Mr. Quarterman raised his palms and shrugged, looking conspicuously indifferent. “How Princeton handles the news of Finch’s suspension would be entirely up to them.”
Finch’s eyes widened. “Could they un-accept me?”
“Revoke your acceptance?” Walter said. “Of course they could. They’re a private institution, just as we are. They can do as they see fit under the circumstances.”
“Wow,” Finch said under his breath.
“Yes,” Walter said. “So as you see…there could be very serious ramifications.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Kirk shouted. “For a thirty-second lapse of judgment he could lose eighteen years of hard work?”
“Kirk,” Walter said, his voice and posture growing subtly more imposing. “We don’t know the outcome of this yet. And we also don’t know what Princeton would do if Finch were suspended. However, I’m sure you understand the seriousness of that picture, as well as the racist nature of your son’s words.”
There it was. The R word. I’d said it myself—and aloud to Kirk and Finch—but it was so much worse hearing it from another. My eyes welled up.
Kirk took a deep breath, as if regrouping. “Okay. Well, is there any way to handle this privately? Our son’s entire future is at stake here, Walt.”
“The Honor Council is private. All proceedings would remain completely confidential.”
“Right. But I mean…privately privately?”
“You mean avoid the Honor Council altogether?” Walter said, raising his brow.
“Yes. I mean…what if we talked to the girl’s parents?”
Walter began to answer, then stopped, then started again. “Calling Lyla’s father is up to you,” he said. “I’m not sure that would change anything….But in my experience, sincere apologies never hurt in these kinds of situations…in life, generally.”
In that moment, I could tell that Kirk had just detected a path to getting his way. I knew the expression well—the glimmer in his eyes, the way his face sort of relaxed. “Okay, then,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “We’ll call her parents—and take it from here.”
Walter nodded, looking apprehensive at best. “She lives with her father,” he said.
“Okay. I assume his number’s in the directory?” Kirk asked, shifting in his seat, glancing at his watch.
“It is,” Walter replied.
I struggled to think of something meaningful to say, something to offset Kirk’s sudden cavalier tone, but he seemed to be on a roll I couldn’t curtail.
“Okay, great,” he said, standing abruptly. “Well, I hate to dash like this, but I have a flight to catch. I’ve already pushed it back once today for this.”
“I’m sorry you had to change your travel plans,” Walter said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry.
The two of us stood as Kirk said, “No worries. Not a problem at all.”
“Good. Well, then. Thank you all for coming,” Walter said, shaking my hand, then Kirk’s. Finally, he turned to Finch and said, “Okay, young man. You may return to class.”
“Yes, sir,” Finch said, getting to his feet. He glanced at his father, then stood up a little straighter.
“Anything else you want to say here, son?” Kirk prodded him.
Finch nodded, took a deep breath, then shifted his gaze from his father to Walter. “I just want to say…that I’m very sorry, again, for all the trouble I’ve caused, and I’m ready to take the consequences, whatever they may be.”
His words sounded sincere, and I had to believe that he was genuinely remorseful. After all, he was my son. He just had to be sorry.
But as Walter nodded and patted him once on the back, I caught a glint of determination in Finch’s eyes. Something that channeled his father and made me shiver a little inside.
It was official. I hated my life. Like literally everything about it. I mean, I knew it could be way worse. I could be homeless or have a terminal disease or live in a country where militants throw acid on girls when they try to go to school. But beyond those kinds of true tragedies, it was really hard to find anything to be grateful for lately.
For starters, my dad had busted me for drinking and was really upset and angry and disappointed in me (the disappointed part hurt the worst). Second, there was a photo of my boob, nipple and all, being passed all around school. But I probably could have gotten over those two things. Because I knew Dad would eventually forgive me, and the photo, while humiliating, at least wasn’t ugly. It was actually sort of artsy and cool, even though I’d never have admitted that to anyone. Even my best friend, Grace, said I looked good in it. My hair was arranged perfectly on the bed. And my black slip dress was super cute, worth every dollar of my babysitting money. Honestly, the shot almost looked like I posed for it, minus the nipple. The nipple was what made it so horrible. And the caption about the green card, which was so rude to immigrants. It made me think of the Sayed family, whose backyard abutted ours and who were just about the nicest people you could ever imagine. They’d actually become American citizens a couple years back (I babysat their toddler during their ceremony), but I knew they still got anti-Muslim you-don’t-belong-here type comments from a few losers in our neighborhood. Mostly, though, we lived near really cool people—lots of artists and musicians—people who would never say something so offensive and bigoted.
