Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The next day’s event is a public teach-in, being held in the Meredith Pierce Center, a small building near the center of campus. Ralston herself isn’t slated to teach anything. She’s much too busy, I’m sure.
Workshops listed on the day’s itinerary include Writing Fiction as Activism, Self-Defense and the Language of Safety, Organizing Across the Divide, Get Political at the Dinner Table, Leading with Love, and Saying Something When You Have Nothing to Say.
The first one—Writing Fiction as Activism—is being taught by Dani. Of course it is. Ralston has a type.
I’d pick it anyway, probably, but her presence is even more reason to be there.
It’s held in the first-floor conference room under harsh fluorescent lights. There are two columns of eight tables, with folding chairs placed behind them. No one looks my way as I slip inside. The room’s already full of eager-eyed young faces, exactly the kind of fans Ralston needs to succeed.
Dani’s at the front, mirroring their excitement.
She looks different today. She’s polished. Confident. She appears to be in her element. Among peers, I guess. She’s wearing a casual dress, her hair tied half up, the rest falling into loose waves. She looks…at ease.
When the clock shows it’s time to get started, she moves directly to the center of the room in front of the projector screen, calling all attention to her without a word.
“Um, hi. I’m Dani. Welcome to Writing Fiction as Activism. Professor Ralston asked me to lead this seminar today because—like many of you—I often sound better speaking with my hands than my mouth.” She pauses, chuckling at her own joke.
There’s a rumble of laughter that rolls through the room, and she perks up, her confidence growing.
“Anyway, I thought we could start by reading some of our work, for those of you who feel comfortable. I’ll start with an excerpt I’ve been working on and then we can go around the room.
If you don’t have anything to share, don’t worry.
We’ll talk about all the pieces at the end and how they can help us shape the narrative of activism today. ”
For the first time, I see what Ralston sees in her. She’s electric, but meek. If she believed in herself fully, she could be someone great.
I wonder if this is how people saw Ralston back then.
She brushes her hair back from her shoulder and gives an encouraging smile, then returns to the small lectern and opens her laptop.
“So, this is an excerpt from a longer piece I’ve been working on.
It’s…well, I don’t know what it is, really.
Part memoir, part fiction, part…nonfiction, maybe. Kind of a hybrid.”
She turns her face to her laptop, cheeks slightly pink, and begins to read.
The first sentences hit my face like a slap: “Feminism that doesn’t destroy societal norms is just etiquette. It’s courtesy in the face of violence. And it’s not enough.”
I sit up straighter, my breathing shallow.
Those are my words.
It’s happening again.
The next lines are a confirmation: “Believing we can change anything by moving within the already set confines laid before us is just a fairytale. True feminism is a call for radical change. It’s being willing to force the change yourself, even if you stand alone.”
I wrote those words sixteen, seventeen years ago.
I can’t remember the timeline exactly, but I know my voice.
My words. It was buried in a blog post I pulled offline after Ralston read it aloud in a seminar and called it “emotionally performative” and “childish.” She didn’t mention my name to criticize me any more than she would later while stealing from me. One small kindness, I guess.
I didn’t bring it up after it happened, and neither did she. We never talked about it, just carried on working together as if it had never happened.
That was when I was still blinded by her.
The phrasing—it’s nearly word for word. Unmistakable. I remember the shape of it, the way I wrote it late at night, my chest on fire, hands shaking as the words flew out of me.
No matter what Ralston said, I meant it. It was genuine. I believed it with everything I had.
I just believed in her more.
I don’t hear the rest. Not really. Just fragments.
I can’t bring myself to focus, my mind in a rush to figure this out and forget it all at the same time.
Everything blurs around the edges of my hearing and vision as a rush of heat fills my head.
The ideas, the language, the very rhythm of her prose—it’s all mine. I feel as if I’ve left my body.
Maybe I’m back in the dorm. Maybe this is all a bad dream.
