Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, I step out of Addison Hall and gulp in the fresh air. I can’t place the scent of the landscaping here—don’t know which plant it is that fills the air with such a sweet smell—but it’s one I could recognize as Havenport’s in an instant.
It still smells the same as it did back then. Even in the fall, the campus is sickeningly green, as if it’s immune to the changing weather the rest of the area faces. As if we’re in our own bubble here.
That’s how it feels—then and now.
Like Havenport exists without links to the rest of the world. Like we stand alone.
Ivy chokes the stone archways throughout campus. The fountain bubbles. The boxwoods stand perfectly shaped, never a leaf out of place. This place is alive, vibrant.
That’s what they used to say about her classes, too. Maybe they still do. I’m certain they still do. They called them electric. Intoxicating. Awe-inspiring.
But they’re also poisonous.
Why don’t they know they’re poisonous?
The first panel of the morning is at Beth Hall, one of the old colonial buildings near the Helix Lab. The kind of building that screams power, money, and prestige from every stone corner and gleaming chandelier. The kind that feels haunted.
As I approach, the once-empty sidewalk becomes crowded with people waiting for the doors to open. I check my watch. They should be open by now.
All around me, people zip in between others, calling for someone they know, running to hug an old friend. Everyone is ready. Happy.
They’re all still wearing those stupid shirts.
When the doors finally open, everyone floods in. I linger at the back of the line, trying to avoid being trampled. Once inside, I grab a program with a more detailed list of the day’s events.
“Would you like a Professor Ralston tote bag?” a young girl with a tight ponytail asks from behind the table. She holds one out, dangling it in the air. “We still have a few extras.”
I fight against a smile. Did Ralston expect more guests than have arrived? Is she disappointed in the turnout?
“No, thank you.”
A crestfallen look washes over her, but she recovers quickly as someone from behind me says, “Ooh, I’ll take it!
” The girl shoves past me in a rush to grab the bag.
“Do you want a pin?” She unclips one of the pins from her shirt—one with Ralston’s face on it—and offers it up to the volunteer behind the table.
They squeal in unison.
I turn away to keep from rolling my eyes. It really is this simple for them, isn’t it? This is just another sunny afternoon in this feminist utopia.
I pass through the tall, wooden set of double doors, past a poster that reads:
Feminist Mentorship:
Leading the Next Generation
Panelists:
-Dr. Althea Ralston, Distinguished Professor of Feminist Theory
-Dr. Simone Bell, Professor of Gender Studies
Moderator:
-Danica Comer, Ph.D. Candidate in English
My stomach knots as I see Ralston already seated at the center of the table on the stage. In the seat next to her must be Professor Bell, a woman with brown skin and graying dark hair tied back into a bun.
I slip into the back of the hall just as the lights dim. Shortly after, the room goes silent. A man’s voice fills the speakers.
“Thank you all for being here so bright and early.” He laughs.
“We’ve got an exciting panel for you today to kick off what I’m told has been dubbed Ralston Week.
And so, without further ado, welcome to the Feminist Mentorship panel, Leading the Next Generation.
We’re so honored to have two amazing panelists, Dr. Althea Ralston—”
Cheers erupt, drowning out his words, and he has to wait until everyone has settled down to finish his sentence. Ralston bats their praise away, her mock humility as intense as her perfume used to be. I’ll bet she still wears the same kind of Chanel.
The crowd eats it up.
“And Dr. Simone Bell.”
Twenty people clap. Maybe fewer.
I join in their applause, trying to help.
The man, who has finally come into view now, is visibly waiting for more applause, almost embarrassed for Professor Bell.
He’s a professor too, based on the violet staff lanyard around his neck.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “Okay. Now, I’m going to read the panelists’ bios, and then I’m going to pass it off to our fabulous moderator, the amazing Ms. Dani Comer. ”
Off to the side of the stage, a young woman appears, eyes trained on the steps. She has long dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail and is wearing a black suit that I assume is meant to make her look much older than she is.
