Speaking of which…
My left hand rested on top of it in the seat next to me, and I traced the symbol stitched into the front cover.
“What’s that, sweetie?”
I looked up to see Nana peeking back over the seat.
“Hm? I mean, uh, yes…ma’am?”
Granddad nodded, and I let out a sigh of relief.
Nana smiled. “Is that for your writing?”
I hesitated. “Yes, ma’am.” I held up the book so she could see it, and her eyes widened at the symbol on the cover.
“Where’d you get that?” she asked. Granddad turned to see what she was looking at, but Nana flapped a hand at him. “Watch the road, Walter.”
“From Eddie…” I began, then paused. “I mean, his mom gave it to me. It is…was for us. For our school project. Why? What’s wrong?”
Could she see it? Could she tell that the book was glowing, even in the daylight?
Nana pursed her lips. “That symbol. I just haven’t seen it in a long time.”
“You know what it is?”
“Well…” She glanced at Granddad, who’d tuned us out as soon as we started talking about writing. “It’s the spider’s web, an old African symbol for creativity and wisdom. It shows how tangled and complicated life can be. But with a little imaginative thinking, we can solve most of our problems and those of others.”
“Do you notice anything else about the journal?” I asked her.
Nana laughed, a bright, joyous sound that infected anyone listening. “Is this a test?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I don’t see nothing but procrastination. Go ’head and give it a try.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I frowned. So Nana could see the symbol, this spiderweb, but not that it was glowing. Well, that didn’t make me feel any better.
Granddad smacked the steering wheel. “Y’all need to stop filling his head with that mess about symbols. He needs to stay in the real world, think about what he did wrong last night. The boy need to focus! Boxing ain’t gonna just happen—you got to train your body and your mind.”
“Granddad, I don’t want—”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re a Strong, and—”
“Walter,” Nana interrupted, “don’t be so hard on the boy.”
“He needs some toughening up—y’all being too soft on him!”
“Now look—” Nana started whisper-lecturing Granddad, who shook his head and grumbled beneath his breath.
I slid down in my seat and tried to block out the argument. I let my thumb trace the cover of the journal, and before my brain could tell me not to, I yanked it into my lap and flipped to a random page. So what if it glowed? It was still a book, and reading it would be better than listening to any more of Granddad’s insults disguised as life lessons. Or reliving that bus accident.
I mean, really, what could go wrong?
Race to the Sun Page 25
