For her to have been wrong. For her to have been right.
She turns the page, and my throat tickles. I fight the urge to cough, to clear it. I’m going to be sick…or pass out. The lights above my head are too bright, too revealing.
She takes her time—there is no hurry to her movements as she reads through my pages. A few poems, a handful of pages from a dystopian novel I’m working on. My life. My hopes. My dreams, all in different formats.
Finally, she closes the notebook, and I release a shaky breath, waiting.
“I want you to keep writing.” She hands the notebook back.
I glance down at it, unsure if that’s a good or bad thing.
“You were wrong. You’re good, Lila. You could be great.”
I blink up at her. Did she really just say that?
“If you’d like,” she continues, “you could bring me some of the pieces you’re working on privately. I can help you get better.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve blacked out. My ears ring, eyes water. “I?—”
She smiles, flicks a glance at my notebook, then looks back up. “Sometimes the most interesting ideas need a safe place to grow.”
I swallow her praise like wine. I think I nod. I try to, at least. Her words warm my whole chest. Like hot cocoa on the coldest day.
This is the best moment of my life.
The sound of microphone feedback jolts me back to the present as the applause finally dies down. Ralston steps onto the small stage near the refreshment table. She holds her hand up, still and patient until the crowd settles completely. With her hand in the air, she looks so much like the photo from the tote bags it’s almost as if she rehearsed it.
She smiles over us like a queen on her throne. Perfect. Practiced.
“I wasn’t planning on speaking today,” she begins, then pauses for the crowd, who—on cue—chuckles in unison, as if she just made the most hilarious joke.
If she doesn’t speak again soon, I’m worried they might start chanting.
Thankfully, she inhales and goes on. “But seeing all your faces, your enthusiasm and support, your purple,”—she gestures to the wave of lavenders and violets around her, wrinkling her nose with delight—“I just wanted to say thank you. I have to admit, receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award when I’m still this young,”—again, the crowd chuckles—“feels wrong at times. But I’m just…I’m so grateful for the work I get to do with you.Becauseof you. All of you. Dean Carlyle, my students, my friends, my family.” Her eyes bounce around the crowd from person to person. “I can’t tell you what it means to have you here. Together. In this place that means so much to all of us.”
She pauses, letting the words sink in. “I’ll end with this for now—this week isn’t about me, despite my name being on thebanners. It’s about each and every one of us, using our voices for the common good. I’m just so thankful to be doing the good work alongside you.” She blows a kiss to the crowd as a slow clap starts. “Now, let’s go havefun.”
She whispers the word “fun”as if it’s sacred. Like it’s a new idea she just invented.
The audience beams and cheers, clapping their hands above their heads, raising their glasses of champagne. Cameras flash as she passes the microphone to one of the student volunteers and delivers a quick wave of her hand to the crowd.
She doesn’t sweat, even packed under this tent with so many bodies. Doesn’t stutter as she thanks everyone again, this time without the mic. She doesn’t seem to have a single flaw.
But some of us know the truth. And she can’t escape that. Can’t escape me.
I watch her, zipping through the crowd like a celebrity on a pap walk. Squealing girls hold out their books, and she signs them quickly with a Sharpie passed to her from a waiting volunteer, smiling for selfies and offering kind words of thanks and praise.
“No,you’reamazing,” she repeats, pointing to a teen girl who has tears streaming down her cheeks.
They all watch her with bright, hopeful eyes, and she knows it. She knows her power and wears it like armor—polished to hide the rust only I can see. How long will it be before they see it, too? How long will I be exiled alone here on this island of truth?
CHAPTER FOUR
It takes several minutes after Ralston has left the tent for the buzz of excitement to wear off. The rabid fans return to merely excited fans, going for another glass of champagne, the red in their cheeks dissipating.
The first in the lineup of formally scheduled speakers is Dean Carlyle, who welcomes us and gives a rundown of the week. While he’s on stage, I back out of the tent. I don’t even realize I’m leaving—not fully. One moment, I’m watching him, listening to him talk about Professor Ralston as if she built this university with her bare hands, and the next, I’m gone. Outside the tent. Back to the fresh air. Back to reality.
Then again, nothing here really feels fresh or free or real, not when her name is everywhere. Not when her eyes are around every corner.