The speaker clears his throat again. “I should mention that while other panels and events will have your professional biographies”—he gives a little wink to the panelists—“given that this panel is all about the students, we thought it would be fun if we had some of your students come together to write each of you a little introduction.”
Professor Bell appears unfazed, even smiles, but it takes Professor Ralston a moment to find her smile.
She’s uncomfortable.
What do you think they’ll say about you, Althea?
“‘Professor Althea Ralston is, quite simply, a legend. A celebrated scholar, visionary leader, and cultural force in the world of feminism and women’s rights. A tenured professor and internationally recognized expert, Professor Ralston has not only reshaped academic discourse but also influenced public conversations through her award-winning podcast Who Gets the Mic Anyway? which has topped charts, sparked global movements, and—rumor has it—made a few politicians nervous.’”
He pauses for laughter, which he gets. “‘Professor Ralston’s books, which have been translated into multiple languages, are taught in universities around the globe and have become touchstones in contemporary feminist thought. Outside the classroom, she’s the founder of several student organizations’—it says here they couldn’t agree on how many”—again, there’s laughter—“‘two international advocacy coalitions, and one surprisingly successful feminist coffee brand, She Brews. Many of the programs and organizations she has founded now serve as national models for intersectional activism in higher education. She’s received awards too numerous to list, including the Artemis Award for Academic Leadership, the National Medal for Social Thought, and’—honestly this one might be an inside joke—‘an honorary key to the city of Strafford, Vermont?’”
He chuckles, as do a few others, before going on, “‘Professor Ralston’s life and work are currently being chronicled in an upcoming feature-length documentary, further cementing her legacy as one of the most influential voices in feminist academia. She has been called “a once-in-a-generation thinker,” “a cultural juggernaut,” and “an icon in heels.” A powerful and sought-after speaker, she’s addressed global forums and spoken alongside major thought leaders and change-makers, including Oprah Winfrey, Shonda Rhimes, and President Barack Obama.
Charismatic, compassionate, and fiercely intelligent, Professor Ralston is more than just a professor—she’s a phenomenon. ’”
He pauses, out of breath, and the room erupts. People stand and cheer for the woman who has yet to say a word. She smiles, feigning humility, and waits for them to sit.
Next to her, Professor Bell shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
As the applause calms down and people take their seats again, the man goes on.
“And, of course, ‘Professor Simone Bell’”—he offers her a reassuring smile—“‘teaches Gender Studies. She is a highly respected faculty member who has been teaching at Havenport since earning her doctorate. Known for her punctual grading and extremely organized syllabi, Professor Bell is a beloved member of the department who consistently remembers students’ names and how to pronounce them. She has spoken at a regional academic conference and has been invited to return again next year. Professor Bell is a favorite among students for her accessibility and clear passion for the subject matter. While she hasn’t been published widely or started any revolutions just yet, Professor Bell is appreciated for her quiet dedication, willingness to cover office hours when others are giving TED Talks—’” There’s a rumbling of laughter, and Ralston pretends to cover her face.
Guilty, she mouths. “‘And, of course, her truly excellent potluck contributions. Students describe her as “really nice” and “one of the best professors I’ve had.” Though she is not the subject of a documentary, a group of students once made a short video essay about her for class—and it was quite well-received. In short, we love you, Professor Bell, and you are doing just fine.’”
There’s a quiet hum of applause, and a handful of girls stand from their seats to clap. I suspect the professor wasn’t being intentionally cruel, nor were the writers of Bell’s biography. It’s just that how can anyone compete with the sun?
Dani approaches their table. The first thing I notice is that her berry lipstick matches Ralston’s almost perfectly.
The professor passes her his mic, disappearing from the stage with a final wave to the crowd.
Dani doesn’t say a word. She’s tall and thin, and visibly terrified.
Her shoulders are stiff, both hands tight around the mic as she finally looks at the crowd.
It only lasts a second before she looks away and turns her attention to the notecards she’s pulling out of her pocket.
She seems nervous enough to pass out, and I have to wonder what reason she’d have to be up there. But then again, I don’t really have to wonder, do I? I know why she’s there and who encouraged her to be. Ralston’s smug smile says it all.