The True Definition of Neva Beane Page 2

  Nana, Clay saw me with my T-shirt pulled up.

  That’s way too vague and it leaves me wide-open for the follow-up question, Who pulled it up? Better find another way to say it:

  Nana, my brother, Clayton, knows I wear a bra.

  Where did that come from? She knows Clayton is my brother so that’s not a good start. And then there’s the question, How does he know? So, how about this:

  Clay found me admiring myself in the mirror in your bedroom, Nana.

  I like the word found because I’m sort of lost right now. But Nana’ll want to know what I was doing in her room. What I was doing in her and Granddad’s bedroom. Plus, it sounds like I was doing something wrong and I wasn’t. I wasn’t.

  I unload the washer and almost bump into Nana when I turn around. She’s so pretty with her dark brown skin and round face. Her body’s full and firm. She must have been really hot when she was young ’cause she still has it going on. I’m in good shape if I have her genes. But Clay found me. What he saw was just meant for me …

  Wait a minute, what was Clay doing in there? Nana said she knew something wasn’t right. Was she talking about me or was she talking about Clay? Hmmm. What was Clay doing? Spying on me? He’s never done that before. At least, not that I know of.

  I think about that as Nana and I step outside and work our way down the clothesline with me handing her wooden clothespins at just the right moment. I’m happy my headache didn’t develop so every few steps I bury my face in the clean, dry clothes and breathe in a big whiff of sunshine.

  “You don’t get that smell when you use the dryer,” Nana says. She’s right and the fresh fragrance helps me think straight.

  “Where’s Clay?” I ask.

  Nana shrugs. “I don’t know. He ran out of here like the house was on fire.”

  I don’t think she’d be so calm if she didn’t know where I was. Granddad almost had a fit when I was twenty minutes late coming home from Malcolm X Park last week. But I don’t want to get stuck on that right now.

  “Was he laughing?”

  “Laughing?” Nana looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Definitely not. He was all plugged into that thing.” She holds a red-and-white dish towel up to her face and moves her head from left to right like she’s reading from a screen. She’s actually pretty funny. “He’s keeping a lot of stuff to himself these days. Who knows what’s going on with him,” she says.

  Yeah, who knows what’s going on with Clay, or with me for that matter.

  n. the state or feeling of having experienced a painful loss of pride, self-respect, or dignity: She fought back tears of humiliation.

  “Shut up,” says Jamila. I’ve just told her about what happened. She’s standing in front of me with her eyes all wide and her bottom lip quivering. “I’d die if anybody saw me doing that.”

  Jamila’s been wearing a bra for months already so she’s more used to it. I’ve never asked her if she’s done any prancing, but her response to my confession, folding her arms across her chest and avoiding eye contact, makes me think she has.

  She’s looking out across her family’s cement backyard to the mural painted on the wooden fence. There’s no grass in their yard but her mama’s made it nice with a little café table; chairs; a white umbrella; and, of course, the red, gold, and green Ghanaian flag. Her daddy’s mural of a market day in Accra with people in colorful kente clothes buying and selling things—fruit, plantains, chickens—sets the yard off really nice. Mr. Mensah manages Jamila’s auntie’s braiding salon, but he’s an artist too.

  Jamila’s perfect for discussing dramatic events like what happened this morning. She understands my humiliation and tries to help me think everything through.

  “It’s not like Clay’s going to tell anybody else,” she says. “You’re his sister so it’s just between you two.”

  We both remember fast Kira Reynolds who had some pictures taken that she shouldn’t have at a sleepover and later found them online. Fast, that’s Nana’s word. I’m a little surprised it rolled off my tongue so easily. I try not to do that. Shame girls, that is. I mean, have you ever heard of a boy who wasn’t running somewhere referred to as fast? No. And you probably never will is all I’m saying.

