The True Definition of Neva Beane Page 9

  Mrs. Giles is going to the meeting. This is too good to be true. Nana and Granddad can’t object to my going with her. I don’t even have to worry about Clay seeing me leave. Perfect.

  * * *

  The community center is in a church a few blocks away on Baltimore Avenue. I’m walking alongside Mrs. Giles and she’s very chatty even when she’s stepping over the uneven sidewalks. I didn’t know she was born and raised here in West Philly.

  “I’ve been here so long I can remember a time when these tree roots weren’t growing all up through the pavement,” she laughs. Walking through the neighborhood with her is like walking with royalty.

  Royalty: people of royal blood or status; the most successful, famous, or highly regarded members of a particular group

  Everybody knows Mrs. Giles.

  “I try to do what I can with my hiring at the swim club,” she says, “but it’s not nearly enough. There’s been such a lack of investment in our community for so long.”

  I nod as we continue along and walk right up to a woman sweeping her sidewalk. She holds her broom still and rubs Mrs. Giles’s arm as she looks down at me.

  “This has to be Tracey Beane’s daughter. Looks just like her.”

  “Isn’t she something? She’s always been so sharp,” says Mrs. Giles. She shines her electric-lightbulb smile on me again even though she’s doing that adult thing I don’t understand. Talking about me like I’m not standing right here.

  Sharp is what she called me. Is that what I am?

  We walk the rest of the way over to the center with me sorting through all the words I keep in my head. But the one I need right now to describe myself doesn’t seem to be there.

  Anton and another teenager stand outside the community center handing out flyers and encouraging people to come inside. He looks down at the pavement when he sees me but hands a flyer to Mrs. Giles. “I have more than I need already,” she says, lifting her tote bag to show him. “But don’t forget about Neva.”

  Anton stammers something I can’t hear and hands me about five flyers, way more than I need. He doesn’t look directly at me but I can feel his eyes on my back as I pass.

  Me and Mrs. Giles step out of the bright sunshine into the cool cavern of the church. It’s dimmer in here than it is outside, but that doesn’t stamp out the energy coming from all the people sitting on folding chairs and talking. A man who looks like Michelle hands Mrs. Giles a pamphlet and then gives me another copy of the March for Justice flyer. Is this Michelle’s daddy, Mr. Overton?

  At first, I think this is just one big meeting but it’s actually a bunch of smaller meetings going on in this one huge room. Mrs. Giles takes it all in before another man waves her over to the group talking about jobs. She gestures for me to sit down with her, but I see Michelle over in the corner with a group of older kids.

  “That’s the Youth Committee,” the man says. “Go on over, if you want.”

  Michelle’s back is to me so she doesn’t see me walk over but she’s definitely the one in charge. Even some adults are leaning over to listen.

  “Sunday’s march isn’t about any one issue,” she says. “It’s about all the things impacting our community—immigration, jobs, affordable housing …”

  I look around to check out the other kids. Lots of cool piercings and tattoos but nobody cares about how anybody looks. There’s something else going on here. It feels like … like electricity.

  Yeah. There’s an electric current that I can almost see jumping from person to person. And it doesn’t skip over me either. It races up my spine and guides my eyes up to the top of the church’s tall stone walls. All the way up to the stained glass windows that spread the outside light so it falls back onto the church floor in smooth, colorful patterns. The light is beautiful. Just like Michelle.

  “You all know I like to do my clothes thing,” she says.

  She’s making everybody laugh so easily with her smooth, comfortable style.

  “It’s fun to try things out but Sunday should be all about comfort.” She holds up one leg and wags her index finger back and forth as she points down to her wedges. “You will not see me in these. Wear comfortable shoes and clothing.”

  So, she’s just trying different styles out with her clothes? She’s so much more sophisticated than me in every way.

  Michelle pauses and a couple of kids ask questions about the route.

  “We’ll meet at city hall and then head up the Ben Franklin—”

  Michelle sees me and stops. She looks me up and down before her face breaks into a smile. “Everybody knows Clay Beane, right? Well, he’s not here today but his sister, Neva, is.”

  Michelle points at me and now I’m on the spot. Every single head turns to look and my right hand goes straight up to twist my hair. I’m supposed to say something, but what?

  “You got it, little sis,” a guy says, nodding. He’s older than me but he wants to hear what I have to say?

  I turn around frantically looking for Mrs. Giles but I don’t see her. I think about the homeless people on Baltimore Avenue and Anton’s brother in prison but I don’t have the words to really talk about those things. Somehow, the words I know don’t seem like enough.

  “I’m new to all this.” That’s what comes out.

  The guy in front of me smiles and even in the soft light I see his eyes light up.

  “So, I’m here to find out more about the march.”

  “Know how to be around the police,” he answers. “That’s the most important thing.”

  “I’ve never really been around the police.”

  “Tell her about detractors,” somebody else says. “She needs to know how to handle herself around them too.”

  Detractors? Who are they? The people who shoved Clay around at the rally he went to?

  “What do I do if somebody gets in my face?” I ask, and several people nod their heads.

  “She’s asking good questions,” another voice calls out. “That’s real smart.”

