Christine Kendall - The True Definition of Neva Beane

n. 1. small, bowl-shaped containers for drinking from, typically having a handle the two parts of a bra shaped to contain or support the breasts

Nana hates Show Your Secret. You know the store Im talking about. The one that sells underwear. Oh, excuse me. Lingerie. I feel diminished every time I walk past their window. Thats Nana. Its like she just has to make that point whenever she can. All I can say is its a good thing we dont live in Center City so she doesnt have to pass by their store very often. She gets mad enough as it is when were waiting for the bus on Spruce Street and here comes one with underwear ads splashed all over the sides. See, this is why I prefer the trolley. She says it in a low frosty voice, just loud enough so all the people standing close to us can hear. That is not the way I want to represent.

My nanas right about a lot of things, but I guess she hasnt noticed the trolley has ads too. Theyre usually about health care or some other boring thing like that, though. I dont think theres any way of stopping her from complaining, but I wish Nana wouldnt always try to speak for me. Im twelve years old, I just started wearing a bra, I am going to look at those ads.

Why? Thats what Ive been trying to figure out. Its got something to do with having breasts; Michelle Overton, the new girl on our block; and being left with my grandparents while my mama and daddy traipse across Europe on their music tour. Traipse. Thats a funny word. It means to walk around casually. Kind of like what some older kids do on Friday nights when theyre out on Baltimore Avenue looking for a party.

Well, its not really like that. My parents are working. Thats why they left me at home with Granddad; Nana; my brother, Clayton; and my words.

Im into words like some kids are into music or basketball. The way I see it, everybodys got something unique to them. Something that makes them interesting or weird.

So its probably good to stop right here and say which one of those words describes me. Interesting, weird. Interesting, weird. Id say Im much closer to interesting cause I question things. Everything. I dont let anything slide. Its like I have a dictionary or an encyclopedia inside my head that Im always riffling through.

I look words up in a real dictionary too. I have a big one that Mama gave me a long time ago. Merriam-Websters Collegiate Dictionary . I use it to figure out what words really mean, but sometimes words and phrases have double meanings. A woman without a fragrance is a woman without a future. A salesclerk said that to me and Nana yesterday when we were walking through Macys. Nana snatched me away so fast she almost tore my arm off. I knew she wasnt mad at me, though. She was, how would they say it on TV? Overcome by the circumstance. Like the time I told Kira Reynolds off for making fun of the gap between my friend Jamilas teeth.

Jamilas mamas African American, like me, and her paapa , her word for daddy, is from Ghana. Jamila Akosua Mensah. My girl is beautiful inside and out. Ahouf3 . Thats how you say beautiful in Twi. Thats one of the languages they speak in Ghana.

Me and Jamila start off every summer morning in the same way. We sit on our front porch and figure out what we feel like doing that day. Now, if my mama wasnt in Amsterdam (thats in Holland) Id be with her, but Im not. Shes not here, that is. So Im not with her.

Isnt it time to pick the berries? Jamila asks. The raspberries in the front yard garden of our three-story Victorian house are in bloom and their little red heads peek out from prickly green leaves. Theyve been like that for a few days already. Jamila grins when she asks the question, and I see the dimple in her right cheek. Thats how I know she wants to do some gardening. Get her hands in the dirt , as Nana would say. Im thinking about how much I like wearing my new bra so it takes me a little minute to focus on the garden, although the tomato, zucchini, and cucumber plants look peaceful in the early-morning light.

Huh, Neva, Jamila says, poking me in my side. The garden. Ask your nana if I can help out.

Thats Jamila. She likes eating the stuff we grow and shes willing to work for it too. She doesnt try to take advantage of other people like some folks do. I give her a playful slap on the shoulder to show my appreciation.

Across the street Michelle Overton steps out in a bikini. A sarong is knotted at her waist so we cant see her butt but her breasts are on full display in her demi-cup halter top. Shes two years older than us but even two years cannot account for all that. Shes hot and happening like that ad I saw on the casino bus last week.

Now, Im not trying to say I understand why anybody would waste their money gambling, but Granddad says some people are addicted to it. That means theyd go to the casino no matter what so I dont see why the people who run the casinos have to put the ads with women with hardly any clothes on flat out on the side of their bus. I guess they want to make sure nobody slips away to put their money in the bank or do something else good with it, like donate to charity.

Jamila leans over the porch railing and looks down at the beetles in our garden. Me? I cant stop looking at Michelle. How can she prance around the neighborhood like that? Whenever Jamila and I walk the four blocks over to the swim club we wear shorts and T-shirts over our bathing suits.

These raspberries need to be picked, says Jamila, holding her braids to one side. Her auntie runs an African braiding salon up on Fifty-Second Street so Jamilas hair always looks good. Thats the best way to get rid of beetles.

How do you know? I ask, but my eyes are still locked tight on Michelle. For real. She doesnt just walk down her front steps. Uh-uh. Miss Thang descends like a goddess. Her light brown skin is tanned to a rich, dark sheen. That girl is spending a lot of time at the swim club. She smiles at me and Jamila but she doesnt say anything.

Jamila scoots off the porch down onto our front steps. She reaches way over into the garden and picks up one of the beetles. Cute, isnt it?

Cute is totally the wrong word for this moment. Were cute. Michelles something else.

Jamila finds a twig by the side of the steps and sticks it down in the raspberry patch. She waits until a few beetles climb up on it before raising the twig to eye level.

I just want a closer look, she says, cupping her free hand around the twig.

Im peeking down the front of my WEST PHILLY T-shirt. My bra doesnt have demi-cups and Nana would rather walk twenty miles on bad backcountry road (another one of her sayings) before shed let me get one. Even if I could fill it.

I can see youre distracted, Jamila says without turning around.

What? Shes got eyes in the back of her head like old people?

My girl faces me and coaxes her dimple out again, except this time it doesnt work. Somethings changed.

Jamilas grin fades and she puts the twig back down in the garden. Who cares about Michelle? she says. I have other things to worry about.

I care about Michelle and my brother, Clayton, does too. Hes sixteen and hes a lifeguard at the swim club. He comes and goes as he pleases. Well, he tries to. He and Granddad have been going at it about his music, his curfew, his friends. Basically everything but especially politics or social activism as Clay calls it. He feels bad whenever we pass homeless people standing outside Mariposa Food Co-op. You can see it in his eyes. He cant just walk by them like they dont exist like other so-called neighbors do. And hes worried about all the people in our neighborhood who came here from other countriesVietnam, Liberia, Ethiopia. We have it all right here. And we have Michelle too. Michelle.