"I'm here," Rochelle said. "I'm late to being sure."
They sorted rice and beans and the complicated dignity of other people's hunger. Novah explained the labeling system without condescension. When a toddler cried near the door, Tiana knelt and played peekaboo until the child's mother could finish signing in. Rochelle watched her older daughter use charm as service instead of currency and felt a pride that didn't need a program.
Midway through the shift, Novah bumped Rochelle's hip with her own. "You're doing it right."
"The cans?"
"The showing up."
Rochelle wiped her forehead with her wrist. "I'm still going to mess up. I'll care too much about a hem. I'll forget a form. I need you to keep telling me when the bedroom voice comes back."
"I will," Novah said. "But I won't do it to hurt you. Only to keep me from disappearing."
"Deal."
Tiana, passing with a crate, added, "And I'll ask about the garden and the reading scores even when no one is handing out crystal."
Novah looked at her sister for a long second. "You're still going to love the spotlight."
"Yes," Tiana said. "I'm also going to love you out loud. Those can share a body. I'm practicing."
They worked until noon. On the sidewalk afterward, Keisha Bellamy happened to be walking past with a canvas tote of library donations—she lived nearby, it turned out, which Rochelle had forgotten. Keisha took in the sweatshirt, the sneakers, the two girls leaning against each other in the mild spring light.
"Dr. Bellamy," Novah called. "Student of the Year reporting pantry hours."
Keisha grinned. "Unanimous faculty vote remains correct." Her eyes met Rochelle's. "Boring day test?"
"In progress," Rochelle said.
"Good." Keisha continued down the block, then called back without turning, "Novah—bring the essay on rainfall to my office Monday. I want to submit it to the district newsletter. With your name spelled right and your mother's email on the permission line."
"She'll sign it," Novah said, glancing up.
"I'll sign it," Rochelle answered, and this time the promise did not taste like performance.
XIII.