When Dad is fully gone, Mom will be all that’s left to remember me. And someday, she’ll be gone too. The woman I used to be wanted to leave a legacy, wanted people to remember her. Ralston almost let me forget that, almost took it away.
I won’t let her erase me for everyone else—or for myself.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I walk past the pop-up bookstore selling signed copies of Ralston’s books and the usually empty hallway wall that’s been made into aRalstonMemory Walland covered in photographs and written notes.
The alumni luncheon is held in the faculty library. I’ve never been here before, but it’s no shock it’s as beautiful as it is old—set apart from the student library by the old, leather-bound books, arched ceilings, and oil paintings. The scent of dust overpowers even the smell of the food being kept warm in silver basins.
Mimosas and glasses of wine are being distributed as I walk in alone, the soft hum of voices filling the quiet space.
My name tag—Lila Parks, Class of 2010—feels like a costume, as if I’ve borrowed some version of myself that no longer fits. I both love and hate the girl I was, pity and regret her.
I scan the room for a familiar face, though I don’t know if even familiar faces would want to talk to me at this point. Either way, it’s all strangers in tailored purple outfits and glittering jewelry, laughing as they reminisce and show off their new lives.
I wonder if even one of them feels as out of place as I do.
I hover near the buffet, placing a few random cheeses I can’t name on my plate with a handful of grapes. My mind is racing—doing that weird thing where my inner thoughts become rushed and loud, like I’m panicking and yelling, though I conceal it well. I never remember how to turn that off when it happens.
“She’s still magnetic, isn’t she?” one woman says near the fireplace.
“Oh, completely,” another says with a hushed tone, like they’re sharing sacred secrets. “I saw her speak in Berlin. She got a standing ovation just forsitting down.”
The women laugh.
Slowly, I inch closer.
A man approaches them, making brief eye contact with me, and I pretend to be examining a grape on my plate before I pop it into my mouth. “She taught me everything I know about the patriarchy,” he says. “Without her I’d still be writing poetry about how my ex hurt my feelings rather than trying to change minds. Fix things.”
The women nod their approval.
I clear my throat, taking a sip of my wine. “Sorry to eavesdrop. You all studied under Ralston?”
They turn to face me at once, all polished and attractive. They glance at my name tag.
“Class of ’04, for me. Life-changing stuff,” the man says. His name tag tells me he’s Paul Denver. “Her class was kind of a goof-off one for me at first, one that I took just to fill a space in my schedule. It led to me changing my entire major, though.”
“She changed everything for me, too,” one of the women says, her eyes bright. Her name tag introduces her as Kennedy Martin, Class of 2001. “The way she merged her lessons with real-world applications? None of the other professors were doing that. I still use her strategies in my curriculum.”
“You teach?”
“Not at Havenport,” Kennedy says, her smile faltering. “A community college back home.”
“She’s excellent,” the second woman—Erica Slater, Class of 2001—says, patting her arm. “Also a real world-changer. Like Professor Ralston.”
“What about you? Did she change your life, too?” Paul asks me.
“Oh. She’s definitely…influential,” is all I can muster.
There’s a pause while they wait for me to praise her. To sing the cult song.
“The truth is, we didn’t really get along back then,” I admit, watching their faces for any sort of understanding. Of relief that I’m speaking their truth.
But their faces don’t change. Instead, something in the air shifts. Just slightly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking.
“Didn’t get along?” Paul repeats, as if he might’ve misheard me.
“She was my mentor for a while.” I pick at a piece of cheese, dropping it into my mouth and chewing slowly to give myself time to think. “But it wasn’t a good fit.” I can’t look at them as I say the next part. “Powerful figures—people like Ralston—sometimes they get…insulated, you know? Students don’t always feel safe speaking out about what they experience.”
The first woman, Kennedy, sets down her mimosa glass a little too hard. “What exactly are you trying to say? She, what, assaulted you or something? Please. People are always crying wolf about that stuff.”
