Erased

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I don’t go directly back to the dorm. Instead, I stop by the Prism Gallery, where today’s event is being held. It’s an art exhibit called She Rewrote Our Story.

I couldn’t have come up with a more fitting title if I tried.

A lilac poster sits atop an easel, welcoming everyone. Behind it there’s a line of women—students, faculty, and alumni—all dressed in varying shades of purples. They sip cucumber water from stemless glasses being passed out by passing waiters and talk in soft tones.

Inside the atrium, the gallery space glows with clear adoration for the woman we’re all here to celebrate.

From one artist, there are paintings of women with mouths open in song.

From another, there’s a series of black-and-white photographs showing typewriters with various objects resting on the keys—the points of heels, the smashed end of a tube of lipstick, a broken bottle of perfume, a half-burned bra, an IUD.

Another installation features a looped projection of a woman’s silhouette joined by others—dozens at first, then hundreds and thousands, as it slowly dissolves into handwritten notes about society’s expectations of women and girls.

A small crowd gathers next to this one, watching. I catch a bit of conversation near it:

“She said this piece was inspired by Professor Ralston’s ‘Letter to My Young Sisters.’ It’s devastating, isn’t it?”

Each placard, each quote, each breath in this place is devoted to her, honoring and thanking her for everything she’s done for us—her sisters.

Everywhere I look, her folklore blooms unchecked. I weave through clusters of attendees and try not to catch their eyes, try not to imagine what they’d say if I dared tell them the truth, shattering the mirage.

Probably nothing, honestly. They’d either accuse me of lying outright or use the same tired excuse. She’s a complex figure.

Women can never win.

Haters gonna hate.

There’s room for nuance in her legacy.

Her good far outweighs her bad.

There’s no perfect person, only one who tries.

I feel as if I’m going to be sick as I weave through the crowd, hands clenched into fists, face stoic. I have to blend in. In the corner, there’s a wall of framed work. Poems inspired by Ralston.

I scan a few, printed in black-and-gold cursive.

Mother—because she fought for my future without knowing my name

Sister—because now we fight side by side for the same justice

Friend—because she gave me a word for my struggles, told me I wasn’t alone

Hero—because she never asked for anything, only for the world to be kinder to us all

And another.

She names the wound and the woman,

Calls the blood and pain a beginning,

teaches us how to stitch our own skin shut while never giving up the fight

And another.

Ralston.

R is for Redefining what it means to be a woman

A is for All of us or none of us

L is for a Lifetime fighting for people she will never meet

S is for the Sisterhood she built for us, reminded us of

T is for the Top of the mountain, reaching down to help us with our climb

O is for One chance to leave this world better than we found it

N is for Never giving up or in

I hate it. I hate this. My eyes burn as I turn away, throat aching and preparing to leave, when someone in the crowd shrieks. A cheer follows. Then applause.

My heart drops even before I see her. I know what the sound means.

Ralston has arrived.

She walks in like she’s the freaking queen, as if she’s been delivered to us straight from the heavens.

Arms outstretched as if planning to embrace us all at once, she’s dressed in a tailored mauve coat that falls perfectly around her ankles.

Her blonde hair is pinned back behind her ears, curled up at the ends so she looks like a fifties housewife.

Her lipstick is maroon today, a shade I remember as one of her favorites.

I found the tube on her desk one day and memorized the name.

After class, I went out and bought one of my own, though I’d never bought a fifty-six-dollar tube of lipstick before, and the shade was always too warm for my complexion. Anything to feel closer to her.

Across the room, she moves forward, and the crowd parts as if by instinct, no one taking their eyes off of her. Phones go up. A volunteer rushes over to her, passing a mic.

I hang back, wanting to leave, to be anywhere but here, and yet…I can’t look away. She’s still magnetic to me, even as I burn with hatred.

She raises her arms, the charms of her bracelets chiming like music. Then she lowers the mic to her lips and takes a small breath. “A room full of witches,” she says, winking. Beaming. “Oh, how the world would love to burn us.”

They howl like wolves—with laughter and cheers.

I’ve heard her speak hundreds of times, but it wasn’t until I saw her for who she is that I really started listening to her words. Questioning them. Wondering where she got them.

“My darlings, thank you for being here. Truly, I’m touched by this beautiful art, by your beautiful stories and words and paintings.

I want you to know that each and every one of you in this room—you’re why I do what I do.

You’re why—so long ago when I came to this campus for the first time with no idea what I could do or if my voice would ever matter—you are the reason I took a chance.

The reason I wrote. The reason I spoke. I didn’t know if anyone would listen, but what I did know was that I’d come from a lineage of women—not just bloodlines—who fought for me to be here.

Women who believed in a future different from the ones they were suffering through.

A future where women choose their own paths.

Own their own fates. Their own lives. And I wanted to make those women—those dreamers, hopers, and doers—proud.

My inheritance was my unwillingness to give up or to obey society’s rules and expectations of me.

I had no idea back then what my life would look like, and I never imagined that I’d be standing here alongside some of the most brilliant artists, creatives, and world-changers.

That together we’d reclaim what it means to be a woman, living by our own standards and not anyone else’s. ”

They cheer, and she waits until they settle down before going on.

“But, folks, our work is far from done. We’re here today to celebrate, not just me, but the amazing talent in this room.

And celebration is necessary, of course.

Of course. But when this is over, we return to the battlefield.

Together. We keep the fire alive for the next generation.

We make it better for them. For your daughters.

” She smiles at a young girl in the crowd, approaches her slowly.

When she gets close, she bends down next to the young girl and holds out her hand.

The girl looks up at her mom, who nods. “Go ahead.”