  I’m not worried about Clay sharing anything online, but I confess my fear that Clay’ll start laughing as soon as he sees me and he’ll end up telling everybody what happened. I especially don’t want Granddad to know. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with me since Mama and Daddy left. He keeps coming up with all these rules that I didn’t have before. Like I can’t go to a coed sleepaway camp anymore which, by the way, is fine with me. I never really liked it but it feels like he’s trying to think up ways to keep me in the house.

  “If Clay was smart,” says Jamila, “he’d keep this whole thing to himself unless he’s prepared to say what he was doing in your grandparents’ master bedroom suite.”

  She stresses master bedroom suite like it’s something you can win on a game show.

  Neva Beane, come on down!!! You have a chance to take home this magnificent master bedroom set provided you first cover the lower half of your face with your hands like you just can’t believe it’s true, and then scream and jump up and down while clasping your hands in front of your chest.

  In other words, make yourself look like a natural fool. Something I seem to know how to do without going on TV.

  I like Jamila’s thinking but I hardly have a moment to consider it before she comes up with another option.

  “Or you could tell your grandparents what happened yourself.” Her eyes are as big as saucers now. “Then they won’t ask Clay why he’s laughing and the whole thing will be OLD NEWS.” She shouts her last two words because a car playing really loud music comes down the street and we can hear it all the way back here.

  “I already tried to tell Nana but I couldn’t find the right words.” I’m leaning close into Jamila because I don’t really want to shout that out.

  My girl’s eyes narrow. “You couldn’t find the right words? Dang.”

  She thinks for a few seconds and then shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe he’ll forget about it?”

  “You didn’t see him,” I say, shaking my head. “He was cracking up. There’s no way he’s going to forget it anytime soon.”

  “Wow,” says Jamila. “You must have really …”

  Okay, I know I made it sound like I hate the car with the loud music but it’s playing one of Ms. G’s songs and me and Jamila start swaying.

  “… put on a show,” she says, half smiling.

  Now here’s where I go wrong. Here’s where the trouble starts.

  I shouldn’t let the music and Jamila’s smile egg me on, but I do. I figure Jamila’s daddy’s at work and her mama’s upstairs with her baby brother so I feel free to demonstrate what I did in front of the mirror, without pulling up my T-shirt, of course.

  I turn around and stand Jamila’s library book up on the table like it’s a mirror and strike a few poses in front of it like I’m onstage. I cup my hands over my breasts and Jamila shrieks.

  “No you didn’t!”

  I throw my head back and hug myself like I’m in a music video. I’m not twerking. Okay? I do not twerk. But let’s just say I’m moving my hips and I’ve got my hands all wrapped around myself so it looks like my hands are somebody else’s hands. This is way more than I did in front of the mirror, but this is me and Jamila having fun.

  “Oooh, Neva.” Jamila’s laughing and my eyes are closed and I’m imagining I’m on a beach in Ghana with sand between my toes and the warm sun beating down on my eyelids. I’m feeling really silly and loose and free.

  “Neva …” Jamila’s voice sounds a little different but between the music, the imaginary waves crashing around my feet, and my closed eyes I don’t realize how the situation has changed. As in Mrs. Mensah is standing in the doorway.

  I don’t know how long Jamila’s mama has been there but the car drives away taking Ms. G’s music and my so
ul with it. I open my eyes and turn around.

  YUP. I just jammed myself again.

  n. 1. a rope or wire stretched tightly high above the ground, on which acrobats perform feats of balancing

  v. 1. to walk, move, or proceed on or as on a tightrope: She tightroped through enemy territory.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a big, big hole. The thing is, I don’t know what happens if I fall. What will I fall down into? A big grassy meadow like the Dog Bowl over in Clark Park? Or one of those gigantic sinkholes like the one that tried to eat the Route 34 trolley? I don’t really know what a sinkhole is so I look it up.

  Sinkhole: a cavity in the ground caused by water erosion

  The hole that scares me wasn’t caused by erosion. It’s in my head but I don’t know what caused it or what to do about it. It just feels like I’m not able to be all that I know I can be all the time. It doesn’t really make sense.

