“I don’t know, Finch. But if these charges go forward to the Honor Council, and I see no reason why they wouldn’t, the issue of suspension will ultimately be decided by that group.”
“Who’s on this Honor Council?” Kirk asked.
“Eight students. And eight faculty members.”
“And? How does this work?” Kirk pressed. “Would Finch have representation? I assume we can bring in our lawyer?”
Walter shook his head. “No. That’s not the procedure we use for these matters….”
“So he doesn’t get a fair trial?”
“It’s not a trial. And we like to think that it’s very fair, actually.”
Kirk sighed, looking extremely put out. “And if he’s ultimately suspended? What’s involved with that? What are we talking, exactly?”
“That varies. But if Finch were to be suspended, he would not be allowed to walk at the graduation ceremony. And we would be required to notify the colleges to which he’s been accepted of his suspension.”
“He just got into Princeton,” Kirk said.
Walter nodded and said yes, he was aware. He then added his congratulations.
“Thank you,” Kirk and Finch said in unison. Kirk added, “So then what?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean, regarding Princeton?” Kirk asked.
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.