The True Definition of Neva Beane

by Christine Kendall

That’s when things go ballistic. B-A-L-L-I-S-T-I-C.

  Go ballistic: to fly into a rage

  Clay’s bedroom door is slammed shut and the ceiling above my head starts to shake. Please believe me when I say I’m surprised our house still has a roof. Granddad trumpets like a herd of mad elephants while Nana tells Clay off in a mean whisper buzz. I have to tiptoe halfway up the stairs to hear her. She sounds like a really mad hive of bees.

  “BZZZZZ … I trusted you … BZZZZZ … How dare you … BZZZZZ … I never thought you’d …”

  We’ve never had this much drama in our house and it scares me. I’m sitting on the stairs with my right hand in my mouth without even realizing it. I mean, I haven’t bitten my nails since I was seven or eight years old.

  Our neighbor Mr. Charles comes over to make sure we’re all right. I’m the one who goes down to answer the door.

  “Y’all don’t usually make such a racket,” he says, peering over my shoulder. “I could barely hear the eleven o’clock news.” Mr. Charles adds that he was already upset after he heard how the city hall rally almost turned violent. “Reminds me of my time in the National Guard,” he says.

  Is that why Clay looked so scared when he got home? And Mama and Daddy are halfway around the world partying? I look over at their wedding photo on the mantel and I just want to turn it around. They have to come home.

  Mr. Charles leaves and I put my hands over my ears to try to block out the chaos coming from the third floor of our house. I go through the kitchen and take the back staircase up to my room and calculate the time. It’s eleven fifteen at night here, five fifteen in the morning in Amsterdam. Mama and Daddy are probably not up yet but if I had a phone I would call them. I don’t so I sit down at my desk and write a stupid slow email.

  Subject: Turmoil (a state of great disturbance, confusion, or uncertainty)

  Your tour may be going great but things here at home are not. Everybody’s mad at everybody else and there’s a lot of shouting. It got so bad that Mr. Charles had to come over and check on us. Can you please come home? Please?

  n. 1. the action of hiding something or preventing it from being known: The concealment of the body. 2. something that acts as a hiding place or cover

  I hear every little creak and groan our old house makes through the whole night. It’s like the house has to pull itself back together after so much fighting. I wake up confused and reach over to where my phone should be on my bedside table, but it’s not there. There’s nothing there so I just lie in my twisted-up sheets and turn everything that’s happened over and over in my mind. What did Clay say about Anton’s family? We’re struggling too.

  I drag myself up and get dressed, grabbing my light gray sweatshirt and pulling it on over my yellow tee before going downstairs. I stick my head out the front door to see if Jamila’s on our porch but she’s not there. Is she sick? That’s the only reason why she ever misses a day.

  “Neva, come and get your breakfast,” Nana calls.

  I’m hungry but breakfast doesn’t go down easy. Granddad sits at the table reading his Philadelphia Inquirer without talking to anybody. Clay inhales his oatmeal as quickly as he can so he can escape to the swim club. He’s lucky Nana didn’t totally ground him. Mrs. Giles needs him and my grandmother loves her some Mrs. Giles. So Clay’s only allowed out of the house to go to the swim club to work, not to hang with his friends. Nana says there will be major trouble if Clay goes anywhere else. Yeah, she sounds like Granddad now.

  Nana has dark circles under her eyes and moves slower than usual. Drama isn’t her thing. She’d much rather be having fun with me and Clay instead of punishing somebody. I look around our pretty dining room. It still looks nice but it has a bad feeling to it now. Negative energy. That’s what it is. It never felt like this when Mama and Daddy were home.

  Clay gets up to leave and Granddad says, “That rally you went to yesterday didn’t end so well.” He puts his paper down. “Better be careful.”

  Clay rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. He grabs his backpack and makes a big show of heaving it onto his shoulders and adjusting the straps.

  Poor Clay. There’s a reason why he’s Mrs. Giles’s best lifeguard. I can’t think of anybody else who cares about people as much as he does.

