"I liked the weather," Tiana said. "That's the part I have to own."
Novah watched them both, roses on her knees. "You can like weather without leaving me in the hallway."
"Deal," Tiana said, and this time she did not look away.
XV.
During dinner, between the salad and the donor woman's question, Rochelle had excused herself to the restroom and stood with her palms on the cool marble, breathing like someone counting measures. A woman she knew from the parent committee—Sable's mother, actually, Mrs. Yoruba, who ran a clinic and never seemed impressed by sequins—washed her hands at the next sink.
"Your Novah," Mrs. Yoruba said. "Sable talks about her like she's a senior. Said she stayed late helping debug a moisture sensor with language a ninth grader could use. That's a gift."
Rochelle managed, "She's always been careful with explanations."
"Careful is a form of love," Mrs. Yoruba said. "My daughter says your house smells like perfume and ambition. Not an insult. Just an observation. Ambition is fine. Just make sure it has more than one address."
She left. Rochelle stared at her own reflection until the red gown looked like a decision she would have to keep answering for. When she returned to the table, she asked Novah—out loud, in front of the donors—"Tell them about the rainfall measurements. The part with the lettuce."
Novah blinked, then did. She talked about millimeters and mulch and how the second graders in the garden club stopped guessing and started recording. Vic asked follow-ups. Darnell grinned like a man watching a thesis defense go well. Tiana listened with her chin in her hand, sequins quiet for once.
Rochelle did not announce that she was doing better. She just made room, and kept making it, through dessert.
XVI.
After the crystal and after the walk, while adults migrated toward coffee, Novah and Tiana found a quiet alcove near a potted fig tree that looked too expensive to touch. Novah set the award on the ledge. Tiana sat on the floor despite the dress, which was its own small rebellion.
"Are you going to hold that sentence over Mom forever?" Tiana asked. "The watching one."
"No," Novah said. "Forever is for fairy tales. I'm going to hold it until the behavior changes enough that the sentence gets lonely."
Tiana huffed a laugh. "You talk like Grandma."
"Grandma liked daisies," Novah said. "Dad told me. Dr. Bellamy remembered."
Tiana picked a fallen petal off the carpet and set it on the award like a tiny flag. "I was shocked when she walked past me. Not mad at you. Mad at the picture in my head where the flowers were obviously mine. That picture was vain. I can say that without hating myself."
"You looked beautiful," Novah said. "You still do. Beauty isn't the problem."