The before.
Ma, have you seen Monday,
I asked the moment I walked out the gate
at Reagan Washington National Airport.
My hair still in fuzzy, some are braids,
skin browned by the southern sun.
[SOUND] Can I get a hello first?
I ain't seen you all summer either.
Ma chuckled, her skinny arms stretched
wide as I dove into a joy filled hug.
Every summer, ma sent me down to Georgia
to stay with my grand mama for two months.
Monday and I would write letters to
each other, with funny drawings and
ripped out magazine articles.
Keeping up with the latest
neighborhood gossip and music, but
that summer was different.
Monday never responded
to any of my letters.
Without them, the summer had
crept by like a runaway turtle.
I loved grand mama, but
I missed my room, missed my TV.
And most of all, I missed Monday.
Lights twinkled off the Anacostia River,
as we cross the bridge onto
Martin Luther King Jr. avenue.
The national's baseball
stadium in the distance.
The moment we turned
off on Good Hope road,
I noticed old posters still pasted to
an abandoned building at the cross roads.
Save Ed Borough,
it's community, it's home!
Ma relocked the car doors,
her back tensing.
A true southerner,
she never felt safe in the city,
despite living here since I was born.
As a distraction,
I told her about my unanswered letters.
She shrugged, more focused on
the evening traffic, mumbling, maybe
she couldn't make it to the post office,
but that didn't make much sense to me.
We'd saved our money, and
bought enough stamps to make it through
the eight weeks without each other.
Since grand mamma don't like
the kids playing on her phone, and
my cousin already hogged up
the line talking to her man.
Monday knew I hated writing.
But we promised to keep in touch.
And you don't just back out of promises,
not with your best friend
since the first grade.
I don't know, sweet pea, ma said.
Stopped at a light by the liquor store,
and
gave a nervous wave to someone
she recognized outside.
She probably got caught up with something.
But once she knows you're back,
I'm sure she'll be by.
The light turned green, and ma slammed
on the gas for two blocks before making
a sharp left at the Anacostia Library,
then a right onto U Place, home.
She parked on the street in front, and I
jumped out of the car with my book bag and
sprinted for the door.
I ain't gonna lie.
Every summer, I kind of hope to come
back to some miraculous transformation.
Not that I don't like our house.
I just love surprises, like running
down the stairs Christmas morning.
I always expect to find a fresh coat
of terracotta paint on the walls,
a new couch to replace our beige sofa set.
Stainless steel appliances to
replace our rusting white ones, and
a new staircase bannister, one that
wouldn't cry when you leaned on it.
As soon as I walked in and found nothing
had changed, I dropped my bag and
used the phone by
the stairs to call Monday.
Maybe she was too wrapped up in
taking care of her little brother and
sister this summer to write.
Whatever the reason, I'd let it slide,
since I was about ready to bust.
I had so much to tell her.
One ring in, and some automatic lady
told me I have the wrong number.
I only knew two numbers by heart,
Monday's and my own.
Girl, you on that phone already, ma
huffed, dragging my suitcase in the house.
Why you don't let no grass
grow under your feet.
Monday's phone not working.
Probably off the hook or something,
she said, locking up the front door.
Now hurry up and get the comb,
we need to start on this hair.
I should've told mama to take out
these braids before you came.
I took the stairs two at a time, and
opened the first door on the right.
My room was exactly as I left it.
A mess.
I mean, my twin bed with its deep
eggplant bedspread had been made,
and the lavender walls where I hung
all my artwork between music and
movie posters were all still in place.
But I hadn't had time to clean up the tent
Monday and I made with a bunch of
old sheets and throw pillows during
our last sleepover before I left.
It still sat under
the shelf near the window,
facing the back of the library
across the street.
Claudia, hurry up,
ma shouted from downstairs.
Coming, ma.
I grabbed the comb off the white vanity,
noticing a fresh coloring book and
pencil sitting on my chair.
Daddy must have left it before
heading out on another delivery.
Claudia let's go, we'll be up all night.
Ma and I spent the rest of
the evening tackling my braids.
Then washing and
straightening out my hair.
Exhausted, I finally climbed
into bed close to midnight,
ignoring the gnawing in my stomach.
Something wasn't right, but
I couldn't put a finger on it.
Claudia, ma yelled the next
morning from the kitchen.
You're gonna be late for your first day.
Every year, ma would holler, wanting me
to run down the stairs all crazy, and
be surprised by the big breakfast she
always made for the first day of school.
Pancakes with a syrupy smiley face,
scrambled eggs with the cheese,
grits and beef sausage links.
So I played along,
jumping off the last two steps and
running into the kitchen dressed
in my school uniform and
new sneakers, greeted by
the table laid out with my feast.
Surprise, ma said,
springing from her hiding spot, her short,
auburn hair still in pin curls.
Sometimes in the light,
little specks of gray peaked out
behind her rose gold highlights.
Thanks, ma, I laughed,
hopping into my seat.
Lord, I cannot believe you're
going to high school next year.
I'm such an old woman now.
Ma, you don't act no older than me.