I glance around the room, wondering if anyone else suspects. If they might know those words aren’t hers. But how could they? Why would they?
They’re all nodding. Agreeing. Eating up her every word—my every word. They take notes, writing things down in their notebooks and typing them into their laptops as if she’s giving them the secrets to life.
When it’s over, they applaud. I’m pretty sure I black out as a few others read their work. I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. Or die.
I can’t…breathe.
The class is a brutal hour and a half of me listening to my breathing inside my head, trying to ensure it continues. Trying to force my heart to keep beating.
When it ends, they thank her with another round of applause. She smiles and waves them away in true Ralston fashion, as if she’s modest but knows she owns this moment.
Thinks she deserves it.
I wait until the room clears, partially because I’m afraid I’ll fall if I try to stand. She’s packing up her things, still basking in the warmth of the moment when I approach her.
“Was that a joke?”
She spins around, confused. Recognition floods her face, and her smile drops. “Lila.” My name is careful on her tongue. I’m a vase she’s trying desperately not to break. “I didn’t see you here.”
She’s lying. I know she is. We both know why.
“Those were my words. My work. Where did you even find it?”
Her shoulders tighten. “What are you talking about? Find what?”
I can’t help myself—I laugh. It’s too loud in this quiet space. “You know. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You read my words in front of a room full of students as if they were yours. You started that story with my words.”
That reality never gets easier, no matter how many times it happens.
She blinks, and I watch the mask slip, just a little.
“I—what? Professor Ralston and I were talking about this stuff last night. We couldn’t remember which one of us said what parts, but she said I could use any of it.
She said I should include it in what I was presenting today.
Those words—all of it—came from our conversation. ”
My stomach clenches. “You can’t honestly believe that. You don’t remember if the thoughts were yours or hers?”
“We’re…very close. It’s complicated. Sometimes we get to talking and get lost in it. The conversation went on for hours, but I knew the heart of what we were saying. And what I wanted to take away from it. It has nothing to do with you.”
“So, it was your original thought?” I demand. “One of yours, anyway?”
“There’s…there’s no such thing as an original thought.” She shakes her head, bewildered.
“Is that what she told you?” I give her a dry laugh, my head throbbing.
“Professor Ralston said it was fine.”
“Of course she did. She doesn’t own it. I do. Those were my words, I’m telling you. I wrote them, and she quoted them, used them to hurt me. She probably knew I’d attend your class. She knew I’d hear you.”
Dani looks away, her voice going soft. “Look, if that’s true, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anything about it. But I believe what I wrote. The words are in my voice now.”
“Don’t you get it, though? You won’t have a voice when she’s done with you.
This is what she does. She takes things we say or think—our work, our voices—and repackages them.
Then she hands them out like party favors to the next generation.
And eventually she tosses us in the trash and upgrades for the newest model. ”
Dani’s face is cold. “You sound insane. And you have no proof. Professor Ralston is revolutionary. Brilliant. She doesn’t need to steal your words.”
I stare at her. “You know this isn’t right. I know you do. What if you’d published that? I have it copyrighted. I could sue you.” It’s a lie. Of course it’s a lie, but I want to rattle her.
It works. She pales, picking up her bag and slipping it over her shoulder. “I’m not getting involved in this. I’ll change the opening, but whatever issue you have with Professor Ralston, leave me out of it, Lila.”
She walks past me without another word, not looking back.
I huff a breath. I won the battle, maybe.
Got her to remove my words from her work, but how many other times has that happened?
How many that I will never know about? How long has Ralston been recycling my material and taking credit for it? Allowing others to take credit for it?
It’s a terrible feeling.
For so long, I checked out. I was too hurt and scared to do anything. Now, I’m on fire. I was asleep for too long, and other women were hurt because of it. I have to fix that.
After several minutes lost in thought, the lights in the classroom shut off from inactivity. I close my eyes, smiling to myself.
I’m still a ghost here. Still invisible.
Maybe that’s exactly what I need to be to finally make her pay.