Has this all been a trap? Have I been fooled again? Maybe she only wanted to keep me safe and out of the way while the award ceremony went on.
Or maybe Ralston asked her to do it. To lie and to trick me so her dazzling moment in the sun wouldn’t be dimmed by a single shadow. She, of all people, would know how easy it is to fool me.
I just went along with it. I believed her. Again.
Two seats over, a young woman leans across to the girl next to her. “Isn’t she amazing?” she shouts, struggling to be heard above the crowd.
It’s a dagger to my stomach, a ripping of my guts.
I drop the program to the floor as if it’s on fire, unable to hold its weight for even a second longer. She’s a thief, and this is the lie that helps conceal it. A furthering of her power.
Despite the noise I made, none of it mattered. None of it brought her down from her pedestal by even the smallest degree.
Slowly, the crowd begins to take their seats. When they do, I get a full view of Ralston behind the microphone, beaming.
Flashes of light burst around the room. She blinks, waves, points to people she knows in the crowd with laughter. She moves forward on the stage and takes someone’s phone, then turns away from them and snaps a selfie with the entire crowd in the background.
She returns the phone to an overjoyed young woman and then, with that hand in the air just like on the tote bags, she quiets us all and begins to speak.
“I should start by thanking all of you, not only for being here tonight—I never wanted any of this”—she waves off the crystal trophy waiting for her in the center of the stage—“but for being here with me through all the years of my career. You have changed not only my world, but yours, and that will always be the legacy I’m most proud of. Thank you, Dean Carlyle,for believing in me and trusting me to work in this field that humbles me every single day. I am not perfect, and I never claimed to be. I’m learning, I’m growing, and I hope that never stops.” She puts a hand on her chest and looks down, seeming to need to compose herself.
“It feels a little silly to be getting a Lifetime Achievement Award when I am so far from done, but I’ll take it if it brings new light to the causes that mean everything to me. And here’s what I’ll promise you. As long as there is a seat for me at this table, I will continue to serve the hard truths and continue to make space for each and every one of you. A room, a city, a state, a country,a worldfull of empowered women who control their own lives,their own bodies, their own destinies, and their own futures. That was our grandmothers’ dream. Our great-grandmothers’. The women before us who were held back, told what they couldn’t do. The women stuck at home taking care of their husbands, the ones no one ever asked if that was the life they wanted. The ones who walked into a room full of men, where society said they weren’t meant to be. The women who were afraid but did it anyway. The women who couldn’t speak up, even though they wanted to. The women who had no choice but dreamed that, someday, a girl who came after her would. Those women? All I ever wanted was to make them proud. So, I guess you could saythatis my life’s work. And you all are my greatest achievement.”
The crowd cheers, predictably, and I can’t help admitting it’s a beautiful speech. She’s fighting for the things that matter to me too.
Whether or not I want to admit it, there will always be a part of me that wonders if the end justifies the means.
But then I remember what I told her back in my dorm. Itispossible to get what we want without hurting others—to becomesuccessful women without resorting to the same tactics men have used to hold us back for centuries.
The literary heroes who stole their wives’ work and published it as their own. The husbands who called their wives crazy for daring to think for themselves. The doctors who diagnosed hysteria when she was simply heartbroken. The kings who murdered for failing to bear them children. The fathers who forbade their daughters from learning to read. The lawmakers who decided what her body could do, whether she could vote, and if she deserved a bank account. The priests who ignored her bruises and urged her to submit. The media who insisted there was justsomethingabout her they didn’t like.
We have to be better than they were. We have to. Otherwise, what we accomplish means nothing. And our betrayal stings even worse.
I wonder how much of her speech was borrowed. Stolen from some nameless face.
I’m starting to suspect every page she’s ever published was built on someone’s silence. Tonight, these people are here to honor the outline of a woman who never existed.
And here’s the twist. They don’t even care. Not really.
They’ve heard the stories. They know things aren’t adding up. But Ralston gave them a narrative that makes them feel good. All I can give them is the truth. And no one claps for the truth.
The lights flicker, interrupting my thoughts.
Ralston’s mic cuts out mid-sentence. The giant screen behind the stage glitches, then shifts, changes. Ralston’s face is replaced with something else. A white screen. Then a black screen.
The livestream has been hacked.
Then, all at once, images from the website flood the screen. Story upon story, truth upon truth. Emails. Papers. The side-by-side drafts I carefully prepared.
Tears flood my eyes as I read them again, my mind spinning. This time, no one can look away. They can’t pretend it’s not happening.
Then…the recording.Myrecording.
Ralston’s voice fills the speakers as the photos continue to appear, then fade off, quickly replaced by another.
“I simply understand that there are ways to get places in this world, and those ways aren’t always pretty… This has always been your problem. You paint everything in black and white. You accuse me of stealing, of lying, but you choose to exclude the nuance. When two people are working so closely together, as you and I were, you have to know the synergy, the brain matter will start to collide. That we would—and did—reach a point where neither of us knows which idea came from where or who spoke aloud the synchronized thought we shared. You speak of my corruption as if I’m this mythical dragon, leaving a trail of ash in my wake. But you must acknowledge the complexity of our situation. Our relationship. When you spend your days in an intellectual capacity, having conversation after conversation with brilliant minds—it often becomes difficult to discern original thoughts… I can still help you, you know. Whatever you want. How about your book? What was it—fantasy, right? No, dystopian.”
Then, my voice.“How do you know about that?”