She grinned, cupping my face.
That's no way to speak to your mother.
Okay, sweet pea.
Hurry up and eat your breakfast.
You don't wanna be late for
school and keep Monday waiting.
Ma knew the right words to
light a match under my butt.
What was I going to say
when I finally saw Monday?
I mean, how could she just
leave me hanging all summer?
Ma, can Monday come over after school
today, I asked, between pancake bites.
She laughed.
Y'all waste no time.
Okay, she can come.
Just check in with Ms. Paul first, okay?
I dropped my fork onto my plate.
I thought you said I didn't have to go
to the library after school anymore.
I don't need no babysitter.
Not a babysitter, ma said,
feigning innocence.
Just want you to go say hi.
Ain't nothing wrong with you checking in,
so someone knows where you are.
Breadcrumbs Claudia,
always good to leave breadcrumbs.
I wouldn't need to leave bread
crumbs if I had a cellphone.
I muttered into my lap.
Ma huffed, listen, I ain't going
down this road with you again.
We agreed, once you start high school,
then you can have one.
Now come on, let's go.
I strapped on my new book bag.
Navy with violet swirl designs.
Monday had the same one except in pink,
her favorite color.
We picked them out right before I left for
Georgia.
I called her two more times
before leaving, just to check.
No answer.
Ma always drove me to
school on the first day,
taking off a few hours from
the veterans' canteen.
They'd miss her for sure, leaving their
kitchen a mess without her running it.
But she always says,
you only get one shot at your kids, so
you need to hit the bull's eye.
We pulled up to Warren Kent Charter School
behind a line of
other cars waiting to drop off,
at the big fenced in yard where all the
kids gathered by grade before first bell.
Pressing my greasy face against the glass,
I scanned the sea of red and
navy plaid uniforms for
my matching book bag.
Ma, I don't see Monday, I said,
trying to hide my panic.
Monday always arrived first to school,
sometimes two hours before anyone
else even thought of showing up.
>> I'm sure she'll be here soon.
>> Ma said over the steering wheel,
inching to the drop off point.
>> Now have a good day at school,
sweet pea, remember to call
me as soon as you get home.
>> An avalanche of uncertainty
tumbled down, pinning me to my seat.
I couldn't step one foot out of
the car without seeing Monday first.
School didn't seem real,
or possible without her.
And the idea of walking out there alone,
with all those kids?
Beep-beep, a horn blew behind us.
>> Shut up!
>> Ma yelled out the window
before turning to the back seat.
>> Sweet pea, what's wrong?
You're not nervous, are you?
>> When she used that squeaky, nasally
voice, felt as if I was strapped in a car
seat with a bottle rather than
being a year away from high school.
If I didn't start acting like it,
I thought,
she'd never stop treating me like a baby.
I shook my head, no, Ma, I'm good.
Another horn blew,
more aggravated than before.
Beeeep, Ma rolled her eyes and smiled,
looking straight through my act.
>> Claudia, she'll be here.
She's probably just running late or
something.
Now look over there.
>> She pointed into the school yard at one
of the lunch monitors holding up a sign
that read Eighth Graders.
>> See, your class is right there.
Why don't you wait in line and
save her a spot?
I'm sure you got a lot of catching up to
do with your other friends too, okay?
>> The line of my classmates,
my arch enemies, stretched long.
Without Monday by my side, I was jumping
alone into shark infested waters,
dripping in blood.
But Ma didn't know Monday
was my only friend.
Okay.
She grinned.
>> Now, come give me a kiss.
>> Clicking off my seat belt,
I leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and
she wrapped an arm around me
in another tight squeeze.
>> I love you so much,
have a great first day!
>> Squeezing back and not wanting to
let go, I whispered, love you too,
and climbed out of the car
with a brave face.
But my lungs pinched shut.
Warren Kent ain't a big school,
around a thousand students, but
when you put us all together
we sounded like a million.
Shrieks of kindergartners
blew out eardrums.
The third and fourth graders ran circles.
The sixth and seventh graders hugged and
giggled, reunited after months apart.
This will be Monday and me when she
shows up, I reminded myself over and
over again,
to keep from running back to the car.
I peeked over my shoulder at ma,
who was still watching from her spot,
cars beeping behind her.
She's right, I thought, I'm tripping.
Of course Monday would come, she never,
ever missed a day of school.
But I still gulped as
I approached my class.
Everyone looked older, more menacing, the
boys taller, and the girls had filled out.
I wondered if I looked different, too.
Maybe Monday did, and
I didn't recognize her.
Shayla Green stood at the top of the line,
an evil smirk growing across
her pretty brown face.
She whispered into Ashley Hilton's ear,
with her new mini gold hoops.
They stared, giggling.
I whipped around, ready to run back
to the car, but Ma drove off and
all my bravery evaporated.
>> Snap, dyke bitch is back!
>> Trevor Abernathy cackled,
his white button down shirt
making his rich black skin glow.
The others snickered,
monsters in uniforms.
I kept my head down and
stood at the end of the line.
Trevor skipped around and
yanked at Shayla's ponytail.
