Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

If Monday were a color, she’d be red. Crisp, striking, vivid, you couldn’t miss her—a bull’s-eye in the room, a crackling flame. I saw so much red that it blinded me to any flags.

Love this description, but it hurts

Sometimes I think he wishes I were a boy,

I used to feel the same way

“Just stay away. Don’t do this.” With that, she sped off, abandoning me in the aisle. Stay away?

If Mrs. Charles were a color, she’d be yellow—bright, cheerful, golden rays of sunshine. A ripe banana, a fresh highlighter, sweet like pineapples, tart like lemons, you could lose her in a field of dandelions. One drop of her coloring could turn plain buttercream frosting into the sweetest Easter cake. But one drop of another color could spoil her brightness. Leave her out in the heat too long and her banana peel would start to rot. The tip of her highlighter blackens with wear. The prickling of her pineapple skin sometimes leaves her impossible to open. And dandelions are nothing but pretty weeds.

Perfect description

Monday worried she’d know about my problem if I got too close to her. But when you’re always cold, it’s easy to be drawn to the sun.

“We’d like to have her tested and continue evaluations, but our best guesstimate is she could have dyslexia.” The word burned through the air—a word that lived on the back of my tongue, gagging me every time I pretended to read a book. A word I had tried to shield and protect myself from for years. But once spoken, it shot out like a hot needle and popped the bubble I lived in. Exposed to the new crisp air, I shivered, like I never knew cold existed.

Whew!!!

“She prints her test and quizzes on blue paper. Commonly, students with dyslexia process information differently. When presented in such a way, color reduces confusion. It’s one of the key identifying traits I picked up on.”

Tears prickled against my eyelids. Without my bubble protecting me, every bone in my body ached to run and dive into my tent. With Monday. The world felt raw without her.

That’s why if Ma was a color, she’d be pink with her sweetness. A tender flower, a bubbly pop of chewing gum, two scoops of strawberry ice cream. Silly in her girly ways, her color deepens with love, until she glows fuchsia—bright and bold, unstoppable.

Such a beautiful description.

But when she is not fed the riches that life promises, Ma pales, remaining but a tint above white, a color aching in want.

My heart slapped against the floor like a heavy sponge.

On the first day, Ms. Walker gave me a pack of these plastic gel filters, the size of loose-leaf paper, tinted in various colors: aqua, coral, celery, and apricot. They’re supposed to help me read better when I lay them over pages in books and stuff. I held them close over my face and watched the whole room turn blue, like we were sitting at the bottom of the river.

But it wasn’t okay. The air outside my bubble felt stiff, heavy, contaminated. How could anyone breathe in this? How was Monday breathing without me?

Without her, my imperfections seemed jarring, like coloring an ocean carrot orange rather than cyan.

You were made to light up this world, not to be cooped up in the house. I may not have said it right, but that’s all I want for you, Sweet Pea.” I swallowed, lacing my fingers together.

“What if I fail my . . . mission? What if I’m not as special as everyone thinks I am?” Daddy reached over and held my hand. “Well, I’m here to catch you every time you think you’re about to fall. That’s what daddies are supposed to do.”

Rumors are born with legs that can run a mile in less than a minute. Rumors eat up dreams without condiments. Rumors do not have expiration dates. Rumors can be deadly. Rumors can get you killed.

I pulled at Ma’s jacket in the tight space, and when he helped, his fingers grazing the back of my neck, a spark flew. Our eyes locked, tension frying like water popping off hot oil. He gulped as his eyes flicked back to the game. Just static. This is not a date.

Ooooooo love it

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.

April is gold

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.

No one ever tells you kissing is like an explosion of colors, bright and blinding.

If Daddy was a color, he would be a forest green—thick, lush, calm, whispering refreshing wisdom only few could hear. If Michael was a color, he would be bark brown—cocoa, mocha, chocolate, the color of earth. Quiet, supportive, but strong. A softness that love grows from. Together, they are the tree I lean on when I’m weary. The tree I swing from. The tree of life when surrounded by death.

“Claudia, Monday died two years ago,” Ma said gently, grabbing my wrist to keep me steady. “Her and August were . . . were . . .”

A part of me was glad Monday wasn’t named Friday. It would’ve been too tragic.

The words she’s gone rang like a massive bell that everyone could hear. “NO! They best meet still.” She isn’t dead. The room tensed and stiffened. “What’s she saying?” “I . . . don’t know.” “Bit most well spent no!” We have to save her from that house! “Dang, she talking in tongues. Claudia—” “The left foot missed right gone! GONE! GONE!”

If I was a color, I would be white, vast in my blankness. Pure, whole, virginal, predictable . . . Boring. The colors thrown at me didn’t bleed into my canvas and leave a mark. The colors washed out with nothing but water.

“Good. Maybe you’ll stay with us for a while.”