My breathing catches as I try to release it.
She’s here. Now.
My heart picks up speed as I stare at her photo. She’s in the back row, a glass of champagne in her hand. Her pin-straight hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s smiling, but she’s not happy. I know that look anywhere. I’ve worn it so often.
I click the button to send her a message and type one out quickly.
Hey Naya,
This is probably weird. You don’t know me, but I also attended Havenport. I saw you were in town for Ralston Week and noticed you’d studied under her. Me too, a few years before you. I’m realizing there might be some…shared experience between us. I’m not expecting anything, I’d just love to talk if you’re up for it. I could meet you for a coffee or a walk? I’m here all week, so just let me know.
The message will be sent to her Requests folder, and I have no idea if she’ll see it.
Desperate for another avenue to reach her, I open the Havenport directory. Alumni contacts are hidden behind a locked screen, but I still have my login.
Sanchez, Naya M.
My heart drops. Her university email is the only one listed. It’s probably not working any longer. I don’t remember the last time I checked mine. But it’s at least something.
It’s all I have.
I copy and paste my message from Instagram and send it to her email too, with a disclaimer that I also reached out on Instagram and didn’t know which one she’d see first.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Next, I look up Hayden and Priya. If they have social media, their profiles are private. I find them in the alumni directory and send them both similar messages. If they’re here, I want to talk to them. I want them to know they’re not alone.
I want to know I’m not alone.
Then I close the laptop and place it on the nightstand next to my phone. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. This time, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy. For this moment at least, a new breath of hope has filled the space. Heavy and dangerous.
CHAPTER NINE
The next day’s event is a public teach-in, being held in the Meredith Pierce Center, a small building near the center of campus. Ralston herself isn’t slated to teach anything. She’s much too busy, I’m sure.
Workshops listed on the day’s itinerary include Writing Fiction as Activism, Self-Defense and the Language of Safety, Organizing Across the Divide, Get Political at the Dinner Table, Leading with Love, and Saying Something When You Have Nothing to Say.
The first one—Writing Fiction as Activism—is being taught by Dani. Of course it is. Ralston has a type.
I’d pick it anyway, probably, but her presence is even more reason to be there.
It’s held in the first-floor conference room under harsh fluorescent lights. There are two columns of eight tables, with folding chairs placed behind them. No one looks my way as I slip inside. The room’s already full of eager-eyed young faces, exactly the kind of fans Ralston needs to succeed.
Dani’s at the front, mirroring their excitement.
She looks different today. She’s polished. Confident. She appears to be in her element. Among peers, I guess. She’swearing a casual dress, her hair tied half up, the rest falling into loose waves. She looks…at ease.
When the clock shows it’s time to get started, she moves directly to the center of the room in front of the projector screen, calling all attention to her without a word.
“Um, hi. I’m Dani. Welcome to Writing Fiction as Activism. Professor Ralston asked me to lead this seminar today because—like many of you—I often sound better speaking with my hands than my mouth.” She pauses, chuckling at her own joke.
There’s a rumble of laughter that rolls through the room, and she perks up, her confidence growing. “Anyway, I thought we could start by reading some of our work, for those of you who feel comfortable. I’ll start with an excerpt I’ve been working on and then we can go around the room. If you don’t have anything to share, don’t worry. We’ll talk about all the pieces at the end and how they can help us shape the narrative of activism today.”
For the first time, I see what Ralston sees in her. She’s electric, but meek. If she believed in herself fully, she could be someone great.
I wonder if this is how people saw Ralston back then.
She brushes her hair back from her shoulder and gives an encouraging smile, then returns to the small lectern and opens her laptop. “So, this is an excerpt from a longer piece I’ve been working on. It’s…well, I don’t know what it is, really. Part memoir, part fiction, part…nonfiction, maybe. Kind of a hybrid.”
