Seven years ago

Pittsburgh

––––––––

MY ASSIGNED PARTNER in Criminal Courts and Judicial Processes was making me question Pitt’s admissions process. The son of a retired sheriff, he’d spent our first week bragging about how easy Pre-Law was thus far, and how he’d skated through all the required courses without ever completing any of the summer reading. He told me that he was going to “totally wing” his part of our project that was due at the end of the semester, and when I asked him what type of law he wanted to pursue after college, he said, “the courtroom kind.”

Dressed in his pajamas, he stood at the front of the classroom and attempted to bullshit his way through a mock trial with our professor. With each answer that dropped from his lips, I was thanking the universe that his grade on this wasn’t tied to mine. 

“Given all the evidence against me,” he said, “I would like to plead the fifth.”

“For the umpteenth time, this is a mock arraignment, Mr. Brandon.” My professor sighed. “You can only plead guilty, not guilty, or no contest. We won’t get to the mock trial part until later this semester. So, now that we’ve covered Courtroom Rules:101 again—how would you like to plead?”

He didn’t answer.

“Mr. Brandon, can you please enter your plea so we can move on?”

“This is a trick question, isn’t it?” He smiled, and then he cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I would now like to call my first witness to the stand.”

Jesus ...

I couldn’t listen to this anymore. I held my phone under the desk, ready to scroll through my Facebook newsfeed, but I noticed a new email from Grayson.

Subject: A Question.

I need to ask you something.

—Grayson

Subject: Re: A Question.

My answer will probably be no. Does that help?

—Charlotte

Subject: Re: Re: A Question.

This question isn’t about you.

I’m looking over my description for a sorority’s charity dating auction. One of the lines on my bio says I have a “smile that can make any woman’s panties wet.” So, my question is: Do you think that’s accurate? (More specifically, have I ever made you wet?)

—Grayson

Oh my god.

I could feel my cheeks heating and I looked up to make sure no one was paying attention.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: A Question.

Answers: Hell no. Hell no.

—Charlotte

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.

Your first “hell no” is quite interesting, seeing as though the president of the sorority said you personally helped her write my description last week. (I don’t think I believe your second “hell no” either.)

—Grayson

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.

Stop emailing me before I block you.

—Charlotte

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.

:-)

—Grayson

“I know my rights, Professor Turner!” Brandon’s sudden shouting made me look up. “I know my rights!”

The professor shook his head and closed his book. “You know what? I think I’m done with this case for now,” he said. “I don’t even care that we’ve only met for twenty minutes today. Class is dismissed.”

Everyone in the room quickly packed up their books and rushed toward the exit.

“I told you I would win my case.” Brandon winked at me as he picked up his backpack. “I should charge you a fee for being my partner since you're guaranteed to get an A."

I rolled my eyes and stood to my feet.

“Can I talk to you outside for a second, Miss Taylor?” My professor called.

“Sure, Mr. Turner.”

He waited until all the other students left the room, and then he shut the door. “Look. I’m starting to get requests for letters of recommendation from other students who are—” He paused. “How can I put this? Stupid. Some are even stupider than your group partner, believe it or not.”

I nearly choked on my gum.

“So, I realized it’s that unfortunate time of year again when I have to waste my precious paper and ink by pretending that I’ve had the ‘pleasure’ of teaching students who will become ineffective lawyers and run our criminal justice system into the ground. Nonetheless, you weren’t a disappointment at all, so will you be asking me to write a letter on your behalf?”

“I was considering it.”

“Good,” he said. “Which law schools are you considering?”

"Stanford, Harvard, Brown, and a few others," I said, repeating what I told my parents. "But I may take a few years off after graduation and go to art school. I may pursue my master's in that and then go to law school afterward."

“Art school?” He gave me a pointed look. “Charlotte, getting a master’s degree in art is like telling the universe that you want to be homeless and broke for the rest of your life. That’s not the life you want, trust me. You should go to law school first.”

I nodded, not sure of what to say to that.

“Your LSAT score is impeccable, your essays on criminal reform were the highlight of my year last term, and every professor who’s been lucky enough to have you in their class agrees that you’ll make one hell of a lawyer.” He looked proud. “I happen to know the admissions team at each of the schools you mentioned. Although I highly doubt you’ll have any issues getting in, I’ll be sure to make sure I proofread your recommendation letter.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t do that for the stupid students.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.” 

“You’re more than welcome, Miss Taylor.” He opened the door. “See you next week.”

––––––––

LATER THAT EVENING, I woke up to the sound of screaming and yelling. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and slipped into my flats, hoping this was all a dream. I opened my door and spotted a group of freshmen and a stack of mattresses by the emergency exit.

What the hell?

“Um.” I cleared my throat. “What are you all doing?”

“Hey, there, Char!” Nina, the girl on our floor who had yet to grasp the concept of ‘No smoking in the dorm,’ turned around and blocked me from getting any closer. “I can call you, Char, right?”

“Charlotte works better.”

“Okay!” She shrugged. “Well, how are you feeling tonight?”

“Just tell me what you’re up to, Nina, so I’ll know when I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

“We’re just doing mattress rides.”

“Mattress ride coming down!” The girls in the stairwell shouted, and I caught sight of long, sandy hair flying wild as a girl rode her mattress down the steps. Then I realized that girl was Nadira.

“I see.” I tried to keep a straight face. “What’s the occasion?”

“You haven’t heard? Pitt has the top two players in the country, again!” She gushed. “But it’s really because Nadira said we went a whole week without an alcohol violation. She’s proud of us and she promised she wouldn’t snitch on anything we did tonight. That means you can’t snitch on us either.”

“I wasn’t going to snitch on you for this.” I was honestly tempted to join them. “How do you know Pitt has the top two players already? ESPN’s official rankings don’t come out until next week.”

“We’re not using their rankings.” She bent down and picked up a magazine, handing it to me. “Be right back. It’s my turn!” She ventured into the stairwell and I flipped the magazine over on its front.

It was a copy of Sports Illustrated—the college football edition, and Grayson was staring straight at me with an all-American smile. Dressed in his navy-blue #4 jersey and golden pads, he was holding his Heisman Trophy in one hand and his matching helmet in the other. The top headline read “Number One, Again: Grayson Connors,” and the smaller cover lines read, “Believe the Hype,” and “Why Grayson Connors and Teammate Kyle Stanton (Number Two) are Playing the Best Football We’ve Seen in a Long Time.”

I flipped through the pages, reading what the nation’s top journalists and sportscasters were writing about him. I noticed that there weren’t any direct quotes from him, though. I remembered a sophomore-year rumor about him refusing to speak to any journalists outside of game days, but as huge as his ego was, I found the idea of him resisting the extra attention hard to believe.

Then again, my dad had told me that the second he watched Grayson’s first game, that he was a “once in a generation” type of player but he “seemed uncomfortable with the media.”

That’s probably changed by now.

“What are you doing?” Nadira panted, taking the magazine away from me. “You can masturbate to your boyfriend’s face later.”

“What did you just say?”

“It’s the alcohol talking.” She pushed me toward the stairwell. “You can help me get sober by celebrating with one mattress ride for me, and two for Grayson!”