“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!”

GRAYSON: THEN

Seven years ago

Pittsburgh

I WOKE UP TO THE FAMILIAR and annoying sound of sports analysts’ voices and stumbled out of bed. Walking into the living room, I spotted Kyle lounging on the couch in nothing but a pair of bright yellow briefs.

“You told me you were out of your SpongeBob phase,” I said. “I guess not.”

He immediately jumped up and turned off the TV. “Oh, hey. I didn’t hear you come out of your room. Did you ice your wrist?”

“Yeah.”

“Coach couldn’t get ahold of you, but he wants you to make sure you have the trainers look at it this afternoon.” He bent down and picked up a magazine, then he tossed it to me. “Sports Illustrated dumped a bunch of early copies of it off last night after our game. I think they used a good picture of you for that cover and they didn’t twist any of the words in my interview. You excited about being number one again?”

I didn’t answer him. He only talked this fast and asked this many questions when he was hiding something.

I glanced back and forth between him and the television. “Turn the TV back on,” I said. “Let me see what you were watching.”

“It was cartoons.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Okay, it wasn’t.” He looked away from me. “I don’t think now is a good time for you see this though.”

“Now, Kyle.”

He let out a sigh and clicked the remote. The screen came to life, giving view to a blue tabled press conference and I immediately regretted my request.

“Let’s make sure we’re hearing this correctly,” a reporter in a purple dress said, clutching her mic. “You’re admitting that you lied about Grayson Connors sexually assaulting you over the summer?”

"Yes," Satan's reincarnate, i.e., a girl I'd never touched, responded. She looked at the camera with fake tears falling down her face. She smoothed the sleeves of her creamy colored grandma sweater for a failed innocent effect. "My representatives have asked me to read a prepared statement and I would like to do that at this time."

My blood boiled when she pulled out a set of reading glasses and wiped away more tears.

“My name is Mia Ryan, and this past summer I filed fake and baseless allegations against Grayson Connors,” she said. “On the night of July fifteenth, I went to the Pitt Police Station and claimed that he sexually assaulted me at a private party. I made this claim at the request of a friend who’d previously dated Mr. Connors, a friend who was upset that he was not willing to make her his girlfriend.” She paused to wipe away more tears. “I had no idea that the university would spend weeks and countless resources investigating the matter. I also had no idea that my lies almost damaged Mr. Connors’ reputation and his academic standing on campus. I stand before you to say that I am sorry for what I’ve done, and I hope that you all will forgive me. I also hope that Grayson is watching and that he knows that I am sorry, and that my friend in question was simply misguided in her intense feelings for—”

I turned off the TV. I couldn’t take anymore, and the words, “Sorry, I falsely accused you of rape” were never going to earn any sympathy from me. Her apology would never erase the unnecessary stares and cruel text messages I received over the summer, and it would never bring back the “friends” I thought I had. The only thing I gained from this incident was clarity and the lack of a desire to deal with any other girls on this campus.