  I used to not worry about anything. I used to just hang out with Mama and help her find the right words for her songs or jump on my bike and race Jamila over to the Woodlands, the big old cemetery around our way, which is kind of like a park. You’re not supposed to ride bikes there but sometimes we sneak and do it anyway. It’s really not spooky except on Halloween when they decorate the manor house to make the place feel scary.

  But now, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I be all of myself anymore?

  I can’t believe I let Mrs. Mensah see me like that. She must think I’m a hot mess. But at least she’s not laughing. Maybe she felt like this once herself. Maybe she was awkward and proud when her breasts first popped out too.

  Awkward: causing or feeling embarrassment; not smooth or graceful; ungainly

  Proud: feeling deep pleasure or satisfaction as a result of one’s own qualities or achievements

  I can’t look Mrs. Mensah in the eye right now so I look at the bright reds and yellows in the mural on her back fence. The lively market scene convinces me I’m right, but still, she saw me …

  “You girls want some iced tea?”

  Mrs. Mensah’s acting like she didn’t see anything abnormal. Abby Normal, as Granddad would say. He got that from another one of his old movies, Young Frankenstein. He’s only watched it about twenty-five times.

  I don’t know if Mrs. Mensah is just being kind or if she’s waiting for me to leave so she can tell Jamila I’m not allowed to come over anymore.

  I start to say “no thank you” to the iced tea offer but Jamila says “yes” at the exact same moment. I’m still looking at the fence so I can’t see Jamila’s body language. If I could I’d know if she had a plan or something. Some strategy to get her mama back in the house so I could climb over the fence and make my way past the stray cats, trash cans, and discarded tires in the alley back to the real world. This all feels like a bad dream but I’m awake and it hasn’t ended. At least this morning Clay ran out so I didn’t have to face him. This is much, much harder.

  I reach my right hand up to twist one of my twists but then my ring, the sterling silver heart ring Granddad gave me last Christmas, gets stuck. In my hair. I give my finger a gentle tug but the ring doesn’t budge. I can’t believe this. I scratch my head with my other fingers like I meant to keep my hand up there anyway, but even that little bit of motion pulls my hair.

  I sure can’t look at Jamila and her mama now so I drop my head to my right shoulder like I’m stretching out my neck in a yoga class.

  Sing a song to yourself. That’s what Mama would say. I open my mouth but the only thing that comes out is a warble. I sound like a sick bird.

  I’ve got my left hand in the act now trying to untangle my hair from my ring on my right hand, but I can’t do this on my own. Little beads of sweat break out on my forehead. I must look so stupid. So, of course, my phone buzzes. Mama? Her timing is so bad. Why does she choose this moment to return my phone call? Couldn’t she have called earlier?

  My phone’s in my right rear pocket but I can only reach for it with my left hand so I’m totally contorted. Twisted, bent out of shape.

  “Girl, need some help?” Is that a giggle I hear in Jamila’s voice? I can’t worry about it because Mama’s on the phone with me.

  “Hey, sweetie, what’s up?” Her voice comes through loud and clear. “We’ve been in rehearsals all day.”

  Jamila’s looking at me like I’m an alien ’cause my right hand is still stuck upside my head. “What’s with your hair?” Jamila asks. She reaches up and pulls at my hand and I scream which, of course, scares Mama.

  “Neva, baby, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” That’s what I say because how can I explain it all in front of Jamila’s mother? I can’t tell Mama about prancing in front of Clay and then how swaying to Ms. G’s music led me to doubly prancing in front of Mrs. Mensah. I can’t tell her that the expensive ring I whined about, begged for, and cried for at Christmastime has turned against me. How can I say that Jamila’s standing right next to me fiddling with my hand that’s glued to my head all because I don’t know what to do with myself?

  “Nothing?” says Mama. “Then why are you screaming?”

  “We may have to cut it out.” Jamila says it all matter-of-fact like she’s a doctor diagnosing a patient.

  “Cut what?” Mama yells. “And don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ ”

  Mrs. Mensah steps over. “It’s okay, Tracey,” she says, bending toward my phone so Mama can hear her. “Her ring is twisted up in her hair but I’ll untangle it.” She smiles at me. “It happens to me too.”

