Instead, she lifted the lid. There were photographs inside. Old belts, tournament programs, two folded white karate uniforms and medals, more than anyone at Riverton would have guessed. Naomi picked up one heavy gold medal. Nia came beside her.
For a moment, neither spoke. 3 years earlier, their father had been 51 when he died. Marcus Carter had left no investment portfolio, no large house, no secret bank account waiting to rescue them. There had been bills, a few tools, his old training equipment, and this chest. Naomi turned the medal over.
Her name was engraved on the back. National Adult Division Champion. Nia reached into the chest and found her own. Different division, same year, same gold colored ribbon. You ever miss it?
Nia asked. Competing. Nia nodded. Naomi thought about the arenas, the smell of floor mats, the sharp sound of bare feet turning against polished surfaces. Marcus in the corner, never shouting.
She remembered winning, but she remembered something else more clearly. After one final, reporters had surrounded them. Questions, photographs. People who had never spoken to Marcus suddenly wanted to shake his hand. Later that night, he had taken his daughters to a diner.
No celebration banquet, no expensive dinner, just three plates beneath fluorescent lights. Marcus had looked at the medals on the table. Then at Naomi and Nia, "People will clap when they think you're important," he had said. Watch how they treat you when they think you're nobody. Naomi had never forgotten it.
Neither had Nia. Marcus had tapped one metal with his finger. Strength means nothing if it costs you your character. Naomi placed the medal back in the chest. After Marcus died, trophies had stopped feeling like proof of anything.
People praised the victories. They did not see Denise calculating rent at midnight. They did not see the family packing boxes after losing their old home. They did not see Naomi standing beside her mother at the kitchen table, promising that she and Nia would finish college somehow. Nia closed one of the old tournament programs.
You know, nobody at Riverton would believe this. That's fine. You don't ever want to tell them. Naomi looked at the medals. Why?
Nia shrugged. I don't know. Sometimes people look at us like, she stopped. Naomi knew the rest. Like they were poor before they were students.
Like their thrift store coats explained something about their intelligence. Like volunteering at Ruth's kitchen meant they belonged in the service entrance instead of the front lobby. Naomi closed the chest gently. Dad didn't teach us karate so strangers would think we were important. I know.
He taught us so we'd know who we were when they didn't. Nia smiled faintly. There you go. Sounding 11 minutes older again. Naomi laughed.
She reached for the blue folder. Then something in the corner of the chest caught her eye. A tiny bronze pin. A heron. Its wings were half open.
Its long neck curved forward. The metal was scratched nearly smooth along one edge. Naomi picked it up. Marcus had worn it on his old training bag for years. She rubbed her thumb across the bird.
You taking that? Naomi looked at the battered Navy gym bag near the door. Maybe. Why? She thought for a moment.
Because it was Dad's. That was all. The next morning, before they left for Riverton, Naomi fastened the bronze heron beside the zipper of her bag. It looked insignificant there. Old metal on worn fabric.