>> Boy, I ain't playing with you.
>> Shayla snapped.
He danced around, trying to escape her
swinging arms as the others egged him on.
So immature, I thought,
look at them, a bunch of dummies.
How they expect to get into any
good high school acting like that.
At least I know they won't
be following me nowhere.
One more year,
then it'll just be me and Monday.
But until then, Monday needed to hurry up
and get here, before the wolves closed in.
Seconds ticked by, the yard buzzing
as everyone checked out each other's
hairstyles, cuts, fresh sneakers,
jewelry, and book bags.
Accessories were the only
way to set yourself apart.
I flipped open my compact,
smoothing down my edges and
slicking on another layer
of clear cherry lip gloss.
I mean, I looked cute, but it was hard to
relish in it when the one person I wanted
to see me more than anyone wasn't there.
Monday usually wore her hair in braids but
we decided that for
the first week of school we'd try
new styles, more grown up looks,
you know, to practice for high school.
But without our regular catch up I worried
she might have forgotten our plan.
I stared at the gate, checking my watch.
The bell shrieked and the lines of
students began falling into the building,
starting with the kindergartners,
then the first graders.
Monday's brother August should have
been with the fifth graders, but
he was nowhere in sight.
And her sister Tuesday,
wasn't she supposed to start kindergarten?
Where are they, I mumbled to myself.
My bony knees clapped together as they
called our line and we trickled in slowly.
I never took my eyes off the gate,
hoping at any moment she'd come
running through it, panicked and
out of breath, her hair glistening
with that coconut oil she loved.
We would hug in relief, and she'd be by
my side again, the world back to normal.
But the gates swept out of sight and
were replaced by the beige
brick walls of our school.
The heavy,
dooky brown doors slammed shut behind me
like a period marking
the end to that dream.
>> Hello class, my name is Ms.
O'Donnell and
I will be your homeroom and
first period teacher for the school year.
>> She said as she wrote
her name on the board.
>> First rule, attendance is taken
only when you are in your seats,
before the second bell rings.
>> Ms. O'Donnell,
a name I would grow to hate over the year.
Taught eighth grade English.
She had short, curly,
graying blonde hair, and
a white face full of deep
lines behind huge glasses.
She was dressed in high waist pants,
a canary yellow t-shirt,
and ugly brown loafers.
We'd met her last year on move up day and
one of the older kids had said she was
the meanest teacher in the school,
maybe the whole planet.
Now when I call your name,
raise your hand, Trevor Abernathy.
Trevor finished snickering with
his boys just in time, here.
Arlene Brown, here.
As she went through roll call,
I noticed how packed the room was.
Every seat taken,
not a single empty desk left for Monday.
Where would she sit when she showed up?
Claudia Coleman, here,
I announced, raising my hand and
wriggling my fingers so
the light would catch off my new manicure,
lilac with pink metallic stripes.
I added the pink for Monday.
Karl Daniels, here.
Wait, she didn't call Monday Charles?
Monday's name always came before mine.
Does she have the wrong list?
Did they move Monday to another home room?
Maybe, but I mean,
Monday would have told me, wouldn't she?
Hey sweet pea, how was your first day?
Ma said as soon as she walked in from her
shift, carrying a few bags of groceries.
Monday didn't show up!
After school,
I called Monday's number five times and
the automatic lady told me
once again that I was wrong.
On a day we should have been comparing
class schedules and locker assignments,
I spent the afternoon watching reruns of
Dance Machine, coloring in my new books.
And trying to relax on
a bed of sharp needles.
Really, ma frowned.
Well, maybe she'll be there tomorrow.
Just be patient.
I tried to be patient.
After all, if I asked too many questions,
I could draw attention to the fact
that I had no friends and it would
be open season for non-stop teasing.
But Monday didn't show up on Tuesday,
Wednesday, or Thursday.
By Friday, with my stomach clenched tight
from all the knots it tied itself into,
I mustered up enough courage to ask
one of the kids that lived in
her complex if he had seen her.
Nah, Darrell Singleton said,
standing by his locker, packing his
school lunch leftovers in his bag.
Haven't seen her all summer.
Darrell was the biggest
kid in the whole school.
Towering over everyone with a greasy,
meaty, face full of hills, valleys and
potholes.
His uniform barely fit.
And his locker forever smelled like
the rotting food he squandered.
All summer?
You sure?
Yeah, why?
Wasn't she with you?
Darrell has had a crush on
Monday since the fourth grade,
but she never paid him the time of day.
Of all people, I was sure he
would have been checking for her.
I clutch my math textbook to my chest.
I was away all summer.
He mumbled, squirming more than usual.
Well, I saw her mom a couple days ago,
she stopped by next door.
His voice drifted.
Eyes darting away.
Everyone knew the house next to Darrell's
was what Monday called the pit stop.
Folks from New York to Florida stopped by,
dropping off or picking up packages.
Any drug you could ever think of,
the pit stop had your 21 flavors.
What about her brother, or sisters?
He scratched his head thinking,
I don't know, maybe.
