For the next hour, the two women moved through the shop as if rehearsing for a play. Mabel showed her how to walk in slow, steady steps, how to glide instead of rush, how to soften her shoulders while keeping her spine straight. Naomi stumbled at first, her steps uneven, her balance clumsy on the small heels Mabel produced from a dusty box under the counter.
"You trying to run a race?" Mabel scolded gently when Naomi nearly toppled sideways. "This ain't a sprint. It's a statement."
"What kind of statement?" Naomi asked, breathless.
"That you belong in any room you choose to walk into."
The words hit her harder than expected. For a moment, she couldn't speak. She just nodded and kept practicing, letting the rhythm of her steps anchor her.
When she finally steadied herself, Mabel clapped once, loud and proud. "That's my girl. Now, smile."
"What?" Naomi blinked.
"Smile."
She lifted the corners of her mouth, small and unsure.
"Nope," Mabel said. "That's the smile you give when someone cuts in line at the grocery store and you're trying to pretend you don't care. Give me the real one."
Naomi hesitated again, then closed her eyes. She thought of Isaiah tapping beats with his fingers on the floor, of her mother humming gospel songs on her good mornings, of the kindness of strangers at the community kitchen. When she opened her eyes, the smile came naturally—soft but bright, like a sunrise.
Mabel exhaled. "There she is. The woman God intended."
The practice continued. They went through how to greet people, how to hold a small clutch purse ("not like you're afraid someone will steal it"), how to meet someone's gaze without shrinking. They practiced posture, movement, how to slow her breath when nerves threatened to choke her.
And then Mabel said, "Time for the hard part."
Naomi frowned. "There's something harder than walking in heels?"