So yeah, I got why Dad was upset about the nipple and caption. I did. But the part that really crushed my heart was that Finch Browning was responsible for it all. The boy I’d been obsessed with for going on two years. Finch was a popular senior—way out of my league—and had a beautiful girlfriend named Polly, who was as perfect as he was. In other words, it was a waste of time for me to like him, even before this happened. But you can’t help the way you feel—and my feelings were real. Grace, who is very protective of me, sometimes annoyingly so, tried to tell me that it was just a stupid crush. After all, she said, I didn’t really know him. But I felt like I did know him, that’s how closely I observed him, day in and day out. I knew, for example, that Finch was on the quiet, serious side compared to the other loud boys in his friend group, but he could be really funny in a sarcastic, low-key way. I knew that he was very smart and in all honors classes. His locker was insanely organized, and the inside of his car was clean and neat (I may have peeked in it a time or two), and he was never late or rushing to class at second bell. He had his shit together. Of course his executive functioning, as our guidance counselors called it, wasn’t the main attraction. As is often the case with a crush, there was just something about him that drew me to him. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Finch was just so, so cute. I loved his wavy blond hair and his deep blue eyes and the confident way he walked and how hot he looked in his basketball uniform (although he managed to look really good in his school uniform, too). Mostly, though, I loved the way he looked at me. I remembered the first time he ever gave me that look. It was last year, on about the third day of school, back when I was brand new. We were in the dining hall, both of us putting up our trays after lunch, and he gave me a double take, followed by a slight smile. It melted me, and it wasn’t the last time it happened. There was something undeniable between us—something that wasn’t one-sided. A little charge of electricity.
About three months ago, when I’d finally admitted my feelings to Grace, and told her about Finch’s ongoing eye contact with me, she tried to say that he was just flirty that way, and that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He would never break up with Polly. But even she had to admit that it meant something when he started following me on Instagram, going back and liking several of my older selfies. At the very least, we agreed, he thought I was pretty.
Then, last Friday, we got the invite to Beau’s party. Once again, we were in the dining hall, only this time Finch came up to me and Grace as we stood in the salad-bar line.
“
Hey,” he said, looking right at me.
“Hey,” I said back, dying inside.
“What’re you girls doing tomorrow night?” he asked.
I started to tell him the truth, which was absolutely nothing, but Grace gave him some other answer about various options we had.
“Well, Beau’s having a few people over. If you want to stop by, that’d be cool.”
“Yeah, we’ll try to swing by,” Grace said, as if we’d scored plenty of invites to senior parties.
I followed her lead and said, “Yeah. We’ll try, for sure.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, we continued to play it cool as we got ready for the party over FaceTime, holding up various outfits while we strategized what I would tell my dad. I certainly didn’t tell him about the party. Dad is stricter than her parents, and I couldn’t risk that he might tell me I couldn’t go, or God forbid, call Beau’s parents, who I felt fairly confident did not know about their son’s gathering. I’d heard plenty of rumors about how much Beau got away with.
Predictably, I had some trouble getting out of the house, and I almost overplayed my hand by telling Dad I was going to be studying. He totally called bullshit on that but ultimately let me go, just giving his usual overprotective spiel about being careful.
And I was careful. At first. So was Grace. We only had one drink while we got dressed at her house—Chardonnay that we drank from stemmed glasses. It was all very grown-up and civilized, and we vowed that we wouldn’t get drunk or make asses out of ourselves.
But then we got to Beau’s, and I felt so nervous and giddy in Finch’s company outside of school that I sort of forgot my promise to myself and started downing Jack and Cokes.
At one point, Grace and I stood in the kitchen, covertly watching Finch and his friends across the room, cracking up and ripping on each other while they played a variation of Uno as a drinking game. Every few minutes, Polly would come over and sit on the arm of his chair, leaning down to whisper something in his ear or rub his neck. She was wearing a light denim miniskirt, a white tank top, and gladiator sandals, the straps winding halfway up her long, thin calves. Her strawberry-blond hair was in a loose French braid, and she wore turquoise earrings and a leather choker. I was so jealous of her that it hurt—literally gave me chest pains—and I told Grace I wanted to leave. Then I caught Finch looking over at me. He smiled, and I smiled back. Grace saw it, too, and actually got excited for me. “Oh my God,” she said. “He’s flirting with you right in front of Polly!”
“I know,” I said, still making eye contact with him, my heart racing.
A few minutes later, after Polly had sucked Finch into some kind of side drama, Grace and I went upstairs and joined a few random people who were chilling in Beau’s bedroom, vaping and listening to stoner music. We took a couple of hits, and also drank a beer from the stash in Beau’s bathtub, but Grace eventually declared the mood “way too mellow” and went back downstairs. Feeling a little dizzy and tired, I told her I was going to stay put for a bit, then curled up on Beau’s bed so that I could close my eyes for a few seconds. Grace said okay and promised to be right back. And that’s the last thing I really remember before I dozed off.
The next thing I knew I was on my bathroom floor, puking and crying next to my dad.
All the following night, Lyla continued to beg me not to, in her words, “narc on Finch.” She threw out every rationale imaginable. That I was blowing things out of proportion. That Finch was usually a nice guy and did we really want to ruin his future? (Um, yes, I did.) That if I “made a big deal out of it,” it would only mean more eyes on the photo, and she might even end up getting in trouble for drinking at the party. (Her most solid points, but risks I was willing to take in exchange for simple justice.)
