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A roar. Pandy’s first impression was of how different it was to be on the receiving end. The rush of love she felt. The happiness. And all of a sudden, the statuette was in her hands.

It was surprisingly cool. Smooth and cold, like a cube of ice. And heavy. A crystal sculpture of a woman wearing armor, bow and arrow raised above her head. As if leading the charge into the future.

And then she was standing in front of the lectern.

Two words came to her: “Non serviam.” She tried to look out into the audience, but between the camera flashes and the screens, the room was now a womb of darkness. She could see only the microphones. “I will not serve. Especially not a man. Thank you.”

“Speech!” came a cry from the audience.

She turned to look back at SondraBeth, who was beaming encouragement like sunshine. Suddenly, Pandy found her footing.

“This is so unexpected,” Pandy said into the mike. She held the statuette briefly against her cheek, then carefully placed the Woman Warrior on the Plexiglas podium. As she took a deep breath and looked out at the expectant audience, she realized what SondraBeth had meant in the car about playing Monica: She was the ultimate impostor.

But every woman feels like an impostor, she reminded herself, glancing down at the statuette. Probably even the original Warrior Woman herself had. Until someone showed her she wasn’t.

And suddenly Pandy knew what she was going to say: yes.

Yes to the accolades:

“Thank you for this award.”

Yes to the acclaim:

“My sister really deserved this.”

And yes to seizing the moment:

“I wish—” She looked up, her eyes beginning to adjust, seeing forms and faces. “I wish my sister, PJ Wallis, were here to accept this. This award would have meant everything to her.”

Would have? Did. Does mean everything. She was giving her own eulogy. She didn’t have to guess how she might feel. She knew.

“Most of you knew my sister as the creator of Monica. Or even as the real-life Monica. And while she was that, she was so much more. An artist. A writer. A person who lived and died by her work. A person who gave everything to her work. And, like so many of you who give it your all, she also knew about the struggles. And the disappointments.”

She took a breath and hearing murmurs of approval from the audience, she continued.

“But PJ Wallis never gave up. And that is why this award would have meant so much to her.”

On the screens around the room, a close-up of the statuette, the Warrior Woman’s bow and arrow raised high, followed by a shuffling of images of herself—PJ Wallis—through the years. Followed by that iconic image of Monica.

“Monica!” someone cried out.

Pandy sighed. “Good old Monica,” she said as she looked at Monica—hair flowing, striding across the top of the New York City skyline. “Monica meant everything to Pandy.” Pandy paused, allowing for the smattering of applause to die down, and continued.

“Sometimes, Pandy wondered who she would be without Monica. But then she realized, when you ask yourself that question, what you’re really asking is: Who would you be without a label? And we all have them: Mother. Wife. Single Girl. Career Woman. Soccer Mom. But what do we do when we find that our label no longer applies? Who do we become when our label expires?”

A gasp swept through the audience like a fresh breeze.

“Well, ladies, it’s time to let go. It’s time to let go of those labels. It’s time to let go and let grow.”

“Let go and let grow!” came several shouts from the audience, as the words “Let go and let grow” appeared on the screens.

“Let go and let grow,” Pandy repeated, her hand resting on the top of the statuette. “And while Monica isn’t real, PJ Wallis was. A real woman with real aspirations. A real woman who aspired to what women aren’t supposed to aspire to: to be the best. And to be recognized for her talents. And not by the standards of male hubris, but by the standards of excellence. To be free from the confines of what society and culture say a woman may or may not be. Can a woman be ambitious without apology? Can a woman dedicate her life to her work without apology?”

“And can a woman say thank you?”

SondraBeth’s voice was right in her ear.

Pandy turned her head. Glaring into a white-hot spotlight, she realized the black chess piece that was Monica had moved across the board and was now leaning next to her, clapping.

The audience, Pandy noted, was also clapping, politely, with a sense of relief.

Pandy took a step back. She understood: Her fifteen seconds were over. She turned to look for the steps.

“Hold on,” SondraBeth said, coming forward and taking Pandy’s arm. And then cocking her head as if she had a hidden earpiece, she said into the crowd, “Mira from Mumbai would like to comment.”

Mira’s face appeared on all the screens. “Hello, ladies.”

“Hello, Mira,” the audience called back.

“I am the head of the international feminist organization Women for Women. And I would like to say that after a while, Monica no longer belonged to PJ Wallis. Nor does she belong to SondraBeth Schnowzer. Nor does she belong to even the audience, which is mostly women.”

“What do you mean by that, Mira?” SondraBeth asked.

“I am saying that Monica now belongs to a corporation. She is owned and controlled by an entertainment corporation that decides whether or not and how to make money off this entity that was created by PJ Wallis. I hope PJ Wallis made a lot of money from her own creation, but I suspect she did not.”

Knowing murmurs from the audience.

Mira continued. “We have done many studies that show us that when a woman contributes in the entertainment industry, she is not rewarded justly. Because women may do what they do and be geniuses, but it is still men at the top who make the decisions, including how much money the women will be paid. It is the men who are lining their pockets with the efforts of women. It is men who have made millions, maybe billions, from Monica.”

Close-up on SondraBeth, face as still and proud as the features on the Warrior Woman statuette.

“Wow,” SondraBeth said. “That’s a very interesting take. And here is Juanita from South America.”

“I would like us to consider what men do with that money. Here, they use money to make war.”

“Thank you, ladies,” SondraBeth said emphatically. “It takes a very brave woman to point out how the system really works. Money is to men as cheese is to mice. If you’re missing some cheese, you’ll usually discover a man’s been eating it.”

The screens were now blinking like Christmas lights: women from all over the world eager to weigh in.

“And let’s remind the audience that even though PJ Wallis is dead, it’s still a man who will continue to profit,” SondraBeth said scoldingly. She turned to Pandy.

Every eye was now on Pandy, and the attention was like a blow. And then she felt a rush. Like her soul had literally drained out of the soles of her feet and she was now merely a thin, hardened shell.

“And that is why Hellenor has something very important to announce,” she heard SondraBeth say.

Pandy tried to open her mouth and found that she couldn’t. She realized she was in the throes of a particularly bad case of stage fright, and now all she wanted to do was get off the stage. Somehow, she managed to lean into the microphone and whisper, “Due to the death of PJ Wallis and to unfortunate circumstances, there will be no more Monica.”