The blood drains from my face. “Of course not. I just mean I saw parts of her I didn’t like. Parts that weren’t so honest.”
Now the silence in the room is very real. Even people who aren’t part of our conversation have paused theirs to listen.
Kennedy takes a step toward me. She’s tall, probably five foot nine or five foot ten, and towers over me. “Professor Ralston pushed us because she believed in us. All of us. That’s what great professors do. They don’t coddle. They don’t care about your feelings.”
I swallow, my heart racing in my chest. “I…I’m not talking about coddling. I never?—”
Erica moves in closer too, her fingers running across the string of pearls on her neck. “Are you the student who tried to file a complaint against her?” She eyes my name tag. “Hmm, 2010…that was around that time, wasn’t it?”
I go still. How would they know about that? They were long gone by then.
Kennedy nods. “She mentioned it in one of her books. I remember. Said one of her students misinterpreted mentorship for manipulation. Said it was sad, because it made her second-guess working so closely with students in the future. One bad apple ruined it for everyone.”
Erica agrees. “She called it nonsense, calledyounonsense. Said you were petty and childish. And here you are, proving her right.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s not nonsense. I’m not lying. You don’t even know what happened back?—”
Kennedy shakes her head, cutting me off. “You’re young. You don’t understand legacy yet. Or gratitude. You don’t know what a gift she gave you, what some of us would’ve done to get the same.” She sneers at me. “You’re ungrateful.”
Paul is quick to agree. “Honestly, it’s pathetic. What did you think was going to happen? She works so hard to get no thanks and then you come here and try to ruin the one week where she’s getting properly honored. The week sheearned.”
I can’t get a word in before Erica adds, “Your generation is all the same. Shemadeyou, fought for you, let you stand on her shoulders, and now you’re too busy biting the hand to take a minute and realize what you owe her. What we all owe her.”
I open my mouth to argue, but no words come. What would I even say?
“People like Professor Ralston don’t come around twice. To even be breathing the same air as she does—consider yourself lucky,” Kennedy says.
I set down my plate, then my drink. Without another word, I leave before I cry in front of them or embarrass myself further. I shove past the buffet, hearing their soft laughter echoing through the corridor as I disappear down it.
The door slams behind me.
Outside, my heels click too loudly against the brick path as I walk back to my dorm. The air is cold and still, too quiet.
They were never going to listen. I don’t know why I thought any differently. I don’t know why I keep expecting—hoping for—a different outcome.
It was always going to be Ralston versus me.
Everyone else here came to drink, reminisce, and bask in Ralston’s glow. I’m a virus on the campus, unwelcome and barely tolerated. At least, for now.
Soon, I will be cut out completely.
She said it was sad.That’s what they said. That’s what Ralston said about me, among other things. She tried to use me as a reason she might not work closely with students in the future. She tried to turn the world against me without even giving them my name.
The anger sits in my throat, hot and sharp as bile.
When I reach Addison Hall, I climb the stairs two at a time. It’s quiet now. Most people are out at some event or another. I think, aside from the alumni luncheon, there was a guided walking tour around the city of some of Ralston’s favorite spots, places that have been mentioned in her books and on her podcast. The café where she arranged a sit-in to support breastfeeding mothers. The building where she drew a crowd to prevent the city from painting over a mural that has been here for years. The bookstore she saved from ruin with a book signing and a donation.
The door to my dorm creaks as I push it open and flip on the light.
Something’s off.
The feeling is strong, impossible to ignore. I stand, frozen in place, scanning the room. My bed’s untouched, notebook still resting on my desk. Nothing looks broken. My small pile ofmakeup is still on the nightstand, though the handheld mirror has fallen to the floor.
I do a double-take, my heart stopping when my gaze washes over the nightstand again.
No.
No. No. No. No. No.
