The True Definition of Neva Beane Read online

  Nana and Granddad are not night owls but they usually stay up until after the eleven o’clock news. Another old people’s favorite thing. Mr. Charles watches it too. But not tonight. Tonight my grandparents go to bed early.

  There’s soft music coming from Clay’s room so I go up and knock on his door. I miss the talks we used to have and I hope he misses me a little bit too.

  Clay doesn’t answer right away so I knock again. He must have been out on his balcony because I hear the screen door open and close.

  “Just a minute,” he says. His lips are pulled tight when he opens the door.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  “That’s what I came to ask you.”

  Clay’s shoulders slump. “I thought you went to bed.”

  “Very funny, Clay. I don’t sleep with Granddad and Nana.”

  “Well … what’s on your mind?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. You blew past me yesterday like I didn’t even exist and I haven’t seen you all day today.” I say that last part even though I’ve been hiding out in my room since I came back from the library.

  There’s a scraping sound on Clay’s balcony like somebody’s moving one of the chairs around.

  “You have company?”

  “Can’t I do anything in this house without being watched?”

  “I’m not watching you, but who’s out there?”

  “Neva,” Clay sighs. “You’re twelve and I’m sixteen. Has it ever occurred to you that I might have stuff to do that doesn’t involve you?”

  “But it involves Michelle?” I blurt that out without thinking. Something that seems to be happening more and more these past few days. I used to be more careful with my words. “Is she up here?”

  Clay frowns and lowers his voice. “No. She is not. But what if she was? She’s older than you,” he says. “And … and more aware.” He averts his eyes so he’s not looking right at me.

  Nana’s meatballs are turning over in my stomach, and even though it’s hard to do, I keep my eyes directly on Clay. So, he thinks I’m not aware. What am I? Just the cute little sister? The other day he said I was really something but it looks like that something isn’t very much. I’m starting to shake so I plant my feet far apart like he does when he needs to look big.

  “I know about the march, Clay, and I’m going to the meeting tomorrow.”

  I don’t know where that came from, but there, I said it.

  The balcony door opens and Anton steps into Clay’s room. Clay jerks his head back to look at him.

  “I should go,” says Anton, pulling at his right ear. “We were just talking about the march but I don’t want to cause any trouble.” He avoids looking directly at me but I can hear the concern in his voice.

  “Don’t worry about it, man. Everything’s cool.”

  So, Clay has time to hang with Anton but he doesn’t have time for me? He really does wish he had a brother instead of …

  “You don’t have to go anywhere,” Clay says to Anton.

  My neck starts stiffening up and I don’t know what to say so I repeat myself.

  “I’m going to the meeting tomorrow.”

  “Good luck with that,” says Clay, turning back to me. “You know they won’t let you.” He doesn’t have to say who they are. “Have you even asked them?”

  I don’t answer right away. I know my grandparents will say no if I ask so … maybe … I don’t ask. Nana’s not the only person who’s been disrespected. I shrug my shoulders and hope I look cool but my stomach’s churning again. I’ve put my foot into something that I don’t know how to get out of, but I can’t back down. For some reason, I can’t lose face on this.

  n. a state or feeling of great distress or discomfort of mind or body: She went upstairs and cried in misery.

  There’s an email from Daddy when I wake up in the morning.

  Your grandparents are very upset. What is going on? Will skype with you and Clay at eight a.m.

  Clay knocks on my door, sputtering, which is totally not like him. “I got this, Neva. Let me take the lead when we talk to Dad.”

  “He probably knows everything, Clay. He spoke to Nana and Granddad already.”

  My brother collapses against the open door frame. “I may never get off punishment now.”

  Is that all he’s worried about? He’s not upset about all the drama that’s going on in our house? He has no idea of how much he hurt Nana or how he made me feel last night?

  Clay looks at me and points up to the ceiling. “Let’s do what we gotta do upstairs,” he says. “More privacy.”