  So now I’m standing in the middle of Jamila’s backyard with her mama’s gentle lavender-scented fingers in my hair. Do all mothers use the same hand lotion? She’s very careful not to hurt me and I can feel my hair’s grip on my ring loosening up.

  “Neva, are you okay?” Mama asks. “I really have to get back inside.”

  I take a deep breath and fill myself up with the scent of lavender before Mrs. Mensah steps back. That feeling of falling down into a deep hole starts to creep back in. It moves up into my throat and I have to swallow a few times to steady myself.

  Mama and I didn’t even get to talk. I didn’t get to tell her what happened with Clay. How he saw me. How I’m afraid to run into him at home. That’s the reason I came over here to Jamila’s house. A place where I wouldn’t have to hide from anybody, but then I made myself look stupid here too.

  “Crisis over,” says Mrs. Mensah. My right hand is free, but she holds on to it a little bit longer than necessary. “Now, how about that iced tea?”

  “We can get the tea ourselves,” says Jamila. “And we might go back over to Neva’s to get some fresh mint from her garden. You like mint in your tea. Right, Mama?”

  Jamila really is my girl. Not only has she given us a way out so we can go look for Clay, but she’s also said the magic word out loud. Mama.

  I look up at Mrs. Mensah and see her smiling. “Yes,” she says, “but don’t be too long. I need you back here.”

  “Bye, Mama,” I whisper into the phone, but I know she, Tracey, my mama, has already hung up.

  n. 1. a thing that constitutes a violation of what is judged to be right or natural: The outcome is an offense to basic justice. 2. annoyance or resentment brought about by a perceived insult: He didn’t intend to give offense. 3. the action of attacking: The students went on the offense to stop schoolyard bullying.

  Me and Jamila turn the corner onto the street leading up to the swim club. I count three more of those HATE HAS NO HOME HERE signs in people’s front yards. That’s two more new ones than last week.

  Folks in West Philly pull together to support one another. That’s why nobody we know feels good about people who came here from other countries having to take sanctuary in churches or developers pushing some families out of the neighborhood. At least that’s what Clay says. He encouraged Granddad and Nana to sign a petition to expand the community garden behind the tennis courts so more people can grow their
own food like we do.

  “I can’t stay away too long,” Jamila says, repeating what her mama said before we left their house.

  We’re right behind a bunch of little kids and their grown-ups staggering along ahead of us. The kids have trouble walking in their flip-flops and keep dropping their towels every few steps so the mamas have to keep stopping to wait for them to catch up. Is that what I have to look forward to if I start babysitting? I like little kids and all, but is that the only job for girls?

  “What’s your mama need you to do?” I ask Jamila as we step off the curb, into the street to pass the little ones. We’re close enough to the swim club that we can hear people squealing and laughing, but those fun sounds don’t work their usual magic on me today. I scratch my chest through my T-shirt, hoping maybe that will make the clawing feeling that’s still sitting there go away.

  “I don’t know.” Jamila shrugs. We take a few more steps and we’re passing through the black wrought iron gate and standing at the swim club’s little white turnstile. “My mama’s not talking to me about everything like she used to. It feels like she doesn’t want me to hear her conversations with Paapa.”

  “Understandable,” I say. Mind you, I’ve never had a boyfriend, much less a husband, but I don’t think it’s weird you’d want to talk to your husband in private. “I get that,” I say, like I’m the big authority on relationships.

  Jamila gives me the side-eye, but I’m thinking about Nana and Granddad now. They have private conversations all the time. Mainly about what me and Clay are doing. Then I think about Clay and Michelle. I’ve seen him talking to her on his phone. I can always tell when he’s talking to her and not one of his other friends. He stands differently, sort of hunched over, and he cups the phone with his free hand like he doesn’t want anybody else to hear their conversation. When he talks to his boys he stands with his legs spread apart and he usually has one hand folded across his chest like he’s The Man.