do it, a voice inside me whispered. She never backed down from a dare. I tilted my chin up.

  “Fine,” I sighed, wiping my hands clean. “This is crazy.”

  He leaned back in his chair with his soda and a satisfied grin. “Won’t be calling it crazy when it works.”

  I stood up, deciding to try the first few steps of our “heartbeat” routine. Two quick pumps, dip, and a turn. I glanced back at Michael, nodding.

  “Okay. So what happens when you slow it down? Like realllllll slow.”

  Rolling my neck, I closed my eyes to picture the steps. What would they look like slow? What if my arms weren’t so sharp, but more . . . graceful? Instead of a dip and turn, what if I pirouetted?

  Relaxing my muscles, I began breathing through the motions, letting my arms delicately unfold the air around me rather than slicing through it. At the last second, I thought of Megan, then of dance ministry at church, the way we ended our performance, with a low bow, arms raised to the sky. Without a mirror, I had no idea what I looked like, but the motions felt good.

  Michael clapped and cheered, and so did everybody around us.

  “Oh my God,” I squealed, covering my face with my hands. “I can’t believe I did that!”

  Michael pulled me into a hug. “Told you it would work.”

  For the next hour, we talked through a bunch of my dances before taking our time walking back to the mini-mart. We stood in the snack aisle, staring out the huge windows and watching the rain pummel the ground.

  “Aight, it’s five to six,” Michael said, rubbing his hands together. “He should be here any minute now.”

  “Should we wait outside?”

  “And get soaked? Naw. We could see everything from in here straight.” He glanced over his shoulder before walking off. “Be right back.”

  Night began to fall, the sky blackening. The wind kicked up, as lightning struck through the trees while puddles turned into oceans. What if he doesn’t come?

  Michael returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate.

  “Good work today, champ,” he said, passing me a cup. “I asked cuz up front if he made these with milk, and he gonna say ‘What you think this is, Starbucks?’”

  “Thank you,” I giggled, blowing off the rising steam. “How much sugar you put in this?”

  “None. Coach says if I don’t cut it out, I’mma end up with diabetes. I’m cutting sugar out of everything!”

  I laughed. “You talk about your coach a lot.”

  “Yeah, he’s cool.” He slurped at his cup.

  “So, like, I know you gonna be sad without your dad being here and stuff, but it sounds like you have a bunch of dads here.”

  His smile dimmed. “What you mean?”

  “I mean, you got your coach, Pastor Duncan . . . hell, even my daddy, are all here for you. Some kids don’t even have that.”

  His eyes shifted to his sneakers. “It just ain’t the same. My dad . . . he’s, like, my best friend.”

  I knew all about missing your best friend and how substitutions didn’t fill the gaps left by their absence. I had fun working with Michael on my dance moves and painting nails at Megan’s house, but it didn’t feel the same.

  “Thanks, though,” he muttered, his eyes lifting to mine with a deep breath. “Listen . . . about that party . . .”

  I quickly waved him off. “Naw, forget about it. Like you said, we were both drunk and things got out of hand, that’s all.”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t drunk.”

  The hot chocolate turned cold in my hand. “What?”

  He turned, reaching to slip his fingers between mine, pulling me closer.

  “I said . . . I wasn’t drunk.”

  The rain stopped again. Lost in each other’s gaze, he inched closer, stepping into my bubble, where it was warm and safe, the sun hot on my neck. He’s going to kiss me, I thought. Right here, right now. And this time, I’m not drunk. This time, I won’t rush.

  But as I tilted my head up, I glanced through the window at a rusty tan Grand Marquis pulling up to a garage just right of the station. A man jumped out, wearing a navy workman’s jumpsuit and brown boots. I recognized his eyes, his high cheekbones, his deep scowl. Monday stole so much of her looks from him.

  “Look,” I whispered, nodding over Michael’s shoulder. “There he is.”

  Michael flipped around, watching Tip Charles lock up his car. I sensed Michael sizing him up, his shoulders tensing. Tip had
about an inch over him in height, but in weight they could be equal.

  Tip Charles ran through the rain up to the blond man, giving him a head nod as he slipped on some thick workman’s gloves. Blond Man said a few words to him, then pointed over to the mini-mart. Tip Charles’s face went blank before he pivoted, his back now facing us. They exchanged some tense words, and Blond Man threw his hands up.