  We get up to Clay’s room a few minutes before Daddy calls and Clay’s pacing makes me nervous. He’s normally Mr. Cool but he must be afraid I’m going to tell on him.

  “I won’t say anything about Anton,” I say, “but you should know I asked Mama and Daddy to come home.”

  “Great,” Clay says, shrugging as he turns on his laptop.

  We didn’t plan to but we end up sitting together on Clay’s desk chair and Daddy’s tired face fills the screen. The bags under his eyes look like suitcases and his nose is huge. He’s not hung up on proper lighting or anything like that.

  “All right, you two. What exactly is going on?”

  Clay goes into a long story about how Granddad and Nana are out of step with what’s happening in the world and are stopping him from supporting his friend Anton. I see what he’s doing. Blaming our grandparents instead of taking it right to Mama and Daddy, even though they’re the ones who told him to chill this summer. Playing politics? Is that what Clay’s doing?

  “So you forged your grandmother’s signature to do something you know could be dangerous,” Daddy says.

  “It’s not dangerous, Dad. Everybody’s doing it.”

  “I don’t care what everybody’s doing, man. How many times do we have to go over this? Your mama and I do not want you out in the streets while we’re away.”

  Clay hangs his head. “I admitted I was wrong. But Nana just won’t let it go and now she’s all over me.”

  “Clay, there’s no excuse for what you did. None.”

  Clay slumps forward on our chair so Daddy can’t see his face anymore.

  “Where’s Mama?” I ask. “Did she get my message?”

  “Yes.” Daddy sighs. “She has your messages. All of them.” He scratches his head before continuing. “You know, Neva, this isn’t easy. We were out very late last night with all the extra shows.”

  “Extra shows?”

  “Yes. Your mama is really on fire on this tour. Everybody loves her.” Daddy pauses and smiles a little bit. “To be honest, I’m just hanging on to her coattails. Your mama is fabulous! She’s trying to get some rest now but … she doesn’t need all these distractions. You hear what I’m saying? It’s tearing her up inside.”

  Mama’s upset about not being here? I thought she was happy being on the scene, hanging out at parties and speaking a new language.

  “So, is she coming home?”

  “Not yet. This tour is very important for us. It may be our, or her … It may be her last chance to put herself out there. So, guys, she needs your support.”

  Clay sits back up.

  “Do you hear me?” Daddy asks. “Clay, no more drama?”

  “It’s not drama it’s—”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Clay sighs but nods his head.

  “Neva?” Daddy says. “No more disturbing messages?”

  I can’t answer because my heart is sinking. Disturbing messages? How can he say that? Mama said she’d come home if things didn’t work out and they’re not. They’re not working out at all. I turn my head away from the screen because I feel my face collapsing into itself.

  “Neva?” Daddy says again.

  Daddy can’t see me as I slide down in the chair but words I can’t control slip out of my mouth. “Who does she think she is?”
/>   I wish I hadn’t said that, but my chin is trembling and the rest of my face is resting against the back of my brother’s shirt.

  Clay turns around and tries to hug me but I push his arms away.

  “Neva,” I hear Daddy saying. “We can’t leave the tour. Do you know how much trouble that would cause Ms. G? We signed a contract. I’m sorry, but it just can’t happen right now.”

  I slide down to the floor with only a whimper on my lips.

  n. 1. a situation in which further action or progress by opposing or competing parties seems impossible: The war had again reached a stalemate. 2. (chess) a position counting as a draw, in which a player is not in check but cannot move except into check

  Granddad and Nana fuss over me instead of arguing with each other. Granddad pats my shoulder after we eat and tells me not to worry about cleaning up.

  I stick my head out the front door mainly because that’s what I always do. I’m not expecting Jamila, but here she is at our little front gate. She’s here even though I blew her off yesterday. She stands like she doesn’t know what to do for a minute, pulling at her red polka-dot shorts that are the same shade of red as her bike, before leaning her bike up against our little garden fence and walking up to the porch.

