There’s no warmth in her voice, but it’s not cold either. It’s cautious. A wall prepared to go up.
“Um, maybe. I’m Lila Parks. I was a student here, fifteen years ago.”
She lowers her glasses to look at me, and I feel strangely exposed. She’s really looking. Something flickers across her expression.
“Parks. I remember your name.” Her words are slow and thoughtful. “Did you write a piece forThe Beacon?”
“A few times, yeah.”
“About?”
“Oh.” My cheeks warm. “Um. Stupid stuff, mostly. The lack of pockets in women’s clothing. The unequal division of domestic labor. Reproductive rights.”
“No.” She pauses, drawing her lips to the side in quiet thought. “There was one about how women have been erased throughout history.”
I swallow. Ralston had told me that wasn’t my best. That it read too much like a textbook and not enough like aradical piece of informative art, whatever that means. I stopped writing forThe Beaconafter that. It never meant that much to me anyway. “Oh. Yeah, that was mine.”
“It was good.”
My stomach flips. She’s just being polite. “Thanks.”
“Are you still writing?”
“Not professionally.” The admission stings.
Something settles over the room. It’s silence, yes, but it’s heavier. A quiet recognition of what I’m not saying. I know the truth, and I suspect she might too.
“I, um, I saw you on the panel this morning.” I take a few slow steps toward her desk.
She looks back down at whatever she’d been working on, scratching something onto the paper like she’s finishing a previous thought. “Well, I’m sure Professor Ralston will be glad you could make it.”
“You didn’t clap for her. Or laugh at her jokes. Didn’t fawn over her like the rest of them.”
She jerks her head back up. The smile on her lips doesn’t carry through to her voice. “That’s not really a crime.”
“No, but you may have been the only person in that room I could relate to. The only one who doesn’t buy what she’s selling.”
She exhales and leans back in her chair. Her eyes flick to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit down.”
I move forward and take the seat. For a moment, we just sit in silence, the desk lamp the only thing lighting the dim office. I fold my hands in my lap, waiting.
She could send me away. She could tell Ralston.
No one here would blame her. Or question her.
“What are you doing here, Ms. Parks?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“But you’re not here to celebrate her.”
I shake my head.
She’s quiet, watching me. Waiting for me to say more.
I pick at the skin next to my thumbnail, avoiding her eyes. “I studied under Ralston nearly the entire time I attended Havenport. She was a mentor without ever giving it a name. She said my writing had potential. That I should bring it to her, and she would help me. I was… I mean, even back then…she was a god, you know? I grew up obsessed with her. To even think she wouldn’t be everything she’d promised to be…it was unthinkable. She did help me. At first. Coached me, edited my work. She’s the one who suggested I write forThe Beacon, introduced me to the editor. She brought me with her to lunch with her literary agent. It was…like she had access to a world that had its door closed to me. She was magic.” I stare into my lap. “Then, junior year, I’d gone home for my dad’s wedding to my stepmother. Ralston was speaking at an event in the same city. She didn’t know I planned to attend. I wanted to…I don’t know—surprise her, maybe. Maybe I just wanted to see her inaction again. I considered her a friend. A mentor, but more than that. She was family.”
Bell watches me, her face unreadable.
