“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.”
“Yes. And it is very likely that he will be.”
It was the first red flag in the conversation, and I could feel my usual cynicism kicking in along with a dose of self-loathing for letting him manipulate me this far into our conversation. “Likely?” I said. “I’m sorry. Why is there any question? We both saw the photo. We both read the caption. There seem to be almost no facts in dispute here.”
“Yes, yes. I understand, Tom,” he said. “But we have a process….We need to hear his side of the story, whatever that is. We need to trust the process and allow him a defense.”
“There’s no defense for what that boy did to Lyla.”
“I agree. But we still have to get all the facts….And putting Finch aside for a moment, I just…” He paused. “I just want you to understand there could be some unpleasant implications for Lyla as all of this unfolds over the next few days and weeks.”
“You mean the warning about drinking that’ll go in her file?” I asked, wondering if I’d read the handbook incorrectly. I told myself that it didn’t matter. I had to do this.
“No….Well, I mean yes, there is that. But I’m referring to the greater, unavoidable practical repercussions. For Lyla. Unfortunately and very unfairly, there sometimes are some of those.”
“Repercussions? Such as what?” I said. “Are we talking social ramifications?”
“Yes. From the other students. Her classmates,” Quarterman said, clearing his throat. “It isn’t right—but there could be some backlash. It has happened before.”
“Are you saying Finch is some big man on campus? And it might damage Lyla’s popularity?” I said, my voice rising as I got worked up again.
“Well, I’m not sure I’d phrase it like that. But yes, it could create some tricky terrain for Lyla. And it will certainly add fuel to the fire with respect to the photo. Is that something that you and your daughter are prepared to deal with?”
“Yes,” I said. “For one thing, the photo is already out there. You know how quickly these things spread. I’m sure the whole school has seen it already. For another, Lyla made a mistake by drinking, but she has nothing to be ashamed of. This boy is the one who should be ashamed. This image says way more about him than her. That’s the message that I hope Windsor will send to the students and parents at the school should they choose to insert themselves.”
“I hear you, Tom. I really do,” Mr. Quarterman said. “And believe me, I am most certainly not trying to talk you out of anything. Not at all. I want you to know that we are here to support Lyla….I just want to make sure you’re ready for what may lie ahead.”
For one beat, I pictured my daughter’s pleading eyes and tone this morning and found myself hesitating. Then I envisioned that photo again, coupled with those casual, cruel words, and reassured myself that I was doing the right thing.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m ready.”
* * *
—
THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN I picked Lyla up from school, she would not look at me. Before I could confess, she stared out the window and said, “Please tell me that you weren’t the reason Finch’s parents were at school today.”
I pulled away from the curb and took a deep breath before answering her. “I did call Mr. Quarterman, Lyla. But he had already seen the photo.”
“Wow,” she said, one of her favorite, and my least favorite, declarations. “Just wow.”
“Lyla. I had to—”
“Whatever, Dad,” she said. “Just forget it. You don’t get it. It’s not even worth trying to explain it to you.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” I said. “But I’ll tell you this—you are worth it. And if you can’t see that, I’ve done something wrong.”
As we pulled up to a red light, I turned to stare at her profile, but she refused to look back at me. I could tell in that moment that she had completely shut down, and that she wouldn’t be talking to me anytime soon. I had grown accustomed to the silent treatment over the past year or so, and I actually didn’t hate her tactic. It was better than fighting, and I found that after a little time, tensions eased and things generally resolved themselves.
So I left her alone that night, letting her skip dinner, knowing she’d eventually come out of her room if she got hungry enough. The next morning, too, I didn’t press her, listening to the news on the way to school rather than attempting any sort of conversation.
But by the following night, when she still wasn’t talking to me during our dinner of Chinese takeout, I lost it. I told her I’d had enough of her sulking, and she was lucky I hadn’t punished her for the drinking.
“Okay, Dad,” she said, looking defiant. “You want me to talk to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“Okay. Well, how about this? I hate you.”