The True Definition of Neva Beane Read online

  “Eh-heh, you remember Neva?” Mr. Mensah says to his older sister.

  “Ahh, of course. Isn’t she the one Jamila is always talking about?”

  “I’m afraid your friend is not doing so well,” Mr. Mensah says, turning to me and shaking his head.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Hmm … it could be worse,” he says, putting one hand over his heart, “but the accident … our trip.”

  “She had her heart set on it. We all did,” says Jamila’s auntie. “Now …”

  I don’t know what to say so I hold up my little baggie and Mr. Mensah smiles and points toward the back of the house.

  “She’s in the backyard,” he says.

  The Mensah backyard is one of my favorite places but there’s no joy in it this morning. The colorful mural and the Ghanaian flag are still here but Jamila’s sitting in one of the chairs at the little café table with her outstretched right leg resting across a second chair. Most of her right foot and leg are in a cast. She’s fiddling with her cell, but as of the last time I checked she still hasn’t responded to my message.

  She doesn’t know I’m here or maybe she does and she doesn’t want to see me. She probably heard me talking with her daddy but she hasn’t turned around.

  I clear my throat and wait a second before saying anything.

  “Hey.” I open the little gate that closes off the yard from the side of their house.

  “Hey,” she says. She shifts her outstretched leg but she doesn’t lift it off the second chair. Maybe she can’t because of the cast?

  “Clay told me what happened,” I say, walking over to where she’s sitting. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not really,” she says, shrugging and rolling her eyes.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “It hurt when I first tried to walk on it,” she continues, cutting me off. “Before I got the cast, but not now.”

  “That’s good. How long will you be in it?”

  “Four or five weeks,” she says, still looking down at her phone. “It’s a drag ’cause I can’t get it wet—”

  “I guess that means no swimming.” The sentence comes out of my mouth and I immediately regret it. She can’t even walk. I look over at her red bike chained to the fence. She can’t ride a bike now either. She’s probably not eager to go back over to the swim club anyway.

  Jamila rolls her eyes again. “And the doctor said it may start to itch …”

  I’m standing by the table ’cause there’s no place for me to sit. “Want something to drink? Some tea?” I nod toward her house. “I brought some mint.”

  “I don’t really feel like it,” she says, but Mrs. Mensah calls out the kitchen window.

  “Hi, Neva. Is that mint you have with you?”

  “Oh, who cares,” I hear Jamila say as I walk over to their back door.

  Her mama steps outside and her eyes shift from her daughter to me and back to her daughter again. There’s a look like a big question mark on her face but she doesn’t ask us what’s going on.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Mrs. Mensah asks. “Headache gone?”

  How does she know that? She’s not old enough to be psychic like Granddad and Nana.

  “Tracey said it was one of your worst. She called me last night because she was so worried about you.”

  “Neva’s mama called you from Europe?” Jamila asks, turning around.

  “Mm-hmm. She asked us to check in on them, but, of course, we were busy here.”

  “Your headache must have been bad,” Jamila says, looking at me. “I mean, for your mama to call all the way from Amsterdam.”

  “It was, but it’s over. I’m back to normal now.”

  “You mean you’re back to your political stuff?”

  “Political stuff?” asks Mrs. Mensah. “I didn’t know you were politically active.”

  “She’s organizing that march everybody’s talking about,” says Jamila, avoiding my eyes and talking a little too loud.

  “No, I’m not. I haven’t even asked my grandparents if I can go.”

  “Well, that’s not what you said yesterday. Yesterday you said you were going.”

  I said a lot of things yesterday. Things I wish I hadn’t but Jamila remembers them all and she’s not about to let me forget.

  “I’m sure she’ll get her parents’ approval before she gets more involved, sweetie. Right, Neva?” Mrs. Mensah turns to me. “You’ll talk with them about it?”

  I nod meekly. I haven’t thought much about the march with everything else going on but it’s scheduled for Sunday and Michelle and her daddy are expecting me or Clay or both of us to show.

  Jamila sits at the table looking down at her cell even though her mama tries to make conversation. She plays me off like I’m not even there.

  “Well, I’m going over to the swim—” I stop myself before the word club comes out, but it’s too late.

  Jamila looks up and her mouth is pinched. “Going skinny-dipping with Michelle?” she asks.

  I’ve never been smacked in the face but Jamila’s question stings like the back of a hand on my cheek. Her question hangs over the little café table, forcing me to step back.

  “Where did that come from?” Mrs. Mensah says, frowning at her daughter. “I don’t like how you sound, Jamila.”

  Mrs. Mensah may not know where that voice came from but I do. And there’s nothing I can say right now to make it go away.

  n. 1. a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble: He was forced to take refuge in the French embassy. 2. something providing shelter: The family came to be seen as a refuge from a harsh world.

  “Back so soon?” asks Granddad when I open the screen door and step through the vestibule. “I didn’t think we’d see you for the rest of the day.”