  “You have no idea what’s been going on,” I say, pulling her arm. I’m gushing because it seems like ages since we’ve been together on our porch. Our porch. Where we confide in each other and work everything out.

  “I’ve been busy too,” she says. “We’re getting ready for our trip.”

  Granddad hasn’t gone to volunteer over at the hospital this morning. He and Nana are in the living room talking about whether they should plant more bulbs in our backyard in the fall. Very sweet.

  Me and Jamila move down to the garden so we’re out of earshot and I start telling her about how Ms. G’s whole tour would be ruined if Mama left, and Clay being grounded, and Nana’s taking him down on everything he does, and Michelle wanting me to go to the planning meeting for the march. But I don’t tell her the part about Michelle leaving me at the library. That part I leave out.

  “You and Michelle?” Jamila says. “Going to what meeting?”

  I bring her up-to-date on Michelle talking to me at the pool and the two of us walking home together and her asking me to be a part of her work. Jamila frowns a little when I tell her about the guys harassing us on the street. “That happens to my mama a lot,” she says. “It doesn’t matter what you have on.”

  I go back to telling her how I asked my mama to come home but then my daddy talked with me and Clay this morning and told us our mama is a star. A star. I should be happy about that and part of me is but another part, a bigger part, wants her back home.

  “Maybe she’ll make it to Ghana,” Jamila says. “Wouldn’t it be cool if I saw your mama singing in Accra?”

  Is she listening to me at all? Everything’s about her trip.

  “My auntie knows a lot of people in Ghana. I bet she could get your mama and paapa some gigs there,” she continues.

  Gigs in Ghana? That’s the last thing I want. Jamila rattles on about how much fun it’s going to be to fly, and how her auntie’s going to show her everything—Elmina Castle and Independence Arch. Whatever that is.

  She really doesn’t know how I feel? She’s just like everybody else. She’s rattling on about her trip, but I just cut her off.

  “I’m going to be hanging out with Michelle this afternoon,” I say. “I’m going to take up the slack now that Clay’s grounded.”

  Jamila hugs her knees to her chest. “I didn’t know you were so political,” she says.

  “We all need to be more enlightened,” I say. “You know, we should all be bringing something to the table.”

  Jamila’s eyes narrow but she doesn’t have a response to that. She picks up a handful of dirt and lets it run through her fingers. “Are you doing all this because of Michelle?”

  “Not because of Michelle,” I say. “I’m doing it because it’s the right thing to do.” I say it like I’m being interviewed on National Public Radio, but I don’t look at her because then she’ll know something outside of me is pushing me to talk like this. She’ll see how Clay hurt my feelings when he said I’m not sophisticated or, what word did he use, aware. And if she looks deep enough, she’ll see how jealous I am of her. She gets to smell her mama’s lavender-scented fingers every single day and dance with her daddy. They’ll all be together in West Africa. She’ll probably come home wearing beautiful head wraps. Wraps I won’t even know how to tie.

  Jamila stands up and wipes the dirt off the seat of her shorts. We’re in the garden, one of our favorite spots, but it’s not like it used to be. She’s about to leave me again, and even though I’m mad at her, I don’t want her to go, so I pick a few raspberries off one of the plants and hand them to her. But she shakes her head and pushes my hand away.

  “My paapa says people in Ghana aren’t really into rabbit food.”

  adj. denoting a contest or version of a sport in which there are few restrictions on the moves or techniques that competitors employ: Freestyle swimming.

  n. a performance or routine featuring free, unrestricted movement or intended to demonstrate an individual’s special skills or style

  Nana and Granddad are sitting together on the couch, still cooing over their gardening catalogs. What should they plant—crocuses and tulips or just tulips? What’s the big deal? They turn the pages of that catalog like they’re made of gold.

  “Neva, what you no good?” Granddad asks. He says it without looking at me. Without turning around.

  Nana slaps his hand. “That child doesn’t know what you’re saying. Talking that old talk.”