  I don’t know how smart it is ’cause I’m feeling like I’m in over my head again.

  “Keep asking questions. That’s a good place to start.”

  I turn around again to search for Mrs. Giles but I still don’t see her. Who I do see is our neighbor Mr. Charles and he’s walking right over to me.

  “Neva, Mrs. Giles got a call and she had to leave,” he says in a calm voice, “but don’t worry, she asked me to walk you home.” He looks me dead in my face but he doesn’t ask if Granddad knows I’m here.

  “A call?”

  “Now, don’t you worry,” he says. “Nothing happened to Clay but somebody broke their leg or something over at the pool.”

  Somebody broke their leg? How could that happen?

  Michelle is talking about how kids should only go to the march with their parents or guardians. Well, my parents are in another country and my guardians don’t even know I’m here.

  Mr. Charles guides me to the door where Michelle’s father is standing with Anton.

  “Thanks for coming,” Mr. Overton says. “It’s an honor to have Clay’s sister down with us. He’s doing a lot of important work.”

  Mr. Charles nods and opens the door for me.

  “See you Sunday,” says Mr. Overton.

  n. treachery; the action of exposing one’s country, one’s group, or a person to danger or distress by a disloyal act: His friends were shocked by his betrayal.

  Mr. Charles tries to make small talk on the way home but I can’t laugh at his trolley jokes. Who cares about the whooshing sound the trolley cars make when they glide through the neighborhood? What I really want to do is jump on one and ride it away from here.

  How can things change so dramatically from one second to the next? For one sweet moment Michelle respected me and all those other kids wanted to hear what I had to say. Now I’m walking straight into big, big trouble. Today wasn’t supposed to roll out like this.

  “I heard your parents’ tour is going very well,�
� says Mr. Charles. “You should be proud of them.”

  I can’t even try to fix my face into a smile. We’re approaching our block and I’m wondering if there’s any way I can ditch Mr. Charles. I could say I forgot something at the community center. He won’t walk me back over there, right?

  “Charles, is that you?” shouts Granddad. “How’d you make it over to the swim club before us?” Granddad and Nana are hurrying down the street toward us.

  “What are you talking about?” says Mr. Charles.

  “Jamila fell at the pool and broke something,” says Granddad, looking from me to Mr. Charles and back to me again. “Clay didn’t see you, Neva, in all the confusion, so he asked us to come find you ’cause he thought you’d be upset.”

  “What?” I say, shaking my head and blinking ’cause I’m not sure I heard him right. Jamila was all right when I saw her this morning.

  “Oh, so that’s what happened,” says Mr. Charles, putting his hand on his forehead. “Mrs. Giles had to leave us at the meeting—”

  “Stop right there,” says Granddad. “What meeting?”

  Mr. Charles looks at me and moves his hand slowly down his face from his forehead to his mouth, but it’s too late.

  I take a deep breath and hum. I’m humming because I don’t trust my voice.

  “Neva?” I hear Nana say.

  I only hear it because I’m looking down at the prickly pear cactus growing in our neighbor’s garden. Its egg yolk–colored flowers are beautiful but they’re surrounded by the plant’s sharp spines. I’ve often wondered how it would feel if you lost your balance and fell on the cactus. Now I know.

  “You weren’t there when Jamila got hurt, were you?” she asks.

  I shake my head but I still don’t dare to meet Nana’s gaze. It’s bad enough feeling her eyes bore into my head.

  Nobody says anything until I break the awful silence. “I went to the community meeting for the march,” I finally whisper.

  “Without permission,” Nana says. Her voice is low like mine but there’s something else in it. Something way past hurt. It’s betrayal. I spell it out in my head but I don’t dare get too close to that word.

  “I was with Mrs. Giles.” I say her name hoping it will work its usual magic, but my grandparents don’t respond. “And Mr. Charles walked me home.”

  “You were there too?” Granddad asks, turning to Mr. Charles. “Funny, you didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “There’s nothing funny about any of this,” says Nana. “Geneva, we’re responsible for you while your parents are away. Why are you making this so hard?”

  I open my mouth to apologize but one look at her face makes me close it again. No amount of humming is going to make this right.

  I’m not trying to make her life hard. I’m not. So why have I made a mess of everything again? I look at Granddad and he shakes his head. Even he doesn’t know what to say. We all just stand there on the cracked sidewalk and watch Nana turn and slowly walk away.

  adj. 1. having been fractured or damaged and no longer in working order 2. (of a person) having given up all hope; despairing: A broken spirit.

  “Well, I have to get over to the hospital,” says Mr. Charles. He gives me a weak smile but avoids making eye contact with Granddad.

  I brace myself for what’s coming next, but Granddad’s quiet. We walk to our house and there’s no sign of Nana in the garden or on the porch.

  “She’s probably in the backyard,” says Granddad, going around the side of the house to find her.

  I’m rooted to one spot in our garden and I stand there trying to push that feeling of being swallowed up away. Nana confided in me because there was a bond between us. She told me how Clay made her feel and she never ever thought I’d do anything like that. Now that bond is broken.