  He and Nana are sitting in the living room and it feels like I’m interrupting something. I take my old spot between them on the couch hoping their warmth will lessen the sting of Jamila’s put-down.

  “What’s wrong?” says Nana, stroking my hair. She has a funny way of doing it. She’s sort of twisting my twists and patting them down at the same time. “Is Jamila all right?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, and Nana’s hand comes to a dead stop. “She’s mad at me.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Nana says, shifting over on the couch as I give a blow-by-blow replay of everything.

  “She was so looking forward to that trip,” Nana says. “Now she’s lost that and she thinks she’s lost you too.”

  Granddad nods in agreement. “Jamila’s a sweetheart. She’ll come around, but I can see how she’d be a little jealous of Michelle. My buddy Charles tells me she’s pretty sharp.”

  “You like Michelle now?” I stare at Granddad. “I thought you hated her.”

  “I didn’t really know anything about the young lady.”

  “But you judged her because of how she dresses.”

  “Well …”

  Granddad looks over my head to Nana for help.

  “We were wrong about Michelle,” says Nana, folding her hands in her lap. “You see how easy it is to make assumptions about people? I certainly should have known better.”

  “Charles speaks very highly of her and her family,” Granddad adds, yawning.

  I never told them about Michelle leaving me at the library, but now’s not the time to bring that up.

  “You need a nap,” is what I say.

  “Well, we ended up calling your mama and daddy at—What time was that, Cecily?”

  “I don’t know. Must have been after two,” says Nana. “Your mama says you helped her figure things out, Neva. You have quite some power.”

  I don’t know if Mama told them about my serenade but Nana and Granddad don’t press me to find out exactly what I did.

  “It’s not like your parents aren’t proud of what you and Clay are trying to do,” Granddad says. “Your political work, but they’re worried about you. Especially while they’re not
here.”

  You mean you’re back to your political stuff? Jamila’s question from this morning rings in my ears. Political. It’s starting to feel like that word refers to just about everything.

  “Well, your daddy called back just a little while ago and said it’s okay for you and Clay to go to the march if somebody, an adult, goes with you.”

  Granddad’s voice is light and breezy but I just snuggle back down in between him and Nana. I don’t know if I got involved with the march for the right reasons.

  We’ve only been quiet for a few minutes when Nana starts to snore. She’s not loud like an ugly ringtone on somebody’s cell. Her snore is soft. More like a kitten’s purring.

  “I’m not sure if I really want to go to the march, Granddad. Will you and Nana be there?”

  “Me and Charles definitely, but I’m not sure about your grandmother. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go, but, well, you’re not the only one growing up, Neva. We’re all getting older. She doesn’t think she’s up to it and she’s struggling with that.”

  Granddad lifts his right hand to smooth the wild white hairs arching out from his dark eyebrows. He doesn’t shape them and I can’t even imagine what he’d look like if he did. But his eyebrows were probably all dark at some point. Like, a long time ago. The thing is I never thought about what growing up means for people who are already grown.

  v. 1. to make lucid or clear; to throw light upon 2. to provide clarification; to explain: The doctor will elucidate your medical problems in his report.

  Clay bounds into the house and heads straight for the kitchen. He’s finished work for the day and is hungry, as usual.

  “Did you hear the news?” he asks, talking into the refrigerator rather than directly to me. “Mama and Dad said we can go to the march.”

  I shrug but I don’t say anything. My thoughts about the march are all tied up with needing to show out. I still don’t know if I got involved because I really want to. And then there’s the police and the detractors stuff. And on top of that, I’m still digesting what Granddad said about growing older. How everybody’s body keeps changing. I don’t even want to think about what my body will put me through next.

  “You don’t look too happy,” Clay says when he finally turns around. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I say. “Jamila’s mad at me, and the march … It makes me a little nervous, Clay. Remember what happened at the one you went to?”

  Clay turns back to the refrigerator and pulls out the pitcher of iced tea. We haven’t talked about how scared he looked when he got home that night. He pours a glass for me and nods toward the little kitchen table.

  “You need to be prepared. That’s what I learned. I could help you with that,” he says before changing the topic. “Look, you probably don’t know this, but Michelle told me everybody liked you at the meeting. Very real. That’s how they described you.”

  “That sounds kind of like I was acting but I wasn’t, Clay. I’ve never been around the police before.”

  “I know. I’m with you,” he says, scratching his neck. “Michelle thinks you would be very effective out front—”

  “Me out front? She never asked me.”

  “Don’t do it unless it’s something that feels right to you,” says Clay. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to talk with Mr. Overton and Granddad about how you should handle yourself.”

  “Michelle didn’t even ask me,” I repeat before going on to tell Clay about Michelle leaving me at the library. “And she hasn’t called me since then.”

  Clay takes a long drink from his glass and sets it back down on the table carefully.

  “We need folk like Michelle,” he says. “She’s doing good things. And sometimes when you’re totally focused … well, just look what I did to Nana. I can’t really criticize Michelle.”