  They’re sitting there giggling like two teenagers waiting for their friend, me, to join in. But I don’t. I can’t believe they think everything’s okay. It’s not.

  Mama has her singing and Daddy has Mama and Clay has his Anton and they, Granddad and Nana, have their old jokes and Jamila has her trip. Everybody has something except me.

  Jamila pushed my hand away. Part of my brain knows that but another part of me, my heart, wants to act like it didn’t happen. How could it happen?

  Granddad looks up. “Where’s Jamila?”

  “She went home.”

  Granddad nods like that’s no big deal. “Probably has a lot to do to get ready for her trip. I sure wish I was going.”

  “I spoke with her mama,” Nana says, looking up at me. “She asked about you.”

  Nana’s watching my face so closely. She’s looking straight at me. Like maybe she can see that hole that’s just waiting to swallow me up. She can see it behind my eyes.

  “Your mama misses you so much,” Nana says. “It’s not easy for her to be away this summer, but she still has dreams too.” She turns toward the window and for a moment it feels like she’s someplace else. Like she’s not here in the living room with me and Granddad.

  Granddad reaches over and strokes her hand with his right index finger, and Nana turns back toward me.

  “What about you?” she says, smiling again. “You need something to do today. It’s beautiful out.”

  It used to be I’d squeeze in between my grandparents and have fun with them all day, but now I’m standing over them feeling left out. I never thought I’d feel like this in my own house.

  Granddad looks at me too. “You don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.” He bends over toward his pile of old DVDs. “Want to watch a movie with us?”

  I know he’s trying to help but he can’t. Watching The Shawshank Redemption for the fifth time isn’t going to do it. Besides, I have a meeting to go to.

  “Mrs. Giles probably has a lot of kids over at the swim club,” I say. “I’ll be over there.”

  “Mrs. Giles,” says Nana, smiling. “We’re lucky to have her.”

  I go upstairs to get my bathing suit and towel. I shove my flip-flops into my backpack and think about all the lying I’m doing. My slide away
from the truth has been pretty quick and it’s getting harder to even remember a day without fibbing. Fibbing. That’s one of Granddad’s words and I use it because it makes me feel better. Of course, a fib is a lie, but according to my dictionary it’s typically an unimportant one.

  Yeah, cutting out from the swim club to go to a meeting isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’m just freestyling. Look at it that way. I don’t want to think about what Mama would say if she knew so I avoid looking at my face in my little mirror and keep moving.

  I’m doing something for my community and I don’t need to feel guilty about it. If I were on trial I could, possibly, be charged with withholding information but that’s all. Granddad and Nana are the ones who said I needed something to do today and they’re probably very happy to see me go. What’s that Nana said when we were in Center City? If I don’t take care of myself nobody else will.

  n. a claim or piece of evidence that one was elsewhere when an act, typically a criminal one, is alleged to have taken place: She has an alibi for yesterday afternoon.

  The squeals of laughter coming from the swim club don’t do anything for me today. Clay’s on duty up in the lifeguard’s chair but there’s no Jamila and no Mrs. Giles. Her assistant is here with some kids I’ve never seen before.

  I’m standing outside the girls’ locker room in just the right spot to wave at Clay. I need to make sure he sees me just in case I need proof that I was here. He nods in my direction but turns his attention right back to the few kids in the pool. I lean up against the white walls trying to look nonchalant. You know, real casual. Maybe I’ll stay here for five more minutes before I cut out, but then I hear a familiar voice.

  “All alone today?” Mrs. Giles asks, flashing me a smile.

  I nod. Now my alibi is airtight. Both Clay and Mrs. Giles can say I’ve been here.

  “Actually, I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Giles continues. “I suspect I’ll see a lot of young people over at the March for Justice meeting.” She checks her watch and I check her out. She’s not wearing her flip-flops or her whistle today. She’s carrying a tote bag filled with flyers and other stuff. “Are you going over?”