“What’s your name, doll?” Ralston asks.

“Alexandra.”

Ralston’s eyes shine at her. “Alexandra, do you know that every woman in this room is fighting for you?”

More cheers, more applause. I swallow. It’s magical, the way she works. It’s almost possible to forget what lurks underneath.

The girl gives a bashful grin and looks at her mom again. Ralston rubs the girl’s cheek with her thumb before standing, warm as ever. Fake as ever.

She casts an arm out, pointing to the girl.

“Our work is to fight for her. For every girl. Our daughters, granddaughters, sisters. So that she can walk home alone without fear. She can jog in the park safely. So she can enjoy her job. Her family. Her healthcare. Her life. We fight for her, so that someday, some little girl might not need to fight anymore.”

The applause is thunderous in seconds, and it only grows. Eventually, someone takes the mic from Ralston as she moves to the first exhibit, the crowd following her like a swarm of bees.

I scan the masses, searching for a single face that doesn’t seem to be under her spell, but there are none. And can I blame them? She says all the right things. It doesn’t matter to them that it’s all a lie.

As the crowd moves, a familiar face near the back of the crowd jumps out at me. Dani.

She’s lingering back away from the group, her long, dark hair piled messily on top of her head, brow furrowed. I push through the crowd on autopilot until I’m standing next to her, not entirely aware I moved from my original spot.

“Dani.”

She turns, and her smile fades into caution. Anger, maybe. Annoyance, probably. “Lila. Hi.”

“I found it,” I tell her. “The draft of my blog. It’s timestamped. I can prove I was telling the truth yesterday.”

Her eyes widen. “You didn’t need to look for it. I’m changing my draft, okay? Completely reworking it. So we can all just move on.”

“You don’t…you don’t even want to see it? Don’t you want to know she was setting you up?”

“Does it matter? It was a sentence or two. She probably doesn’t even know she did it.”

“She knows,” I argue. “And I think you know that. I think it’s what you’re afraid of. Realizing she’s not who she says she is, because somehow that might mean you aren’t who she says you are.” I didn’t realize I had that thought until it came rushing out of me.

For the first time, I think that’s exactly what it is. And what it was for me back then.

If I even considered that Jade could be right, then everything Ralston said about me might not be true. That I was brilliant, special, formidable. And I couldn’t live with that possibility. I needed her to be right.

And Jade to be wrong.

Dani’s eyes go soft, and something in me steadies, a single thread of new hope. Something to tug on.

“She doesn’t get to define you.” I push on. “Not unless you let her. I can show you proof, not just about this, but about all the other women she’s done this to. There are others, and you’ll be next. Let us help you.”

She swallows, looking away. “I—”

“Dani!” Ralston’s voice cuts through the air, interrupting whatever she was going to say.

When I turn, she’s looking directly at me rather than Dani, her eyes sharp as ever. Her smile is wide, all too-white teeth.

“There you are,” she says, walking toward us, eyes back on Dani as if I’ve gone invisible. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Dani straightens as Ralston’s hand closes on her arm. “I got mixed up in the crowd.”

Ralston’s manicured fingers twitch on Dani’s skin before she releases her.

“I need you by my side at these things; I told you. You’re the only one who keeps me from losing my head most days.

” She casts a laugh back toward the onlookers, moving between us and cutting me off from Dani’s vision completely.

“Besides, I want you to look at this piece. I’d like to consider it for a permanent installation and wanted to get your opinion.

” She looks toward the crowd again. “Dani has such a discerning eye. I trust her implicitly.”

Like that, the warmth in their gazes once reserved for only Ralston is shared with Dani. She’s welcomed into the fold, even if there’s a bit of jealousy hiding in the wings.

Ralston pulls her away with a quick, cutting glance in my direction.

Then, when there’s enough distance between us, she stops, turning back.

Her eyes flash, staring at me as if I’m a stain, then quickly warm to mock surprise.

“Oh, Lila! I didn’t realize you were still here.

Someone told me you had to leave. Have you finally decided to open yourself up to the world of art?

I know that was never your thing.” She clicks her tongue with pity.

“You much preferred rage-typing blog posts, if I remember correctly.” There’s a quick shrug of her shoulder.

“Then again, we all have our places in this war. I’m glad you’re here. ”

People are watching our interaction with concern, no one seeming sure what to make of it. A polite ripple of uncomfortable laughter passes around the room.

I swallow hard. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy art, Althea. Our tastes just differ. I always preferred truth to fiction, but that was never really your forte, was it?”

Her smile flickers, becomes more of a grimace. A growl. They can’t see the change, but I do. “Time and place, dear. Sometimes we all just need to escape.” She turns back to Dani. “Let’s walk, shall we? It’s right over here.”

Dani looks at me once, and I nod. She doesn’t need my permission to walk away, but I know she doesn’t have a choice right now. She needs to go, even if it stings. Even if I almost had a chance to bring her to my side.

As she disappears into the crowd with Ralston, the swarm moving to look at a sculpture of Ralston made up of many manicured hands, I feel a thread in my chest snap.

I stand there for longer than I should, watching, surrounded by poetry written in her honor, art paying tribute to her wisdom, videos of women’s silhouettes shaped into her quotes as if by a hypnotist. Everyone here is sure they’re seeing the truth.

Every artist honoring her believes she is what she promises to be.

I press a hand to my stomach and force out a breath through the nausea. I’m outnumbered and overpowered, but I’m not giving up. I can’t.

When Ralston meets my eyes from across the room, almost by accident, there’s an understanding there. A warning.

She won’t let me win, but she can’t stop me from trying.

For now, that’s enough.