Chapter 21 #2
Once I’m ready, I slip on my coat by the door and jog down the stairs, bursting into the bright morning air with a spring in my step. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in years—longer than I realized. A sort of lightness that seems to have only existed before my heart got bludgeoned.
At some point last night, Mom sent me a text with a photo of her new book resting next to a bubble bath—As promised—which I’m just now seeing.
I smile to myself. The air is cold against my lungs, but I breathe it in deeply. It feels like reclamation, like returning to what I was always meant to be.
Even if the website amounts to nothing, I feel as if I’ve already gotten everything I needed from it. My phone vibrates again, and I check it, expecting more stories.
Instead, I see that one of my social media posts has been shared by an actress named Jameela. My heart skips a beat when I read her words.
They asked. They are listening. Thank you @LilaParksAtTheBookstore for reminding us all that we aren’t alone. Powerful stuff from powerful women. I stand with you all.
She has nearly four million followers.
I come to a stop at once, reading and rereading her message. My body flushes with heat as I realize my post has gone viral. I didn’t think to check it this morning, I was so absorbed in the website itself.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
There are over two hundred thousand likes, twenty-four thousand shares, and four thousand comments. It’s impossible, and yet…it’s real.
I have less than a thousand followers. I never imagined my post would amount to anything, but it did. People are listening. They’re talking. Sharing their stories here too.
It starts right now, with us, because as it turns out, so many of us have just been waiting for a chance to tell our story to someone who will listen. And the more stories that are shared, the more comfortable others will feel coming forward, too.
One brave voice is all it takes to start a ripple, and that ripple can become a roar that shakes the very ground underneath our feet.
It strikes me then, the sad truth in all of this. They’ve made us all feel alone because when we feel alone, when we are told to let it go enough times, we start to believe it really is just us.
We’re easier to take down when we feel crazy.
I finish my run in a fog, my mind racing with the buzzes bringing new stories I haven’t yet had the chance to read. Whatever happens, I have to do something with these women’s bravery. I have to make this mean something.
When I get back to my dorm, I’m breathless and trembling, unable to move fast enough to quiet my mind. Half of me wants to spend the day in bed, reading through the stories. The other half wants to turn this into action. To collect the stories and to demand more eyes on them.
I rush up the stairs and reach for my key to unlock the door, but—
No.
No.
A block of ice lodges itself in my throat, the cold seeping down into my chest. My door is cracked open. Unlocked.
I left my laptop alone.
My pulse ratchets up.
I definitely closed my door, didn’t I? I’m sure I did, but then again, I was still half asleep, with my head firmly on the website and the stories I’d just read. I suppose it’s possible I was distracted and simply forgot.
“Lila?” The faceless voice coming from just beyond my door makes me freeze, quieting all thoughts. It’s smooth as marble. As smooth as all of her lies.
I stand, stomach tight, contemplating turning and running, but just as quickly as the thought crosses my mind, she opens the door, and there she is. Ralston’s wearing a black wool coat, her hair slicked back and curled, and that familiar maroon lipstick. She smiles at me—a viper behind her eyes.
“What are you doing in my room?” My eyes dart to the nightstand, to where my laptop rests.
“Can we talk?” Her voice is calm, but something tells me it’s not a request.
“Did you break in?” I demand. “You have no right to be here. I could report you.”
Though if I did, we both know it would go nowhere. She doesn’t even flinch, just holds up a key. “You didn’t answer the door.”
I would argue, would tell her how ridiculous that is, how illegal that is, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care, and I don’t have the energy. “It was you, wasn’t it? You stole my laptop before.”
A corner of her lips upturns, but she doesn’t respond. Of course she’s the one who stole it. Thinking quickly, I lower my hand into my jacket pocket, taking hold of my phone.
“Why?” I demand. “What did you do to it?”
Slowly, she takes a step back, gesturing for me to follow her, as if I need permission to enter my own dorm. Still, I follow, though I don’t budge to get out of her way when she reaches to shut the door.