  Michael and I shared a look. This wasn’t going well.

  Without even glancing in our direction, Tip Charles ran back toward the garage, pulling a hood over his face as if to cloak himself. He jumped in his car and slammed the door.

  “Wait . . . what’s he doing?” Michael mumbled, slowly setting his hot chocolate on the window ledge. The tickling in my stomach turned sharp.

  Tip Charles fumbled with his keys like someone running away from the killer in a horror movie—his face pale, eyes terrified.

  “Is he . . . is he leaving?” Michael barked, and took off running toward the door.

  “Michael!” I screamed, chasing him. Tip Charles threw the car in reverse and slammed on the gas by the time he made it outside.

  “FUCKING PUSSY!” Michael screamed as the car sped out of sight.

  “Michael!” I yelled, standing in the rain, my heart racing.

  “What?”

  I sighed, my breath puffing in front of me. “How are we going to get home?”

  “Shouldn’t we call our parents?” I asked as we climbed out of a cab at the Baltimore Amtrak station, well past eight o’clock. According to my lie, I should have been home by now.

  “And get yelled at for an hour and change on the drive back home? Naw. I rather get to DC first and let them kill us there.”

  If it weren’t for the emergency credit card Michael’s dad had given him, we would’ve been stranded in the middle of the highway, so I didn’t argue. Bad enough he was about to be in as much trouble as I was. Our soggy sneakers squeaked against the marble floor inside the busy station. I kept close to Michael, wanting desperately to hold his hand, just to erase the nervousness eating at my stomach in an unfamiliar city.

  “I can’t believe he just dipped like that,” Michael said, for what might have been the thousandth time since we left the Maryland House. “Who does that? After everything that’s happened, he ran like we were the police!”

  I didn’t know what to say anymore. The shock of it hadn’t worn off yet. The moment set on a loop, burning through all other thoughts.

  The loudspeaker blared announcements as we passed a couple of circular wooden benches, newsstands, and gold ticket counters, TVs set on the local news hooked on every other column. We stood gazing up at the huge train information board hanging from the ceiling, clicking with departure times and gate numbers.

  “Next train to DC leaves in ten minutes,” I said, reading the board, as a few people rushed past, sprinting to their gates.

  “Leaves from gate three. Wait over there by the track, and I’ll get us tickets.”

  I nodded as he ran off, taking in the hectic surroundings.

  “Baltimore,” I mumbled to myself. The search for Monday had taken me to a whole other city, and I still had nothing to show for it. Where do I go from here? Who else could I tell? I couldn’t even think of a next step since I couldn’t shake the look on Tip Charles’s face, just at the mention of his daughter. Why would he run?

  “Authorities need your help identifying the body of a young teenage girl found in Leakin Park. . . .”

  The words body and girl grabbed hold of me. I looked up at the TV on the column, focusing on the newscaster’s cherry-red lipstick. Footage of the crime scene, police taping off a section of a park, and the snow-covered ground from the month before zipped across the screen.

  “No missing persons report matches the young victim’s description. . . . Medical reports are trying to determine how long the body has been . . . The victim appears to be between fourteen and sixteen years in age. . . .”

  Before, it was all blank. Just a plain sheet of paper with empty, meaningless shapes. Only after the shapes are colored in does a picture really appear.

  “Monday,” I gasped, my stomach dropping, the world darkening.

  Michael jogged back with two tickets. “Okay. We got five minutes. Let’s go! Hey? What’s wrong?”

  The picture began to sharpen and cut through me. Everything clicked. I thought her being missing was the worst thing that could have happened to us. How could I have been so blind?

  “She’s dead,” I said, staring at the TV.

  Michael flinched. “What?”

  “Monday. She’s dead.”

  Michael followed my gaze, reading the lower headline on the screen. He glanced down at me then back at the TV, his face alarmed but controlled.

  “Naw. That ain’t her,” he said, shaking his head.

  My ears rang, a shrilling sound that drowned out everything around me—a BUZZ.

  Michael bent to my eyesight, blocked the TV, and calmly pressed a hand on my thigh.

  “Claudia, it ain’t her,” he said softly. “I promise you it ain’t.”

  “Her dad lives in Baltimore,” I mumbled.

  “They find lots of folks in that park. But I swear to you, that ain’t her.”

