“My paapa’s been working a lot lately. He even got another job,” says Jamila, crossing her right arm over her body and holding on to her left elbow. “I hope nothing’s wrong between my parents.”
“Good morning, young ladies.” Mrs. Giles, the swim club manager, smiles at us.
Now that we’re here, I’m not quite sure what to do, but Clay’s a lifeguard so this can’t be a bad place to start spying on him. I mean, looking for him. I mean, I don’t really know what I’m doing right now.
But here’s Mrs. Giles. She’s Clay’s boss and she has a beautiful smile. It lights up her entire face and makes everybody feel good. That’s because she’s not afraid to open her mouth.
You know how some people try to smile with their lips in a tight little line. It doesn’t work. That’s not Mrs. Giles. I guess being nice is part of her job but I think it’s more than that. It’s who she is.
I smile back and look down at my shorts and T-shirt. It’s definitely not a bathing suit but Mrs. Giles isn’t wearing one either. It hits me that I’ve never seen her in a bathing suit. She always has on beige khaki Bermuda shorts and a dashiki. Clay says she got the dashiki in Senegal. He says she loves Senegal and that’s why she works at the swim club. It reminds her of the capital, Dakar. The club reminds me of Greece. I haven’t been to Greece or Senegal but the club’s white walls and sky blue floors remind me of pictures I’ve seen of the Greek isles on the Travel Channel.
We show Mrs. Giles our passes and she waves us through the turnstile so we can sign in. One of her assistants takes her place at the entrance and she turns to go into the girls’ locker room. That’s when I notice I don’t see any panty line. Does that mean Mrs. Giles is wearing a thong? If she were wearing panties we’d see the line. Why am I thinking about this? I can’t tell how old Mrs. Giles is but she’s probably somewhere between my mama and Nana in age. Did she order her thong online or did she get it from a store? I hope Nana didn’t see her switching out of Show Your Secret. I’m staring at Mrs. Giles’s disappearing back. It looks like she has a nice body. Wonder why she doesn’t wear a bathing suit?
Our first stop at the swim club is usually the girls’ locker room, but we’re not taking our street clothes off today because we don’t have anything on underneath. I know some people swim with nothing on—it’s called skinny-dipping—but I can’t imagine ever doing that. That’s like going topless. Another thing I wouldn’t do. I think about the naked bicycle ride we have in Philly every year. Naked. On a bike.
I don’t know why I said we have it every year. I don’t have anything to do with it, but our neighbor Mr. Charles rode in it one year. He told Granddad it helps you feel good about your body. Granddad didn’t want Mr. Charles to volunteer with him over at the hospital after that.
Me and Jamila walk past the locker room entrance, past the splashing babies and their babysitters in the kiddie pool, and I freeze. Am I ready to face Clay? What’ll I say? Will he start laughing as soon as he sees me?
“What’s wrong?” asks Jamila.
Do you see him? I mouth, flattening myself against the white wall so whoever’s in the lifeguard’s chair at the big pool can’t see me. Jamila frowns like she forgot why we came here so I spell out Clay’s name in the air. C-L-A-Y. She probably can’t read that because she’s standing across from me so I whisper his full name, “Clayton.”
Jamila backs up to the other wall and cranes her neck as far as she can. She stands on her tippy-toes and inches forward against the wall. Jamila could be a model. Her long legs extending out of her pink shorts look like cinnamon sticks against the white wall. Her neck is long and delicate and she swivels her head like a beautiful bird. I can definitely see her on the cover of Vogue.
“Everything all right, girls?”
Mrs. Giles stands between us. Her eyes are twinkling like she just heard a good joke.
“We’re … fine,” says Jamila. “Just looking for our friend.”
“Who’s that?” asks Mrs. Giles. “Maybe I can help.”
Jamila looks at me like she doesn’t want to give anything away. We should have thought this through before we got here. Poor planning, I know. I don’t want Mrs. Giles to think something’s wrong with me so I tell her we’re looking for Clay.