I pretended to give it some thought, vacillating for a second or two here and there, but on Monday morning, when we pulled into the circular driveway in front of her school filled with all those entitled rich kids, I knew there was no way in hell I could just drop it. What kind of message about her self-worth would that send to her?
“Have a great day, Dad,” Lyla said, getting out of the car, pleading with her eyes.
“You, too, honey,” I said, looking away.
She continued to stare at me, then said under her breath, “Please don’t call the school today, Dad.”
“I love you,” I said in response.
“Love you, too, Dad,” she said, closing the door. I watched her walk a few steps before I drove away, feeling nauseated.
After her drop-off, I drove to my workshop, but I remained in my car as I looked up the number for Windsor’s headmaster. Lyla referred to him as Mr. Q and seemed to indicate that she liked him, but the few times I’d met him, I’d gotten an intellectual, elitist vibe. So I braced myself for the worst-case scenario as I entered his number on my phone. I couldn’t imagine him outright siding with Finch, but I know the way the world works. For one, birds of a feather. For another, guys like Finch always get away with things—and a lifetime accumulation of no consequences was how we probably got to this point.
My jaw clenched as I listened to the sound of his phone ringing. A woman answered. “Mr. Quarterman’s office,” she said.
“Is he there, please?” I said.
She informed me that Mr. Quarterman was in a meeting, then asked if she could take a message.
“Yes. You can,” I said tersely. “This is Tom Volpe. I’m Lyla Volpe’s father. She’s a sophomore.”
“Okaaay. And this is…regarding…?” she said.
I bristled. To be fair, this woman had no way of knowing that I was calling about a serious matter. But her blasé tone still annoyed me. I took a breath, then said, “This is regarding an offensive photo of my daughter taken by another Windsor student.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, as if I’d just offended her.
My blood pressure starting to soar, I talked with exaggerated slowness. “One of Windsor’s students…a boy by the name of Finch Browning, took a photo of my daughter, Lyla, at a party over the weekend….She was asleep, and her breast was exposed,” I said. “He then proceeded to give the photo a racist caption before sending it along to his buddies. I am beyond livid and would like to discuss this matter with Walter Quarterman. Today.”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Volpe,” she said, her whole tone changing into one of grave concern. “Let me track him down right away. What number is best for you?”
I gave her my cell, then hung up without saying goodbye.
Within moments, my phone rang.
“Hello. This is Tom,” I said.
“Mr. Volpe?”
“Yes.”
“This is Walter Quarterman. Returning your call.” His voice was softer than I remembered from his school persona, almost in the category of gentle. It disarmed me but not enough to offer any niceties. Instead, I got right down to business, telling the whole story and sparing no details, including the fact that Lyla had been consuming alcohol. He did not interrupt once and waited until I was completely finished before he told me he had actually already seen the photograph, that another parent had sent it to him over the weekend.
I felt a strange mix of relief and rage. I was glad he had seen it—it was very difficult to capture the essence of the offensive image with mere words. But I was incrementally more pissed that he, and others, had seen my little girl in such a state. And why hadn’t he called me first?
“And you saw his caption, too?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It was appalling. I’m so sorry.”
I eased up just a bit as he went on to tell me he’d already made a call to Finch’s parents. “I can assure you that we will get to the bottom of this, and address it appropriately.” He spoke calmly but not condescendingly.
“Thank you,” I said.
??
?I do need to inform you of one thing, Mr. Volpe,” he said. “I hesitate to even bring this up, because it’s so ancillary to the issue at hand, but are you aware that drinking, even off campus, is against Windsor’s Code of Conduct?”
“Yes,” I said, although I’d done a little research last night and knew from reading the online Windsor handbook that there was no formal punishment for the first documented use of drugs or alcohol, simply a warning that went into a student’s file. This was Lyla’s first offense and, in my mind, would only reinforce our discussion about drinking and serve as a deterrent for the future. I said as much to Quarterman, then added, “I want you to know I take drinking very seriously.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You’d be surprised, Tom, that many parents really do not….It makes things much more difficult when students are getting mixed signals from the adults in their lives.”
“Yes,” I said. I hesitated, then added, “Lyla’s mother is an alcoholic.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, actually sounding sorry.
“It’s fine,” I said. “She’s not in our lives….It’s just…part of my daughter’s medical history….That’s why I mention it.”
“Of course.”
“And as a result of her drinking, you should be aware that my daughter was passed out when that photo was taken of her. It wasn’t as if she posed for it….She was unconscious…completely vulnerable.”
“I know, Tom.”
“In some ways, the caption actually upsets me more than the photo,” I said, because if I was being painfully honest with myself, I could imagine taking a similar shot when I was a dipshit teenager—if I’d grown up in a cellphone generation, had a buzz, and seen a girl with her boob hanging out of her dress. The caption, though, was a different story altogether. It was not only ignorant—Lyla was as American as the boy was—but also offensive. “It was way out of line.”
“I agree one hundred percent.”
“He needs to be punished.”