  I shook my head. “Did you see the look on his face? You said it yourself—he ran like we were the police.” Hysteria began to set in, tears threatening to fall. “What if her mom wasn’t lying? What if she really did take her to her dad’s house? What if he lied to my dad about seeing her?”

  Michael took a deep breath, his face crumbling. “Claudia, you . . . really don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  Michael jumped like a spider bit his ass and snatched his phone out his back pocket.

  “Damn,” he mumbled, scrolling through new texts. “It’s the church phone tree. Your mom is looking for you.”

  “Shit,” I muttered. “But we can’t leave now! We have to go to the police. They found her in the woods and they can’t identify her ’cause nobody knows she’s missing!”

  Michael sighed with a sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before.

  “Claudia, I’m sorry. I thought . . . I don’t know. But I think it’s time we called your mom.”

  The Before

  The next morning, I woke up sluggish and weak. By the time I dressed for school, the chills and dry mouth swept in, followed by an aching head. I fumbled downstairs, my knee still a thick plum, to find Ma in the kitchen, sipping coffee and staring off at nothing.

  “Ma?”

  Waking up, she glanced at me, almost confused. “Oh. Morning, Sweet Pea,” she said, her voice raspy.

  I noticed her jeans and sweater. “You’re not going to work today?”

  She frowned. “Took today off. Your interview at Banneker, remember?”

  The interview. Scheduled for April 1. I forgot all about it.

  “And it’s Good Friday. Got to get ready for the fish fry this evening.” She took another sip, setting her mug down softly. “Your father is on his way home. We’re gonna go over to Patti’s to check on Monday. I want you . . . to stay here.”

  She didn’t say it, but the lingering thought pressed through. “Just in case?”

  She nodded. “Just in case.”

  Shivers crept up my arms. I didn’t want Ma near Mrs. Charles, or that house. What if she ended up missing too?

  “Everything is going to be fine,” she insisted. “We’ll straighten this all out. Okay?”

  I nodded, my body swaying. She stood, wrapping her arms around me for one of her tight hugs, but she quickly pulled back, studying my face. She pressed the back of her hand to my cheek, snatching it back as if she’d touched a hot pan.

  “Claudia! You’re burning up!”

  The thermometer read 101.

  “Probably ’cause you were running around at all hours of the damn night,” she fussed, tucking me back in bed. “Probably caught pneumonia or something.
I have to go to the store. Your father done used up all the dang Tylenol. You gonna be alright for a little while?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, good. I’ll make some soup for lunch.”

  Not long after Ma left, in the distance, I could hear the swarm of sirens, like an out-of-sync band, growing louder. Sirens were normal in Southeast, but their urgency, and so many of them . . . my eyes popped open. I rolled myself out of bed, limping to gaze out the window, staring up at a bright blue sky with choppers hovering low. I glanced back at the library, home of all the books Monday had read. For English reading assignments, I’d skipped some chapters to keep up with her. Monday would laugh and say it’s the same as fast-forwarding a movie to the ending.

  The. Ending.

  I raced over to my bed and dove under, grabbing Monday’s journal, skipping to the last page. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Start from the end and work my way back. I guess ’cause you always start a book from the beginning. Just like this story, you got to know a person’s past to understand their present. But to find Monday fast, I needed to know her last move.

  On the last page, she wrote two sloppy lines:

  Tomorrow Claudia leaves for the summer. When she’s gone, I’m telling her mom what happened. Maybe I can live with her, until she gets back.

  Somewhere in the quiet of that moment, dread crawled in before the phone rang.

  “Claudia, you alright?” Ma asked, Daddy’s album playing in the background.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way back now. There’s . . . just a bunch of traffic. I think something’s happening over at Ed Borough. They blocking off all the cross streets.”

  A stray cop car came hurtling down our block, swerving past a trash can that blew into the middle of the street, sirens blaring. I only caught a quick glimpse of the driver, his face hardened. If I had any color left from my sickness, it vanished once he made a left around the library, then up Good Hope Road, following the others turning left on Martin Luther King, heading toward Ed Borough.

  I don’t remember the last words I said to Ma. I don’t remember slipping into my furry boots or pulling my coat over my pajamas. I don’t even remember running out of the house, leaving the door wide open. All I remember is pedaling down the road, panting like a dying animal.