  I’m not sure if Clay wants my company, especially since I heard him wishing for a brother last night, but I gobble down the last of my toast and ask if I can walk with him at least as far as Jamila’s street.

  “Be back in half an hour. We have to get you a new phone,” Nana says before adding, “Clay, is yours charged? I don’t want any nonsense today.”

  My grandparents say they miss the peacefulness of the times when everybody didn’t have a cell, but they can’t live without them now just like everybody else.

  Me and Clay step out into the sunshine and I have to practically run to keep up with him. “Something’s going on with them.” He says it like none of this is his fault.

  “Yeah, they’re really mad at you.”

  Clay sucks his teeth but a flicker of shame crosses his face. “I shouldn’t have forged Nana’s name. I know that. But what I don’t understand is why they aren’t more upset about everything that’s happening out here. Why aren’t they more political?”

  Clay uses that word that seems to be everywhere these days.

  Political: relating to the government or the public affairs of a country; relating to the ideas or strategies of a particular party or group in a society

  Is my brother referring to what’s happening politically in the country or politically inside our house? Our grandparents are definitely upset about what’s happening with us. If Clay was running for office in our family right now the only vote he’d get would be mine.

  “Mama and Dad are part of the problem too,” he says.

  “Is that what Daddy talks to you about in his cards? He only writes me about music and how the tour is going.”

  Clay nods. “Sometimes I think Mama and Dad are more traditional than Nana and Granddad. They were active back in the day, you know.”

  “Granddad and Nana?”

  Clay nods again. “They did their part. That’s why I thought everything would be cool this summer. But I see now there’s no reasoning with Granddad. Going undercover is the only way to deal with him.”

  “Tell me about it.” Clay looks down at me but he doesn’t ask for any details. “Maybe Mama and Daddy will come home early,” I add.

  Clay snorts. “Don’t count on it.”

  My stomach does a little backflip but I try not to show it.

  “Why are you wearing that sweatshirt?” Clay asks. “Aren’t you hot?”

  I look down my front. My breasts aren’t so obvious under my sweatshirt, but I’m sure not going to discuss that with my brother.

  “Try to stay out of trouble today, okay?” That’s what comes out of my mouth.

  “And you stay beautiful,” he answers.

  adj. 1. feeling or showing envy of someone or their achievements and advantages 2. feeling or showing suspicion of someone’s unfaithfulness in a relationship: A jealous friend.

  It’s hot. Ninety degrees and sunny. This sweatshirt is killing me but I run down Jamila’s street like I’m in the Penn Relays. She may be sick or something. Why else didn’t she come over this morning? I’m sorting through everything in my head but it’s hard to decide where to start. I’ll tell her about me and Clay first, then Clay and Nana, and then everything else.

  But when I get to Jamila’s front door I hear dance music, highlife. It’s what her daddy plays when he’s in a good mood. Jamila can’t be sick.

  Their front door pops open and Jamila bursts out. “Guess what?” she says. “We’re going away on vacation.”

  “Va … ca … tion,” I stammer. “When?”

  “We’re going to Ghana in two weeks.”

  Jamila’s daddy joins us out on the porch and twirls her around. “Neva, we are so happy,” he says. “I’m finally going to take my fam
ily to visit home.”

  Jamila looks up at him and a big grin breaks out across her face. She’s smiling like Mrs. Giles over at the swim club. Her daddy reaches down and tickles her under her arm and Jamila doubles over laughing.

  Jamila’s baby brother starts to cry inside the house and Mr. Mensah leans toward the door and cups his ear. “Neva,” he says, “my son has a very strong voice. Eh?”

  “So, you’re not sick?” That’s the wrong answer but I don’t know what else to say.

  Mr. Mensah frowns. “No one is sick in this house, ooh. We’re celebrating.” He looks at my sweatshirt. “You have to be careful in this heat. Jamila, go and fetch your friend a glass of water.”

  Jamila scurries inside and Mr. Mensah pulls one of the white plastic chairs over for me to sit on. “And how are your parents, the famous musicians?”