“Your brother’s my best lifeguard,” she says, “but he’s not here. He’s off on Mondays.”
Clay’s off on Mondays? I don’t think my grandparents know that. My brother leaves the house at the same time every morning as if he’s going to work. This brings me back to the concern I didn’t want to get bogged down in earlier. Nana and Granddad keep much closer tabs on me than they do on him. I start to twist my hair. Carefully this time. I’ve just stumbled onto some big-time intelligence. As in secret information with potential. Now I’ve got something on Clay.
“Oh, thank you,” I say. “I forgot about his day off.”
There’s a big commotion with a lot of people at the turnstiles and Mrs. Giles excuses herself to take care of it, but not before telling us to practice our swimming so she can hire us in a few years.
Me and Jamila walk over to the main pool area and now I’m really sorry we don’t have our bathing suits. It’s starting to get hot and the water looks so cool. We sit on two lounge chairs in the shade.
“Why are we here again?” asks Jamila. “I mean, what’s our goal?”
My girl’s asking good questions. I think about that messed-up moment when Clay came bursting out of my grandparents’ bathroom and ask myself if it would be better to just forget about it. You know, put the whole episode, event, catastrophe, whatever you want to call it behind me. I’m still embarrassed about it, though, and the only way I can feel better is to go on the offense. Plus, now there’s something else I’d like to know. Where is Clay on Mondays?
n. 1. the consciousness of one’s own dignity: She swallowed her pride and asked for help. 2. a person or thing that is the object or source of a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction: The swimming pool is the pride of the community. 3. a group of lions forming a social unit
“I need to know what’s up with Clay.” That’s what I tell Jamila.
“Is that the only reason we’re running around in this heat?” She’s fanning herself with both hands and looking up at the pastel-blue ceiling of the little pavilion where we’re sitting. It has a ceiling fan but that’s not really helping with the humidity.
“Well,” I say, lying back and closing my eyes. “He hurt my feelings … my pride.”
“Isn’t pride a bad thing … sometimes. If it’s taken too far?” Jamila’s losing steam. I can tell.
Clay saw me during a private moment. That’s why I’m upset. I still have a tingling in my chest when I think about it.
I look over at Jamila. “Why didn’t your mama ask us what we were doing? You know, earlier.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Sometimes she’s really strict—”
“She’s not as bad as my grandparents.”
Jamila nods. “But she doesn’t try to make anybody feel worse than they already do.”
I love Mrs. Mensah. Not only did she give me a graceful exit this morning but she’s always around. We lie quietly for a few minutes until some older boys we don’t know run and jump into the pool making a really big splash. Jamila sucks her teeth and the lifeguard with the funny-looking sunscreen on his nose blows his whistle and shouts, “No running.”
Lifeguard. That could be a fun job. Imagine sitting up there with people looking up to me all day. That’s a job with real responsibility, but taking care of somebody’s baby is serious too.
I’m thinking about all the things that could go wrong with a baby when in walks Michelle Overton. Radiant is the word that pops into my head when I see her.
Radiant: sending out light; shining or glowing brightly; emanating great joy, love, or health
It’s how our neighborhood feels in springtime when all the gardens start to come alive. At least that’s how I see Michelle. I can’t sp
eak for Jamila, who’s checking her phone as if there’s nothing more interesting to look at.
“We better get that mint from your garden,” she says. “I promised my mama.”
She can’t be serious. How can we leave now? Michelle in her demi-cups. They’re what started this whole mess. I try not to stare but I can’t help it.
“Michelle’s not the only person with a body, Neva,” Jamila says in a flat voice. “Don’t forget, Serena Williams, Misty Copeland, Beyoncé, Mrs. Giles …”
What? My head is spinning even though I’m lying down. I sit up thinking that might help. Mrs. Giles? How did she get in the same league as Queen Bey? Michelle I can see. I look at Jamila. She really isn’t bothered by what she just said. Is that because her hips already have a curve and mine don’t?
