“By that time Ralston was massive. When you both started, she didn’t carry the weight. You could’ve done something. You could’ve stopped her from becoming what she is. You could’ve stopped her before she was someone people trust. Someone I trusted.”
“Maybe,” she admits. “But people like Althea don’t have to work for their power. They walk into every room like they already have it. And if you believe it enough, sometimes that’s all it takes. She may not have been what she is now back then, but she was never small. Never quiet.”
Something in my chest cracks open. She’s right. I should’ve listened to Jade. I will always regret that I didn’t. But I can’t just wait. I’ve waited fifteen years, and she’s still doing the same damage she was.
Over and over again. The same pattern. New victims. New women.
If I’m right, Dani will be next.
“If you won’t help me, I’ll do this myself. Someone has to fight. I can’t let her keep getting away with this. I have nothing else to lose.”
Her eyes fill with something soft, like pity. “You think that. But if you go after her directly, you’ll lose whatever version of yourself is left. You’ll get pulled into her gravity, and it’ll cost you. She isn’t worth the fight, Lila.”
“Don’t people deserve to know the truth about her?”
“Sure they do. Deserve to,sure. But the reality is that truth doesn’t always matter. Power does. And the story people prefer to believe—the one that’s easier for them to swallow—will outlast the one you’re trying to tell. Truth is just what enough people choose to believe. They don’t want to believe they could’ve been lied to, duped. And who are you to convince them otherwise? People don’t care about the truth. They care about who gives them the best story, and Althea is selling a story they can believe in. People will come along and try to bring her down—you, maybe. Me, once. Others. In the end, we’ll be footnotes no one pays attention to. They’ll whisper and retell our stories until the edges blur, and no one remembers who claimed she was stolen from, who said she was silenced, or who tried to simply survive.We’ll be specks of dust in the view of Althea’s bright, shining star.”
I nod slowly. There’s an ache deep at the base of my skull, throbbing. “So I should just give up? Like you have?”
“I haven’t given up,” she argues, leaning back and lifting her coffee to her lips. She takes a sip, letting me sit with her words. “I fight my own way, through the students I help, the conferences I lead. I show folks there’s another way, should they want it. I tell people it’s okay to be small. Quiet. You have to find the life that works for you. Your dream isn’t over just because Althea Ralston says it is.” I like the way she says both of her names, because it’s not filled with the usual admiration. It’s filled with disgust. She says it like a curse. “You can still write. She can’t take that away unless you let her. You write, not for revenge or to prove anything to her, but to prove something to yourself. You’ll find your voice again, even if it takes a while. That’s the part of you she couldn’t kill.” She smiles a bit, lips closed. “I’ll bet that drives her mad.”
I sit with that. I don’t know if I believe her—that the writer I once was still exists within me—but I want to.
Bell stands and steps around her desk. She doesn’t move any closer to me, just leans against the bookshelf behind her. She’s watching me as if I’m some unpredictable creature she doesn’t want to spook.
“You’re not alone, if that helps at all. I know it feels like everyone loves her, but there are more of us who know the truth than you think. Not enough to matter, but more.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You just have to decide if your story is worth the pain that comes with telling it. Even if no one believes you. Especially if no one believes you.”
“It has to be. Truth has to matter.”
“Then tell it,” she says finally, with a drawn-out breath. “Just don’t expect the world to appreciate you for it.”
I stand. I didn’t get what I came here for—help, solidarity—but I did get something that matters almost as much. Belief. When one person says they believe you, it’s easier to feel brave. To feel less like you’re on an island alone.
I have to fight, not just for me, but for Professor Bell too. For Jade. For Dani.
I turn away from her with a small smile and walk toward the door. I stop for just a moment, hand on the knob. “You think I’m making a mistake.”
Again, her smile is sad. Distant. “I think you’re very brave. And very hurt. You just have to decide which one is driving you forward. There are things you can’t come back from.” Her voice is quiet. Raw. She looks worried as she meets my eyes. “She isn’t worth losing everything for.”
I nod, packing her words of warning into my mind as if it were an outfit into a suitcase.
Then, I walk out of the office a little less alone.
A little less afraid.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Back in the dorm, I lie in bed, the small, stale dorm room as dark as the night sky. I listened earlier as the partygoers returned to their own rooms, laughter and cheerful conversation filling the hallway. From what I can tell, Ralston’s podcast taping was a raging success.
Then again, I’m pretty sure she could record the sounds of her eating cereal, and they’d send it to the top spot on the charts. These people aren’t hard to please.
I close my eyes, unable to sleep, unable to move. After my meeting with Bell, I’ve vacillated between feeling hope at knowing I’m not as alone as I previously thought and frustration because that doesn’t really change anything.
No one is willing to challenge Ralston. Maybe I’m an idiot for even considering it.
I lean over and tap my phone’s screen, checking the time. It’s after midnight, and Addison Hall has fallen silent. It has a strange hum to it—from the radiators, maybe. Or perhaps it’s the sound of it trying to remember how to be alive. How to function while inhabited. My ceiling fan makes a rhythmic hiccup every few rotations. The mattress underneath me has wire springs that poke me whenever I move.
I try to tell myself these are the reasons I can’t sleep, that I’m simply uncomfortable somewhere new, but I know it’s not the truth. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, pressuring my mind into silence. Arms folded over my chest, I imagine I’m a mummy. Imagine I’m waiting to be embalmed.
