I find myself moving toward Liza Hall, where they’re hosting mentorship roundtables for Ralston Week. Buttery, warm sunlight pours into the room from the glass ceiling of the atrium. The room is filled with trees in oversized planters and the soft clinking of teapots and tiny teacups on porcelain plates.
Each of the many round tables is draped with white linen tablecloths, and in the center, a tower has been filled with small, triangle-shaped sandwiches and various pastries. The whole thing is meant to be elegant—with the men and women in attendance dressed in their finest pastels, but it’s a joke. Idol worship disguised as a brunch buffet.
The very women this place claims to have freed from oppression are all dressed in uncomfortable heels, with their hair pinned back, makeup pristine.
It’s performance art.
I’m not dressed like them, mostly because I wasn’t planning to attend. But it feels a bit like a protest, and that makes me smile.
I move from table to table, but the few empty seats left are clearly not available to me. At one, a woman with a large pearl necklace avoids my eyes while I hover near an empty chair housing her purple handbag. At another, a group of students wearing necklaces with Ralston’s face close ranks around an empty chair so visibly it’s as if we’re in an SNL skit.
It’s obvious then, though no one spells it out. My name is being passed around like a party favor—a warning. I’ve become someone to avoid, even by those who don’t know me.
I stop at a table titledMentorship for the Independent Woman.It’s a phrase that once would’ve excited me, but the smile vanishes from the facilitator’s face when she glances at my name tag and then looks past me, waving a latecomer into the final seat.
I swallow, embarrassed even by the silence. Slowly, carefully, I back away.
It’s happening again.
Like before.
When I questioned Ralston and the silence began. When the smiles all turned thin. The invitations stopped arriving. My seat—literally and figuratively—was taken. As if my name was placed on lists I never saw, marked with an asterisk:difficult.
I wander to the far end of the room, lingering in the shadows, away from the chatter. As the sessions begin, I watch them lean in close, laughing knowingly, scribbling wisdom into Havenport-branded notebooks.
This is the club I was never invited to—until Ralston. For one brief, beautiful moment, I belonged. I fit in. I was wanted.
And then, with a flick of her wrist, it all went away.
Some days I have to wonder if Professor Bell is right. Is the fight really worth it? Would I have been better off to keep my mouth shut? To let Ralston steal from me in exchange for what she was offering?
Most days, I don’t think so. Today though? I’m not sure.
“They’re so good, aren’t they?”
I hear her voice in the distance, and the sound hits me like a brick someone’s thrown, rattling around in my ribs, making it impossible to get a full breath. At once, I turn. Dani is seated at a table with a small sign:Art as Radical Self-Care.
She’s shiny here. Bright, thoughtful, and glowing with that eager brilliance Ralston always seems to find. She belongs in a way I never did. Fits in.
I don’t even make the conscious decision to approach her. My feet move before my thoughts have caught up. By the time I reach her table, she’s mid-sentence, unaware of me.
Can’t she feel me like I feel her? Like we’re connected by the same invisible piece of thread. The same person, living the same events in different times.
A few heads turn as I stand and wait.
Slowly, her eyes lift and register me. They flicker in warning. In fear, maybe. I’ve caught her here, and she can’t run like she did last night.
“Can we talk?” I say, my eyes locked on hers.
She looks down, cheeks going pinker than her already peach blush. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“I don’t really care.” My voice is sharper than I mean for it to be. “It’s important.”
Around us, the room has fallen mostly silent. People are watching us—not just from this table, but from others aroundhers. A few murmur to each other, whispering in horror, wondering what’s happening over here. One woman at the table pushes her seat back and away from me, as if whatever this is might be contagious.
Slowly, Dani stands. She gives a soft smile to her table. “I’m very sorry about this. I’ll be right back.”
She leads me off to the side, walking several feet in front of me until we reach a quiet alcove framed by two matching magnolia trees. We’re just out of earshot, but I can still feel eyes on us.
