“People like Althea Ralston don’t get taken down just because someone points a finger at them.” She glances up at the Ralston Week banner hanging on the far side of the room, and I follow her gaze. “They get ceremonies. Awards. Weeks named to honor them.”
“We have to talk to someone. The dean or…or someone. She can’t get away with this. We can tell the truth about what she did. To both of us.”
Her eyes linger on mine. “There is nowe, Lila. Nous.We aren’t friends. I don’t even know you.”
My throat aches as I force a smile, despite the shaking of my voice. “Haven’t you heard? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
She takes a step back. “Don’t be stupid. Ralston doesn’t have enemies. Not for longer than it takes to erase them.”
“Wait—”
But she doesn’t. She’s already walking away, the sound of her steps swallowed by the soft hum of the Catalyst Hub. I watch her disappear out the door, my chest deflating. For so long, I’ve felt alone in what happened to me. I thought my voice was the only one who could tell the truth of it all, but now I know I’m wrong.
There are others. Jade, at least. Maybe more.
The hardest part isn’t even knowing Ralston stole our words. It’s being invisible and powerless while we watch it happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, I step out of Addison Hall and gulp in the fresh air. I can’t place the scent of the landscaping here—don’t know which plant it is that fills the air with such a sweet smell—but it’s one I could recognize as Havenport’s in an instant.
It still smells the same as it did back then. Even in the fall, the campus is sickeningly green, as if it’s immune to the changing weather the rest of the area faces. As if we’re in our own bubble here.
That’s how it feels—then and now.
Like Havenport exists without links to the rest of the world. Like we stand alone.
Ivy chokes the stone archways throughout campus. The fountain bubbles. The boxwoods stand perfectly shaped, never a leaf out of place. This place is alive, vibrant.
That’s what they used to say about her classes, too. Maybe they still do. I’m certain they still do. They called them electric. Intoxicating. Awe-inspiring.
But they’re also poisonous.
Why don’t they know they’re poisonous?
The first panel of the morning is at Beth Hall, one of the old colonial buildings near the Helix Lab. The kind of building thatscreams power, money, and prestige from every stone corner and gleaming chandelier. The kind that feels haunted.
As I approach, the once-empty sidewalk becomes crowded with people waiting for the doors to open. I check my watch. They should be open by now.
All around me, people zip in between others, calling for someone they know, running to hug an old friend. Everyone is ready. Happy.
They’re all still wearing those stupid shirts.
When the doors finally open, everyone floods in. I linger at the back of the line, trying to avoid being trampled. Once inside, I grab a program with a more detailed list of the day’s events.
“Would you like a Professor Ralston tote bag?” a young girl with a tight ponytail asks from behind the table. She holds one out, dangling it in the air. “We still have a few extras.”
I fight against a smile.Did Ralston expect more guests than have arrived? Is she disappointed in the turnout?
“No, thank you.”
A crestfallen look washes over her, but she recovers quickly as someone from behind me says, “Ooh, I’ll take it!” The girl shoves past me in a rush to grab the bag. “Do you want a pin?” She unclips one of the pins from her shirt—one with Ralston’s face on it—and offers it up to the volunteer behind the table.
They squeal in unison.
I turn away to keep from rolling my eyes. It really is this simple for them, isn’t it? This is just another sunny afternoon in this feminist utopia.
I pass through the tall, wooden set of double doors, past a poster that reads:
