Erased

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Smile. Instinctual. My lips slip without thought. Who decided showing our teeth is a sign of submission anyway? A sign of kindness? A way to say we’re not a threat? In the animal world, it’s quite the opposite.

And what are we, if not animals, anyway?

Still, I smile.

I smile as I sit across from the literary agent telling me, yet again, this story just isn’t the one. Whatever this mystical, never reachable one may be, apparently, I’m unable to create it. My stories—no matter the praise heaped onto them by the same agents rejecting them—are never quite right.

“Anyway,” she says, her perfect blonde bob swaying as she moves her hands to speak.

Her teeth are bleached to perfection, and the slight lines around her eyes only make her look more qualified for this role.

To be the one on that side of the table.

The one telling me, ”No.” “I do hope you’ll keep in touch and let me know about your next one.

” She pauses, giving me a serious, empathetic look.

“You have real potential, Lila. I know you’ll get there. ”

“Would you consider a revise and resubmit? Maybe there’s something I could change or…”

But she’s already shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I rarely offer R and Rs and only when there’s something specific I need changed in order for it to work. This project feels too…out of my wheelhouse all around. I wish I had better news, but it just isn’t for me.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” My lips quiver, fighting to maintain the smile still plastered across them. “Well, thank you for the consideration,” I mutter before pushing back from the table. “It was lovely to meet you.”

She holds out her hand to shake mine, and I can’t resist. She just shot down my dream, just said the story I’ve spent the last three years of my life perfecting isn’t for her, and I’m supposed to be polite? She could change everything, give me everything, but she won’t.

I walk from the restaurant stiff as a board, barely holding it together. The second I reach the fresh air of the street, I release a heavy breath, shaking my hands out at my sides.

It is what it is.

Rejection is the life of an artist. I’ve always known that. Stephen King had a nail on his wall filled with paper rejections. Every book I’ve ever loved, every author who has ever inspired me, was rejected somewhere along the line.

I’m earning my dues.

This has become my ritual for each and every rejection. It doesn’t make it sting any less, but it helps to feel less alone.

When my phone buzzes, I’m expecting a text from Nora—a fellow writer and one of the clients of the agent who just rejected my manuscript.

She’s the reason we had the meeting in the first place, after putting in a good word for me.

Which means she’s the reason I just spent twenty-four dollars on a bagel and a coffee I didn’t touch just to get rejected in person.

I wonder if she knows yet.

I don’t want her pity. I can’t handle it right now. I almost don’t check the notification.

Almost.

But I do.

And when I glance down at my phone, I stop in my tracks.

You are cordially invited: A Celebration Honoring Professor Althea Ralston’s Lifetime of Achievement

My throat fills with the sharp, bitter taste of metal, my breathing loud in my ears. My hands shake as I open the email.

Dear Ms. Parks,

We are honored to invite you to a special ceremony celebrating the extraordinary work and legacy of Dr. Althea Ralston.

The world knows her as a renowned feminist, beloved author, and trailblazing voice in gender and social justice, but those of us who know her best call her Professor Ralston—friend, mentor, guide.

Join us in celebrating all that she is and thanking her for all she has done.

Date: Saturday, November 8, 2025

Time: 6:30pm CT

Location: Phoenix Auditorium, Havenport University

IF YOU’RE AVAILABLE—We’d be honored to have you join us starting Saturday, November 1st for RALSTON WEEK, a full week of specially curated days leading up to the ceremony, all designed to celebrate Professor Ralston’s tireless efforts to improve not only our campus and city, but our world.

Featuring academic panels, a live podcast taping, art showcases, a feminism-in-action teach-in, a fireside chat with Professor Ralston and a surprise guest, mentorship roundtables, pop-up bookstores, a special ceremony on the Equity Walk where Professor Ralston’s honorary plaque will be placed, and much, much more!

Professor Ralston’s work as a writer, podcaster, professor, philanthropist, and fearless advocate has shaped the next generation of thinkers and doers.

From the classroom to the public square, her influence is far-reaching—and this event will mark a momentous celebration of her lifetime of achievements thus far.

(Professor Ralston would be upset if we didn’t mention she’s not going anywhere just yet.)

The events and ceremony will be filmed as part of an upcoming documentary chronicling Professor Ralston’s life, work, and impact. If you would like to be interviewed or contribute to the documentary in any way, please respond to this email with a signed copy of the attached media release.

We hope you’ll join us as we honor a feminist icon whose voice continues to inspire critical thought, bold action, and deep compassion.

If you wish to attend, kindly RSVP to [email protected]

With appreciation,

Rachel Berg

Assistant to Dean Carlyle

Havenport University

I read through the email twice, the words swimming through my chest like tiny shards of ice.

…fearless advocate…

…influence is far-reaching…

….renowned feminist, beloved author, and trailblazing voice…

…feminist icon…

…friend, mentor, guide…

Once, I saw Professor Ralston as the world sees her. Now, her shiny facade is tarnished.

I lift a finger, hesitating for only a moment, and delete the email, anger simmering in my gut. How could they possibly think I’d want to attend? Did Ralston give them my name? Why would she?

I feel sick.

When I reach my apartment, I call Mom, but she doesn’t answer. Probably busy. I need a distraction to keep the centipedes from crawling under my skin, the thoughts from driving me to madness.

Inside, I open my laptop, intent on working on my newest book. I should text Nora and give her an update. It’s not her fault my book wasn’t good enough. She’s been a true friend to me throughout this process.

I swallow, staring at the address bar, waiting for me to give it a direction.

I try to think of anything else, to direct my thoughts anywhere else, but I can’t. I’ve spent so many years trying to forget about Ralston, trying to strike her name from my memory, and here she is, waltzing right into my inbox without warning.

I don’t try to fight it as I open the tab to search for flights, though I do pay the extra for insurance. Just in case I need to cancel.

Just in case I find my dignity between now and then.