“Our final presenters are Isis and Imani Lincoln,” she says, and my head snaps up so fast my neck starts to ache a little. The discomfort barely registers as all my senses attune themselves to the twin girls standing before me with the confidence and presence of adults, discussing their app Hope’s Map. But it isn’t just their unflappable demeanor or the thoroughly impressive concept of a community-based overdose response network meant to make accessing lifesaving drugs like Naloxone easy and fast in times of crisis that has my attention.
It’s their faces.
It’s their last name echoing in my mind.
It’s the picture of the family they lost displayed on the screen that brings back memories of their older brother Isaiah following AJ through the front door of our house. And once that memory is unlocked, the floodgates fly open. I spend their entire presentation assailed by images of a past I didn’t realize we shared. I attended Isaiah’s funeral, which was the day after AJ’s, and held his mother, Hope, in my arms while two little girls whogrew into the beautiful young women in front of me clung to her dress and hid their faces from view.
Some years ago, I heard the news of Hope’s unfortunate passing due to an opioid addiction that was made worse by grief. No one ever said what happened to the girls, and I hadn’t bothered to ask. Now I know that like me, they turned their pain into purpose.
I don’t fill out a rubric for Isis and Imani, but Reed still agrees with me when I name them as my top choice. He asks me to join him on stage to present the prizes and then refuses to take no for an answer when his team asks if they can get a picture of us with the winners and then with all the participants before the group disperses.
When the cameras are gone and the crowd has thinned, I find Isis and Imani just outside the auditorium with a woman I don’t recognize. The cold stare she gives me doesn’t stop me from approaching with Agents Shaw and Morgan at my back.
“I apologize for the interruption,” I say, deferring to the woman who must be the foster mother the girls spoke about when we met at the high school. Hostility rolls off her in subtle waves, but she still takes my outstretched hand. “I’m Selene Taylor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Joanna West,” she supplies, brown eyes hard with resentment and distrust.
“Ms. West, I just wanted to take a moment to congratulate Isis and Imani.”
Her gaze is scathing as it roves down the length of my body and back up. “Didn’t you already congratulate them when you were up on the stage?”
“Well, yes, but I?—”
She snatches her hand back. “Then I don’t know what more you need to say. Besides, I need to get them home, they have chores to do.”
“Chores? Don’t you at least want to celebrate what they accomplished today?”
Joanna’s head rears back, and it’s clear to me that she’s about to take things to another level. Agent Shaw takes a step forward, but it’s Isis who puts herself between us. Now that I know who she is, all I can see is Isaiah’s face written into her features.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Taylor.” She forces a smile. That ever-present worry line wrinkling the skin between her brows. “We don’t care about a celebration. Do we, Mani?”
“I mean, it would be nice to go out to eat or something,” Imani says, causing panic to flare in her sister’s eyes. Isis shoots her a pleading look, but she refuses to recant.
“A celebration dinner would be lovely,” I agree, arching a brow at Joanna.
She waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Nobody don’t got no money for no celebration dinner. I already burned up all my gas getting them up here. They’ll be lucky if they get a bowl of cereal.”
“A bowl of cereal?”
Rage burns its way through my veins, encouraged by thoughts of Hope Lincoln who never once sent her son to my home with an empty stomach or dirty clothes. It never stopped him or any of AJ’s other friends from eating us out of house and home, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Do you have any idea how gifted these girls are, Joanna? How much work they put into the app they pitched today? Do you even care?”
Her expression answers my question even when her mouth refuses to move, and I shake my head, reaching into my purse to give her whatever cash I have even though it’s clear to me finances aren’t the real issue here.
“I’m more than happy to cover the cost of a dinner,” I say, forcing calm into each word despite the ball of anger swelling in my chest.
“We don’t want your money,” Joanna spits, ignoring the small burst of hope in Isis’s eyes. It disappears immediately, chased away by her foster mother’s words, and all my long dormant maternal instincts come online. The urge to fix, to soothe, to help rising high in my throat and stifling any response I could muster.
It’s for the best.
The last thing I need is a video of me dragging Joanna West through the halls of this building by her hair going viral online.
“Let’s just go, Ms. Jo,” Isis pleads, placing a hand on the woman’s arm and gently directing her away from me. Imani follows as well, tossing me a rueful look over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she mouths before disappearing into the crowd behind her sister and Joanna.
I watch them go, wondering what exactly she’s thanking me for. All I’ve done is upset her foster mother and cause more trouble for her and her sister because there’s no part of me that believes Joanna won’t take her anger with me out on those girls. I take a small step forward, following the ridiculous thought that I should go after them, and Agent Shaw puts a staying hand on my shoulder.
