Heads bob in agreement. The woman with the pixie cut approaches me, a bright smile on her face. There are delicate lines around her eyes and mouth, and I realize she’s older than I thought. Closer to Ralston’s age actually. “Hey, I’m Stella. I’m directing the doc.”I was right about that.“She said your name’s Lila?”
I nod.
“Well, like they said, if you’re interested, we’d love to have you. We can work it around your schedule. And don’t worry about getting it perfect. That’s what edits are for.” She winks at me, and I find myself wanting to agree, just to impress her.
My mouth feels dry as I look away. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear what I have to say about her.”
The group falls silent. Trey clears his throat. “Oh. I take it you’re no longer a fan?”
“She’s just not who you think she is.”
“What’s that?” he challenges, intrigued.
“A hero, I’m assuming.”
He raises his eyebrows, as if I’m joking. When I don’t recant my statement, he sighs and glances at Stella like they’re wasting their time.
She can’t resist defending Ralston, though. I see the defiance bubbling behind her eyes. “Look, we’re not saying she’s above having flaws. Everyone has a past, right? But…she’s a force. You can’t deny that. Outspoken, a visionary, sharp as hell. Whether or not you agree with her methods, she’s doing important work. Everyone we’ve talked to says the same thing. She changes lives. Opens doors.”
Of course they do.
“But you said it yourself. You haven’t spoken to anyone she worked with in the past, have you?”
That silences them.
The potential sound tech chimes in. “Dr. Ralston was one of the first women in her department, right? That whole generation got brutalized and still came out swinging. That’s why she matters. You don’t have to like her to respect her work.”
I hear my next words before I process them. “If only it were her work she’s claiming credit for.”
Silence.
Just a beat. Just long enough to register the weight of what I’ve said, of what I’m insinuating.
Trey’s smile flickers. “Sorry—what are you saying?”
“You’re not seriously trying to take credit for anything she’s done,” Stella says, eyeing me. “Who even are you?”
I look at all of them, their bright, expectant faces, their expensive cameras, their careful reverence for a woman they only know through fairytales of her own making. She’s right, really. Who am I? Not Althea Ralston, that’s for sure. Just one piece of her story, one brick of the house she’s assembled on top of the lies.
Ralston has built her legacy like armor, wrapping herself in the language of hope, authenticity, and resistance. She thrives because no one ever stops to ask questions. They just worship.
“I’m no one,” I say softly. “You’re right. Not as long as you’re only interested in the version of Ralston you’ve been sold.”
They’re staring now. Not in horror. In confusion.
They can’t believe she could be anything other than exactly what she presents herself to be.
“Tell us then,” Stella says. “Tell us what you think we ought to know. If you’re so certain we’ve got it wrong, we should know the truth, hmm?”
I suck in a breath, studying their faces. I can’t tell if they’re being genuine. If they really want to know, or if they only want to prove I’m wrong. Still, I have to try. If I want to bring Ralston down, it has to be farther-reaching than Havenport. I need to be loud.
“She manipulates people. Grooms them, if you want to call it that. Not sexually or anything. But intellectually. Emotionally. She finds students who look up to her, believe in her, and she makes them feel seen so she can control them. She convinces them to trust her, that she’s going to help them. She makes them dependent on her. Breaks them down so they’ll do anything to stay in her corner. In her light. She uses them—and their words. Without credit. And if they push back, she turns on them. Like they’re nothing. Because you’re right, who are we? Not Althea Ralston. Who would ever believe our side of things?”
There’s a long pause, where everyone is looking at me, then each other.
Finally, Trey puffs out a heavy breath and runs his hand through his hair. His laugh is awkward and polite. I feel the rejection in it. “Wow. Okay. That’s certainly a take.”
My heart drops as if it’s in an elevator shaft. I tried. I failed. They don’t believe me. “I’m serious.”
