She thought about Connie. About Connie in the early '70s, being told she couldn't compete. About the forms of pressure that powerful people applied to smaller people, and how they changed their surface over the decades while remaining the same underneath.
"Senator Hartwell," she said, "I appreciate you calling. I'm going to keep my registration in the competition. I'm going to train for the next two days, and I'm going to compete on Friday. I want to be direct about that, since you value direct communication."
A pause. Longer this time.
"I see," he said.
"Is there anything else?" she said.
"No," he said. "I think that covers it."
"Have a good night," she said.
She ended the call. She set the phone down on the desk and looked at it for a moment.
Then she picked it up and called Connie.
It was 10:47 at night. Connie answered on the first ring, which meant she had been awake.
"His father called me," Mia said.
"I figured he might."
"You knew."
"I knew the type," Connie said. "When you make a move they can't stop through the usual channels, the ones with money go to the source. They want to see if you can be bought or scared." A pause. "Which was it?"
"Neither worked," Mia said.
Connie was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had something in it that Mia had heard only a few times in her life. Not pride, exactly. Something older and quieter than pride.
"I'll be there Friday," Connie said.
"I know. Foss told me."
"I was going to come regardless. I just hadn't decided where to sit."
"Where are you going to sit?"
"Same place I always sit," Connie said. "Where I can see your face."
Mia closed her eyes for a second.
"Nana," she said.
"Yeah?"
"She would have come, you know. If it hadn't..." She stopped.
"I know," Connie said. "She would have been there in the front row with a sign. And she would have embarrassed you thoroughly. And you would have loved every second of it."
A small sound came out of Mia. Something between a laugh and its opposite.
"Yeah," she said. "She would have."
They were quiet for a moment together. The comfortable quiet of two people who had enough history to be silent in.
"Two more days," Connie said.
"Two more days."
"Sleep," Connie said. "Not optional."
"Okay."
"Mia."
"Yeah?"
"The ribbon," Connie said. "Keep it with you."
Mia reached up and touched the end of her braid. The navy ribbon, retied that morning, as she did every morning. Shorter braid than before. The ribbon hung a little differently than it used to.