“I have to go,” she says, standing up. “You can stay and, who knows, Michelle’s here so Clay may show up.”
Michelle’s sitting on a lounge chair in the sun and all the boys are checking her out.
“Fifteen more minutes?” I ask.
Jamila shakes her head, but not in a mean way. “I need to get home, but honestly, Neva, you weren’t like this before. You’re obsessed with Michelle.” She puts her hand on my shoulder like a kindly teacher would. “Do you have a crush on her?”
I’m not crushing on anybody. That’s not it. But what is true is that something about Michelle stirs things up inside of me. I shake my head no and fall back on my lounger.
“Well, is it still okay if I take some mint from your garden?” Jamila asks.
I nod and for the second time today I watch my friend leave.
I have no idea what I’ll do if Clay walks in so I turn over on my side and put my hands under my head like I’m sleeping. Besides Michelle, I only recognize one other person hanging around the pool. Clay’s buddy Anton. He’s not even fourteen yet, but for some reason my brother lets him hang with him.
I think back to the last few times I’ve seen Anton. He was really nice when he asked Granddad and Nana if we had any books to donate to Pennsylvania inmates. Inmates. That’s a strange-sounding word. I sort of knew what it meant, but I wasn’t totally sure so I looked it up.
Inmate: a person confined to an institution such as a prison or a hospital
Inmates in hospitals?
I asked Clay about it and he said there’d be fewer people in prison if our schools were better. He said some people get into trouble because they don’t have any other opportunity. He didn’t say anything about inmates in hospitals, though. All I know is Anton almost ripped our screen door off its hinges when Pennsylvania came up with that new law that families can’t send books to people in jail. Even I can tell that’s messed up, but I haven’t talked to anybody about it.
“Feeling okay?”
I recognize the voice but it’s coming from behind me so I’m not looking directly at Michelle Overton. I hope my butt doesn’t look too big from her perspective.
What? She’s walking around so she can see my face? She stands over me and fidgets with her hands. Not something you’d think a goddess would do.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I roll over onto my back and pull my cell out of my shorts pocket. I can’t believe she’s speaking to me so I start scrolling through my messages.
“Where’s Jamila?” she says. “I’m used to seeing you two together all the time.”
So, Michelle Overton knows me and Jamila exist? I look up at her and see she’s got eyeliner and lip gloss on even here at the pool. The makeup makes her look older than she is.
“Jamila’s with her mama,” I say.
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “And you’re feeling okay?”
“Yup.”
Another pause.
“Clay tells me you like to read.”
I’m a little surprised about how she jumps right into talking about Clay without any introduction. There’s no, You’re Clay’s sister aren’t you? or I met your brother here at the pool. She just goes for it. She’s confident. Something I’m not. Well, I used to be. But I’m not anymore.
“Yeah, I do like to read,” I say.
“Read anything good lately?”
“Not really.”
Another long pause. I could help her out, but for some reason I don’t.
“Are you going to hang out here all day?” Michelle asks.
“Nope.”
“Whew.” Michelle Overton drops her hands to her sides. “Clay said you could be tough. He wasn’t lying about that …”
But I’m not tough. I’m just surprised you want to talk to me. But of course I can’t say it. “When did he tell you that?” is what comes out.
“I don’t remember.” She shrugs. “Maybe when we first moved here.”
So, she and Clay have been friends since she moved here six months ago? She says her daddy is a community organizer. She can tell from my face that I don’t know what that is so she breaks it down for me.
“My dad brings people together to work on social problems in the community.”
“Your daddy’s in the right place,” I say. “There’s a lot going on in this neighborhood. At least, that’s what Clay tells me.”
“Yup,” Michelle says. She doesn’t look stuck-up at all. I mean, we, me and Jamila, don’t wear bikinis like the one she has on, and our lips aren’t moist like hers, but she seems okay.
“How do you like living here?” I ask, sitting up.