  My neck is tightening up like it does before I get a bad headache. I look down at the raspberries and wish I had the power to turn back time. I’d turn it back to this morning when I was here with Jamila. Why couldn’t I just be happy for her? Maybe then she would have taken the raspberries from me and none of this would have happened.

  Granddad comes slowly back around our house and puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “I didn’t mean to …” I say, searching his face for a clue of how Nana’s doing.

  “She’s … she’s upset,” he says. “We should give her some time to herself.”

  “She’s mad, isn’t she?”

  “She’s more worried than mad,” Granddad says, but I shake my head no.

  “She’s mad, Granddad, and I know why. She told me how Clay made her feel. And I … I did the same thing.”

  Granddad purses his lips and his grip tightens on my shoulders.

  “She feels like everybody takes her for granted and that’s what I did.” I feel the tears coming but I don’t try to stop them. “I did it without thinking about her.”

  Granddad pauses before he speaks. “There’s been a lot of tension in our house,” he sighs. “Don’t work yourself up into a migraine.”

  He says that but it’s too late. Already, my head feels squeezed like a band is tightening around it. I close my eyes hoping that will stave off the dizziness.

  I hurt Nana. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t mean to. My closed eyes don’t make me feel any better. There’s nothing I can do to avoid the truth now.

  “All of this happened because I’m mad, Granddad. And … I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Is that what you’ve been feeling?”

  “I guess so.” My voice cracks on that last word and I look up at him.

  Granddad’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. He looks up at our house as if he wishes the front porch could reach out and hug us.

  “You been thinking about this a lot,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning into his chest. “I’m mad because everything’s changing.”

  “We’re here to take care of you. That hasn’t changed,” he whispers. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  He leads me through the garden and I know I’m in for a bad, bad headache. The earthy smells I usually love just make me feel sick now. It’s only a few steps to the front porch but I’m shriveled up like a green bean that’s been left on the vine too long when I hear somebody running toward us. I don’t see him but the scent of heat mixed with sweat and chlorine tells me it’s Clay.

  “Neva,” he yells. “Did you hear about Jamila?”

  “Don’t upset her now,” says Granddad. “She’s having one of her headaches.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Clay lowers his voice. “She was running with some new kids around the big pool and slipped,” he says. “She broke her foot and her ankle.”

  Jamila running? She knows that’s not allowed. She never does that. I ask myself why she would act out, but I know the answer.

  “She probably won’t be going on her trip,” says Clay, and I squeeze my eyes shut again.

  The dictionary inside my head has been replaced by a drummer. A mad woman drummer who’s not holding back. She’s playing the drums and crashing cymbals with all her might. Thump, thump, clash. Thump, thump, clash. Thump, thump, clash.

  v. to hold close in one’s arms as a way of showing love or affection; to hug tenderly: He cuddles the baby.

  I wake up hours later in my darkened bedroom. My headache is gone. The house is quiet. Someone has taken care of me. There’s no doubt about that. The evening is warm and I’m so glad I can smell things again without feeling like I’m going to throw up. I can even listen to the birds settling in on the ledge outside my window without their sounds piercing my skull.

  Granddad knocks and sticks his head in my room. “Feeling better?” he asks.

  I nod and he steps in with some crackers and a plastic cup. “Here, at least drink the water.”

  He watches me eat all the crackers and smiles when I drain the water in the cup.

  “Feel good enough to take a walk? Some fresh air may do you
good,” he says.

  “How’s Nana?” I ask.

  “She’s still resting so let’s be quiet on our way out.”

  Granddad’s quiet lasts all the way from our house through the tangle of traffic as we make our way over to Civic Center Boulevard. He didn’t tell me we were going to the hospital.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not checking you in.” I don’t laugh at his joke but he still squeezes my hand in his.

  He nods to people we pass at the entrance and shows his ID at the front desk before signing me in as his guest. We step off the busy elevator into the long, beige hallway and I see a sign directing volunteer cuddlers into a quiet room with rocking chairs.

  “Is this where you and Mr. Charles volunteer?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he says. “This is where I come to gain perspective on things.”

  “Mr. Robinson,” a nurse says. “Mr. Charles was here earlier but we weren’t expecting you tonight.”

  “I know it’s not my usual shift but I wanted my granddaughter to experience this,” he says, opening his arms wide.

  The nurse smiles like she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Granddad ushers me into the cuddlers’ room and takes a seat in a rocker.

  “You’re going to hold a baby now?” I ask.

  “There’s no telling when a little one may need attention, Neva. Volunteers are needed at all times, day and night.”

  “But why are—”

  “Shhh,” he says, motioning me to the rocker next to his. “You have to be calm within yourself to be a good cuddler.”

  The nurse comes back but this time she has a tiny baby in her arms. “Her name is Zamaya,” she says as Granddad reaches up for the baby. “She wasn’t abandoned but she was low-weight at birth. Her parents are doing the best they can but they can’t spend all their time here holding her.”

  The nurse stands at the door and watches my granddad touch Zamaya’s cheek before she smiles and leaves. Granddad gives Zamaya her bottle and rocks gently in the wooden chair.