  I know he’s trying to make me feel good but asking about Mama and Daddy only makes me hotter than I already am.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t spoken to them today.”

  “Eh?” He frowns again. “I imagine they have a very busy schedule. Plus, there’s the time difference. I know it can be difficult to reach people back home because of that.”

  Jamila comes out with a big glass of water with ice cubes, lemon, and mint in it. “Straight from your garden,” she says. Her eyes are sparkling like she’s never seen water before. Pure joy.

  Joy: a feeling of great pleasure and happiness

  That’s what’s on her face. But I’m not a part of it.

  Mr. Mensah sits back for a few minutes nodding his head in time to the music. He closes his eyes and starts moving his shoulders like he’s the happiest man in the world. He doesn’t stop until the song ends.

  “Time to get over to the shop,” he says, checking his watch. “Eh, Jamila, don’t let your friend get too much sun, ooh.” He touches my arm lightly before getting up and giving Jamila a hug.

  I gulp down the whole glass of ice water with my eyes closed. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and try to focus on the horns and guitars in the new song that’s surrounding me. The beat usually makes me move but not now. I’m sitting stock-still.

  Mr. Mensah’s gone when I reopen my eyes.

  “I tried to call you last night to tell you about the trip,” says Jamila. “There’s nothing wrong between my parents. My paapa’s just been working extra jobs to get the money together.”

  That’s her explanation for not coming over to our house this morning? Doesn’t she care that I was afraid she was in the hospital? I thought she got hit by a car or something. Everything may be great at her house but mine is crumbling.

  That big hole that I’m afraid of falling down into is right here on Jamila’s porch. It’s stretching wider and wider until it’s too big for me to jump over. I’m looking at her real close to see if she senses it too. I need to know but I’m afraid to ask.

  “My phone died.” That’s what comes out. “Nana’s taking me—”

  “What about the bra-thing?” she interrupts. “How did Clay act when he saw you?”

  The bra-thing? That’s how she describes what happened to me yesterday? The worst day of my life?

  I’m sitting here on my best friend’s porch listening to music I can’t feel when it hits me. She doesn’t care.

  I tilt my water glass so the few remaining ice cubes swirl around the bottom. “Clay was cool,” I say. “He didn’t try to make me feel bad … although he could have.”

  I’m talking about Clay being cool but I’m blazing hot even though I just drank a whole glass of water.

  “See,” she says. “I knew you were making a big deal out of nothing.”

  A big deal out of nothing? I stand up and hand the now-empty glass back to Jamila. Our fingers touch on the cold glass but I don’t look up at her.

  “Aren’t you hot in that—” she begins.

  “I gotta go,” I say. “Nana’s waiting for me.”

  I jump down off her porch and make it back home in half the time it took me to get there.

  n. 1. a relationship that usually begins at the time of birth between family members and that establishes the basis for an ongoing mutual attachment: The siblings’ bonding started the moment they laid eyes on each other. 2. a close friendship that develops between people often as the result of shared intense experiences, as those shared in military combat

  Me and Nana take the trolley down to Nineteenth Street. This is Center City and it’s totally different from West Philly. For one thing, I don’t see any signs for activist jobs taped to light poles. I don’t see any of the Little Free Library wooden book boxes either, but there are a lot of tall buildings that block out most of the sun. They tower over the statute of William Penn, the Englishman who named the state after his father, on the top of city hall.

  “I remember when buildings weren’t allowed to be taller than Billy Penn’s hat,” says Nana, shaking her head. “Now, well, just look around.”

  She’s walking slow, but as usual, what I’m wearing doesn’t escape her inspection.

  “I’m surprised you’re wearing that sweatshirt,” she says. “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Jamila’s whole family is going to Ghana,” I say, ignoring her question. “Not just her parents, her whole family.” My voice quivers a little on the word family and Nana’s quick glance over at me tells me she heard it.