“Well, at first it was a little hard to make friends,” she says, “but my dad says you can’t wait for people to come to you. You have to go to them. And you have to bring something to the table.”
“Like food?”
“No,” Michelle laughs. “That means you have to have something beneficial to offer the other person. Like friendship or help with something.”
I wonder how she and Clay got to be friends and why she and I haven’t even had a conversation until now but I don’t bring that up.
“I mean,” she says, sitting down in the other lounge chair, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I like your hair.”
She likes my twists? I sit up straighter.
“But I don’t know why I never said anything before today.”
“My grandparents aren’t really into twists,” I say, “but Clay helped me persuade them to let me do it.”
“I can see him doing that,” she says. “He’s strong but sensitive at the same time, you know? A lot of dudes would just play their little sisters off.”
A lump rises in my throat as I think about what happened between me and Clay this morning. Wonder what Michelle would think about that? I swallow the lump back down and focus on Michelle again.
“You don’t have a big forehead like mine,” she says. “You can wear your hair however you want.”
Michelle Overton has a big forehead? I look more closely but I don’t see a football field under her bangs. She sees me checking, though.
“I’ll show you later,” she says, waving her hand. “Just not here. I have my pride.”
I can’t believe we’re laughing about her forehead. I look over at the pool and see Anton looking over at us. Figures. I’m so sure a lot of boys like Michelle but she doesn’t seem to care about that right now. She’s laughing with me and I start to tell her about all the reading I’m doing this summer. It’s all over the place—psychology magazines, a mystery series, and don’t forget Mama’s songwriting book.
n. aggressive pressure or intimidation: The girls faced daily harassment from the construction workers.
Where are you? It’s a message from Nana.
I’m half a block from our house and I see Granddad pacing up and down the sidewalk. It’s just my luck that he’s out front on the one and only day of my life when Nana doesn’t know where I am. Michelle’s walking alongside me and I really, really wish she had more clothes on. Like one of Mrs. Giles’s dashikis. It’s not like she didn’t try to cover up. She did put a T-shirt on over her bikini top when we left the
swim club but it’s wet so it’s not helping the situation.
Granddad sees me and Michelle. I wave but he doesn’t wave back. We’re almost at my house when a loud car—as in loud color, loud music, loud passengers, everything Granddad hates—pulses down the street. This is one of those cars with a sound system that makes the speakers vibrate with every beat. It’s a wonder the three guys in it aren’t deaf. The driver slows down and hangs so far out his window that his friend in the passenger seat has to grab the steering wheel to keep the car from hitting the curb.
“Yo, beautiful,” the driver yells.
His grin is so wide that I can see every single one of his gleaming white teeth and pink gums. He looks Michelle up and down and asks if she’s allowed to get phone calls. A really weird way to ask for somebody’s phone number if you ask me. Michelle ignores him and looks straight ahead. I’m looking at Granddad and wishing I were somewhere else.
“Check out the little one,” the dude in the back seat shouts. “She ain’t bad either.”
Are they talking about me? I cross my arms over my chest but the boy in the back keeps staring. He doesn’t look much older than Clay.
Granddad steps in front of me and Michelle and glares at them.
“Oh, it’s like that,” the driver laughs. “Catch y’all later after you put Pops to bed.”
Granddad turns to me and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this mad.
“Where have you been?” he says.
Based on how Michelle’s dressed and the fact that she’s holding a beach towel, I think it’s obvious we’re coming from the swim club, but Granddad doesn’t give me a chance to answer.
“And don’t lie to me. Your grandmother tells me Jamila came by here, without you, a while ago.”
“Hi, Mr. Robinson,” says Michelle. She knows Granddad? She smiles at him but he doesn’t smile back. “We were just over at the pool—”
“It’s Michelle, right?” Granddad’s talking to Michelle but he never takes his eyes off me. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Michelle gives me the side-eye. “Well … bye, Neva,” she says, before slowly crossing the street.
The True Definition of Neva Beane Page 3
