Shauna nodded. “Women of power.”
“Not Rose,” Ryan said.
“But Rose has an almost magical ability to make people like her,” Claire said.
“That doesn’t make her a witch,” Alan objected.
“She does have the magic boots,” Ryan said.
Claire flicked him a dismissive look. “The boots are a prop, not a character trait.”
“I kind of thought the boots were, like, a metaphor for female empowerment,” someone said.
I listened, frozen. Stunned. They were arguing about my story as if they’d read it. As if they were into it. As if they cared.
“Why must power be about waving swords and working spells?” Erinma demanded. “That’s a reductively masculine concept. She gathers the other characters together, the scarecrow and the lion and that... mechanical man, is it?”
“Tin man.”
“Whatever. She unites them. She brings them along on her journey. She’s a catalyst. That’s her power.”
“I don’t buy it. The other witches represent the female dichotomy, good and evil, Madonna-whore. If Rose is one of them, it’s not clear where she fits in. Is she a good witch or a bad witch?”
The old question, reframed—Is she a slut or a victim?—beat in my brain.
“She’s both,” I blurted. They all looked at me. “Or neither. I mean, she’s an ordinary girl in extraordinary circumstances. She tries to be kind and brave and wise, but obviously she fails sometimes. Like everybody. I wanted readers to identify with her.”
“Not a lot of boys are going to identify with a character named Rose,” Ryan said. “No offense.”
Shauna rolled her eyes. “I suppose you hate Mulan, too.”
“It’s the name, okay? It’s too old-fashioned. Like some character in a fairy tale.”
“Sheisa character in a fairy tale,” Claire said.
“You could call her Dorothy,” Shauna suggested.
Ryan snorted. “Oh yeah, like that’s an improvement.”
“I believe we’re getting a little off topic,” Brian said.
“Not Dorothy,” I said. “That’s my name.”
“Exactly.” Claire met my eyes. “Own it.”
“Yes,” Erinma said. “Take it back from him.”
My heart lurched. There was no question whichhimthey were talking about.Gray.Most of them had been at the wine reception when he’d ambushed me, watching us with nearly identical expressions of excitement and concern. But this was the first time there had been an open acknowledgment of Gray’s book. Of what he had done to me and my name.
Myname, I thought suddenly.Mystory.
Take it back from him.
“Fine,” I said. I started to smile. “Dorothy it is. Why not?”
It wasn’t as though anyone outside of class would ever read it. Except for Maeve. And she already thought most writers in their twenties were hopelessly autobiographical.
Around the room, the after-class exodus resumed, a swell of shuffling feet, pushed-back chairs, and individual conversations.