  “But how do you deal with her?”

  Clay takes his time answering this question too. “I’ve been involved with the community long before Michelle came along. And, to be honest, I was pissed when folks in this house tried to say I was only into the march because of her. Think about that for a minute.” Clay folds his arms across his chest and pauses for a few seconds. “But I’m over that ’cause there’s no question for me I’m doing the right thing, but you have to decide for yourself.”

  “I don’t like anybody making decisions for me, Clay. I have to be in charge of what I do.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “I’ll talk to Michelle. She should put Anton on the front line.”

  “You’d feel better with him there, right? You’re sorta his big brother.”

  “Well, he really misses his real brother,” says Clay. “My man’s kind of lonely.”

  “Is that why he comes over here all the time?”

  “That and he gets a little kick out of you.” Clay rests his chin on his hand. “What, you didn’t know that?”

  I shrug before answering, “I thought he liked Michelle but Nana saw something else.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Clay says, shaking his head. “I don’t have to guess how that went down.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say, laughing. “Anton’s nice but I’m not thinking about him like that.”

  “My advice?” Clay says. “Do nothing. Just, you know, keep on being friends.”

  “Like you and Michelle?”

  Clay purses his lips and nods, but I’m not sure if that’s all there is to him and Michelle. I don’t want to be a pain in the neck so I let it go.

  “Do you know Anton’s brother?”

  Clay nods again. “Yeah. That’s one reason why I keep an eye on my man.”

  “Is the other reason because you wish you had a brother instead of a sister?”

  “What?” Clay says without missing a beat. “And miss hanging with you?” He strikes a few poses and we both laugh again. “By the way,” he says, stroking the few hairs on his chin. “Guys do that too. I tore that mirror up when my beard first started coming in.”

  Clay extends his legs out in front of him and stretches his arms over his head.

  “You can talk to Michelle about Anton,” I say, “but let me talk to her about me.”

  My brother nods and pours us each another round of iced tea as I tell him about cuddling with Granddad and Zamaya.

  “There’re lots of ways to show strength, Neva. Lots of ways.”

  n. 1. the capacity or ability to direct or influence the behavior of others or the course of events: She had me under her power. 2. physical strength and force by something or someone: The power of the storm. 3. energy that is produced by mechanical, electrical, or other means and used to operate a device

  Nana’s not marching. She told everybody at dinner that she can’t stand in the hot sun or walk long distances in the heat anymore. I didn’t really feel like eating my dessert after that. Somber. That’s how I felt.

  Somber: solemn in mood or extremely serious

  Not a word I want to use too often but it wasn’t all bad. How’d Nana put it? There’re other ways to contribute to the community.

  Maybe decisions like this will never be easy. That jolt of electricity I felt over at the community center was real, but I miss the jolt I used to get from Jamila. Isn’t there a way to have them both?

  My phone buzzes and I’m almost afraid to look. Could it be Jamila … maybe?

  “Hey, girl,” says Michelle. “Ready for Sunday?”

  It’s nice that I can mention her name in our house again, but I want our talk to be private so I head out to the porch.

  “Sunday is going to be great,” she says. “My dad agrees with me that you should be on the front line. You; Clay; your grandfather, who, by the way, is very funny; and Mr. Charles. Multigenerational. That’s what we’re—”

  “I’m not sure about all this.”

  There’s a little gasp and a few seconds pass before Michelle says anything else.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice gets quieter with each word
. “I thought everything was all set.”

  “Yeah.” I pause to take a deep breath so my voice stays strong. “I know how excited everybody is and I am too, but you didn’t ask me how involved I wanted to be with the march. Nobody did.”

  Dead silence.

  “Are you still there?” I ask.

  “Where else would I be?” Michelle says with a deep sigh. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Well, I just thought … after you met everybody at the meeting. I thought you’d …”

  It doesn’t feel good to hear Michelle struggling to explain herself so I help her out.

  “I’m not mad or anything,” I say. “The march is important, but I’m not comfortable with it right now.” That’s not the whole story but I don’t want Michelle to know she’s come between me and Jamila.

  “Well,” Michelle says, softening her voice. “I can’t argue with that. You have to be comfortable with what you’re doing. And look, you’re right, I should have asked you about being out front. Sometimes I steamroll over people without really thinking about how I’m using my power.”

  “Your power?”

  Michelle sighs. “You have it too. You just use it differently. You’re more soft power.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be powerful, Michelle. Just telling you what’s on my mind.”

  “Call it whatever you want,” she says. “It works.”

  n. seriousness in intention, purpose, or effort: Her earnestness was apparent by the tone of her voice.

  Dear Mama and Daddy,

  Don’t freak out because you’re getting this email. I’m only doing it because you didn’t answer the phone when I tried to call you. I’m not doing it because I’m mad.

  Thank you for saying Clay and I can go to the march. I know it probably wasn’t an easy decision since you’re not here and can’t really see everything that’s going on. So please don’t think I’m upset or anything when I say I may not go.