  Nana asks me to remind her to call Jamila’s mama tonight. “I know they’ve been wanting to make that trip for a long time,” she says.

  I’ve noticed she and Granddad always prefer to call somebody from home. It’s like they think random folks on the street want to hear what they’re saying. Must be an old people thing.

  “You could call her right now,” I say, lashing out even though I know that’s not fair.

  Nana looks at me again but she lets my smart remark slide. Instead she does something so tender that it breaks through the wall I’ve built around myself. She leans over and says as softly as she can, “You don’t have to hide yourself under a sweatshirt, Neva. I tried that when I was your age and it didn’t make any difference.”

  I don’t look at her but the truth is I’m burning up in this thing and mad at myself for even putting it on.

  We get my new phone and sit in Dilworth Park right outside city hall. Nana buys me a cherry water ice and gets a cappuccino for herself. “I don’t normally spend my money on this expensive stuff,” she says, “but if I don’t take care of myself nobody else will.”

  Nana’s statement pulls me out of the reruns of Jamila’s betrayal I’ve been playing in my head. My grandmother’s making a point about something but I’m not exactly sure what it is since we haven’t seen any half-naked women ads or girls wearing shoes they can’t walk in. That’s another one of the things she hates. Stilettoes. Don’t buy shoes you can’t walk in, Neva. How many times have I heard that?

  We walk over to a little blue table with yellow and green chairs and I pull the gray sweatshirt off over my head. Nana smiles and smooths down the back of my T-shirt as we sit.

  She picks up a flyer left behind by somebody else. MARCH FOR JUSTICE is splashed across the top in big letters. There’s a lot more little writing on the flyer but I can’t make it out because I’m sitting across from her and trying to read upside down. It’s set for this coming Sunday, June 24.

  Nana reads the flyer and sighs. I can’t tell if she’s for or against the march, so I ask, “Are you going to march? Clay told me you and Granddad used to do stuff like that.”

  “Yes, we did.” She says it like it’s a fact I should have known, but we’ve never talked about this before. “But I thought the need for that was over.”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “Me … no,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t stood up against things that weren’t right.” She sighs. “I had hoped for much better for you. That’s all.”

  She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press her because my water ice
is melting faster than I can eat it. I lean forward so it’ll drip on the ground and not on my yellow top, so I don’t see Anton walking over to us.

  “Hi, Miss Cecily.” Anton stands next to our little table. He nods at me but he’s standing real stiff like he doesn’t know what to do. “How’s Clay?” he asks, looking down at the flyer on our table. His head is tilted and I can see his long, dark eyelashes.

  “Clay’s grounded,” Nana says. “So you’re not going to see much of him for a while.”

  Anton looks up and his hazel eyes widen. “Oh, okay,” he says. “So … I … I guess he won’t be at the march.”

  Nana shakes her head no.

  Nana’s not mean but she shouldn’t have said that. Not only is Clay grounded but now Nana’s told one of his boys about it. It’s always better if you break that sort of news to your friends yourself. It’s no telling how the story will get twisted once Anton puts the word out.

  Anton backs up and says he guesses he’ll see us at the swim club. He smiles at me before he disappears down into the subway entrance.

  “That boy likes you,” Nana says, folding up the flyer and putting it in her purse. “You all are too young for that.”

  Nana’s mistaken. Anton likes Michelle Overton, but I’m not about to bring her name up again. Not if I can help it. I study my grandmother and she looks, what’s the word? Resolute?

  Resolute: admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering

  Yeah, she’s real resolute.

  The softness she had in her voice when she convinced me to take off my sweatshirt is all gone. Her jaw is set real tight and the last thing I want to do is set her off on one of her lectures about boys.

  “Clay really wants to go on Sunday,” I say, bringing the subject back to the march. “Can’t you lift his grounding for just one day?”

  Nana fastens her eyes on mine. “Clay totally disrespected me,” she says. She waits, like, a full minute so what she just said sinks in. “Did you notice he didn’t try forging Granddad’s name? Who does he think I am, Mayor Chump?”