Still, the air is cooler than it was in the tent. Damp. I suspect rain is coming, and for a moment, I smile at the thought it might literally rain on her parade. Then I’m picturing her on a parade float, and it’s almost too much to bear. Almost too realistic, too possible.
I wrap my arms around myself and start walking faster with no real destination in mind. I just need to not be here. I couldbe anywhere else. Away. Away from the soft music, the chipper smiles, the photos. Away from the people who’ve turned my monster into their deity. Their savior.
I don’t belong with them anymore.
The Catalyst Hub student center is still buzzing. It’s not surprising. Havenport’s campus didn’t sleep back when I attended, so why should it start now? I stand across the path for a while, watching students pass in front of the tall windows, several sitting at the tables working silently.
I’m not sure why I head toward it, but once I’m moving, I know exactly where I need to go. It’s a feeling. A pull that leads me forward. The door is locked with a scanner for students to swipe their IDs, but I only have to wait a moment for a group of boys to pass through it on their way out. I stick my foot in the door to stop it from closing, going unnoticed.
Once inside, it clicks. I move quickly, avoiding eye contact with everyone around me. Past the tables and couches meant for students to study on, around a group meeting for what sounds like a book club. Around the vending machines against the far wall and down the stairs, passing more framed photographs no one ever looks at. Sports championships, valedictorian speeches, marches through the quad for one worthy cause or another.
My heels echo in the quiet stairwell, then fall silent as I push through the next door, this one unlocked and labeledUniversity Records.
The room is quiet and mostly empty, except for a lone student at the desk, hunched over a laptop. He’s thin with bushy, black hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. He looks up when the door closes behind me.
“Hi.” I wave, trying to look as if I’m meant to be here. “I’m looking for an old thesis draft. Is this where I’d need to come?”
His eyes shift to the laptop, and he nods, starting to type. “I just need your name and year.”
“Parks.” I clear my throat, relieved. “Should be from 2010. Or late 2009. It was for English, feminist theory track.”
His fingers tap on the keys, laser-focused on his task. Then, he stops. Cocks his head. He squints at the screen, then at me. A nervous hum bubbles from his throat. “This is weird. I’ve never really seen…”
I attempt to lean over the desk to see what he’s talking about, but he turns the laptop away. “What is it?”
“It’s…well, I found something.” He reads from the screen. “But it’s not what you’re looking for. Are you sure about the year?”
“Yes.” My throat goes dry. “Lila Parks. It should be titledSilence of the Second Sex: Voicelessness and Resistance in?—”
He finishes the next part with me, “Gothic Heroines.” He nods.
So do I. “That’s it.”
“Yeah, I found it, but it’s not under ‘Parks.’”
My legs go numb underneath me. “Excuse me?”
“It’s listed as restricted by the author anyway, so I can’t open it.” He makes infrequent eye contact with me, searching the screen, but still shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Maybe you’ve got the years mixed up. Maybe there’s another one.”
“I know when I graduated,” I snap, then cool my tone. “Look, that’s my thesis. Who’s listed as the author? Is there a typo or…”
“It just says…” He looks at the screen again, leaning close. “A.R.”
“Ralston.” Her name slips from my lips, burning like poison.
“As in Professor?” He gives me a skeptical look.
“She was my professor. She helped me, but that’smythesis. Who can I talk to about this?” I don’t even know why I need to see it so badly. I know what it says. I know what I wrote. But now, more than ever, I need to see a piece of who I was backthen. I need to remember the belief in justice I once had. The hope for the future.
“About…” He pauses, waiting for me to finish his open-ended question.
“About why my thesis is filed under the wrong name.”
He shrugs, and my stomach drops.
When I don’t leave, he eventually says, “I guess you could try talking to administration tomorrow. Or you could come by in the morning. My supervisor will be here, but…it’s locked by the author. There’s really not much we can do without permission?—”
“I’m giving you permission. I’m the author. Open it, and I’ll prove it. I can still remember parts of what I wrote.” I rack my brain for some of the words, lines of thought I strung together—overanalyzing and agonizing over each syllable that made it into the final piece.
