Sarina came back and held me daily.
Brittany became a fixture at my place, ranting and raving, listening to rough draft after rough draft of my book without complaint, and making turkey sandwiches.
One night after she’d done a shift with Frank, she popped over to my place with pillow and homework in hand. We lay side by side in my bed while Britt stroked my hair, curling it behind my ear as we talked about our dreams.
“Frank says he got every last frame of you off the Internet. Cost him a mint, but worth it, ’cause he knows what you’re doing for us.”
“It’s just a book,” I said. “One book.”
“Babe, you’re leaving this school and this state with a scarlet letter on you because of us. I know what you’re going to do at the next stop—more of this do-gooder shit for the porn stars. You got that dreamy look in your eyes. I can see it; you’re not done.”
When I said her name, it came out on a choke and a sob.
Brittany let out a little huff. “Don’t get all pansy on me. I’m gonna do my movies and graduate with honors. Go to law school, and take on civil liberties and crap. Your girl Shelby has me all kinds of wound up now. We may go to law school together. And then you and me are going to do some big project together. You’ll interview me on TV.”
I kissed her cheek and snuggled against her chest. We fell asleep like I’d dreamed about sleeping with my blood sisters for years.
Catie
Over the next few weeks, the only times I ventured in or out of my building, I had to force my way through a barrage of media people camped outside. “No comment,” were about the only words I muttered as I gathered the rest of the research I needed, and the media’s reaction was now a crucial part of the package.
After the phone change, I’d had zero contact with Blane or anyone on the team. Begrudgingly, I gave my mom and sisters my new number, but they only used it to berate me or rub my nose in shit.
“Told you, you’d make a mess,” Clara had said, her tone condescending and indignant.
And if my mom could spit through the phone, she would have.
My dad—my rock—had taken a gentle approach. He told me to call when I was ready or needed him.
The school allowed me to finish up the credits I’d paid for, but I did appear before a judicial board, who decided this would be my last trimester at Hafton. Apparently my conduct had broken some type of ethics clause, but not because it was pornography. I’d argued freedom of speech and expression, and they had conceded on that issue.
No, I was being tossed out on my butt because they believed I’d done pornos with “malicious intent” and to “deceive the women’s studies program.” The judicial board didn’t take too kindly to my “personal crusade to go against Professor Stanwick.”
Fuck ’em.
Coach Conley made a statement to the school paper. “Yes, Ms. Presto is a fan of the team and was friends with several members, but we had no prior knowledge of her illicit activities.”
Professor Stanwick commented in an article in USA TODAY. “She was a student in our program, but not of the caliber we’ve come to expect at Hafton. She was released when she went on this rogue and illicit mission.”
Shelby was quoted in the local paper as a character witness. “I was with Caterina when the news broke. She’s a good woman who wants to defend the rights and actions of other women.”
As the season rolled on, Hafton continued to win. But Blane was questioned at almost every press conference about the nature of our relationship. The questions always went something like this:
“Mr. Steele, what do you think of the illicit actions of Caterina Presto, a.k.a. Ariel Stone? You were seen with her several times before it broke. Did you know? Were you a part of that world?”
There was one word synonymous with my name these days. Illicit. My actions and I were illicit, dubious, dirty, and disgusting.
I didn’t dare show my face inside the field house, even sneaking around. My phone pinged with an alarm every time the guys stormed the court, and I caught every game on the Internet. I was lucky Hafton streamed the games for students who weren’t lucky enough to get seats in the student section.
Toward the end of February, I sat alone in my studio apartment and watched the team clinch the conference title on national TV. They’d been favored, going into the game with a twenty-five and three record. It was the best record in Hafton history, even better than when Tiberius Jones and Jamel Lincoln were on the team.
I knew because I’d looked those guys up during one of my sad-sack pity fests.