She moves around me without a word, unfazed by my simple act of defiance. Once we’re closed in, I start to feel dizzy. Nauseous.
“You can sit if you’d like,” she says.
“I don’t need your permission.” I don’t move, though I know she hopes I will. It would be all too reminiscent of those days in the classroom, wouldn’t it?
She gives an acquiescing nod. “Well, I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“To steal something else?”
She lets out a small breath, and I glower at her. “Not today. You’ve done something remarkable, it seems.”
I never expected to have long with the power of the website before Ralston discovered it, but I’d hoped to at least make it until noon.
She takes a small step toward me, and I jerk away. “Stay back.”
“No need for volatility.” She lets out a low laugh, as if it’s all a joke. As if I’m a joke. “You created something powerful today, Lila. I mean it. You inspired people. You inspired me. And while, I have to admit, I’d have preferred my name be kept out of it, I admire what you’re doing.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Her tone isn’t mocking or angry. It’s measured. Warm, even.
Toxic too, probably, like freshly baked chocolate-chip-and-chlorine cookies.
I will never pretend to understand her game.
“You’re right. I did do something powerful.
And because of it, I woke up to voices. Stories.
Hundreds of them now. Each one beautiful and devastating.
All along, I felt alone because that’s what you wanted.
You wanted us all to feel like we were screaming into the void.
But now we’re screaming together. And we’ll keep screaming until you’re gone from this place for good. ”
She nods and gives me a flick of her wrist, like she’s ready for me to wrap it up because she’s heard all of this before.
“You’ve made me the villain in your mind, and that’s fair, but you seem to have forgotten that I know how brilliant you are.
You always conveniently leave out that it was I who first told you your work has merit.
Or have you actually forgotten? I helped you.
I gave you every opportunity, and you squandered it.
And now you blame me, as if you’re a petulant toddler. ”
Her words slam into me, but she doesn’t seem to feel the anger in them. She stands tall and calm, as unbothered as if we were discussing coffee orders.
“We never had to be enemies. I rooted for you. I gave you the microphone. The space. All of it was yours, and you still turned your back on me. And now you’re using everything I gave you to try to tear down what I’ve built. And what I built alone. I never had the help I so freely gave to you.”
The muscles in my chest go tight, making it hard to catch my breath. “Everything you gave me? Are you serious? What did you give me? You stole from me. My work. My voice. You gave me nothing.”
Her mouth quirks, amused. “Oh, sweetheart. You know that’s not true.”
“You know what you did,” I snarl. “And now, so does everyone else.”
Something dark flashes behind her eyes, and the corners of her mouth tug down, smile disappearing.
“You’re angry. I see that. But I’m not wrong, Lila.
We both know what happened back then. We both know that I taught you, tried to help you, and then you accused me of stealing your words.
Just like you accused Dani, a young woman who had never met you.
Confidence is key, my darling, but self-importance?
Now that is a nasty trait. How many other works would you like to take credit for? ”
I scoff, staring at her in disbelief. “How can you just stand there and lie to my face? You know what you did. I have proof. I have—” I cut myself off, trying to calm down. She wants me to get angry, to yell. That’s how she’ll convince them all I’m crazy. “I’d like you to leave. Please.”
She’s still and stony, then lifts a single hand, twitches a finger as if to say, Just one more thing. The movement is graceful, practiced, and powerful.
“Whatever ill will you hold against me, please know I have none against you. I always meant for you to lead. I thought you’d be the heir to all the work I’ve done.
The platform I’ve built. When you turned that down, I continued.
Because that’s what I do. I nurture. I mentor.
If some people misconstrue my kindness for malice, it is none of my business. ”
“The heir,” I echo, my upper lip curled in disgust. The sad part is, I think she actually believes what she’s saying.
“I was never your heir. I was your project. We were all just patches in a quilt you’re sewing to show off someday—who cares which story actually belongs to which patch.
Once you’ve stuck us with your needle, it all belongs to you. ”