The words hit me in the gut, but I pretended not to be fazed. “You don’t hate me,” I said, through a bite of shrimp fried rice.
She placed her chopsticks down on her plate and glared at me. “I actually do hate you right now, Dad.”
I was comforted by her qualifier—right now—and told her she’d get over it.
“No, I won’t. I can totally forgive you for what you did on my phone—even though it was total bullshit.” She paused, clearly expecting me to object to her language. When I didn’t, she continued, “But I will never forgive you for this. This is something that happened to me, not you. I asked you—I begged you—not to get involved. Not to tell the school—”
“Mr. Quarterman already knew, Lyla,” I said.
“That’s not the point. I asked you not to make a bigger deal out of everything…but you did anyway….And now you’ve totally ruined my life.”
I told her to stop being melodramatic.
“I’m not being melodramatic. Do you have any idea how much worse you’ve made everything?” she said. “Stuff like this just happens in high school….People take stupid pictures…and then it just…goes away.”
“A picture never goes away.”
“You know what I mean, Dad! People move on. You just guaranteed that they don’t move on. And that everyone sees it. Everyone. And Finch Browning might get suspended!”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. He deserves it.”
“What? No, Dad. If he’s suspended, he might not be able to go to Princeton.”
“Princeton?” I said, disgusted. “That asshole got into Princeton?”
“Oh my God, Dad!” she shouted. “You’re missing the point—”
“No. You are,” I said, thinking she looked exactly like her mother right now. Her eyes always reminded me of Beatriz, but when she got this angry, the rest of her face did, too. I blurted out the observation, instantly regretting it. There was already enough going on without throwing that into the mix.
“Funny you should mention Mom,” she said, crossing her arms, her expression becoming defiant.
“And why’s that?” I said.
“Because I’ve been talking to her about this…”
“Oh?” I said. “And how is your ol’ momma doing these days? Recording any albums? Landing any plum acting roles? Getting married for the third time?”
“Yes. Two of those three, actually,” she said. “She’s doing great. Really great.”
“Terrific,” I said. “Just super.”
“Yes. And she said I could come visit her.”
“And where is she now?” I asked, though I knew she was back in Rio, according to the return address scrawled on the Easter card still displayed in Lyla’s room.
“Brazil,” Lyla confirmed.
“Well. You don’t have a passport. And I’m not funding your trip to Brazil.”
“I’m working on the passport. And Mom said she’d buy my ticket.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah? How nice of her. Tell her while she’s at it, she’s only about a decade behind in any kind of financial support.” I stood and carried my dishes to the sink.
Lyla said nothing, and I got more upset.
“Hey, I’ve got a great idea!” I said, returning to the table. “Why don’t you go live with your mother this summer? Since your life is so ruined here and you’ll never stop hating me?”
I didn’t mean it—not even a little—and regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth, even before I saw the hurt in Lyla’s eyes.
“Great suggestion, Dad,” she said, nodding. “Thanks so much for your permission. I’ll tell Mom that’s what I want to do.”
“Fantastic,” I said, storming out of the kitchen. “Just do the dishes first. I’m sick and tired of doing everything around here.”
“How’d you think that went?” Kirk asked under his breath as we walked toward the parking lot following our meeting with Walter.
“Awful,” I said, though that word wasn’t nearly strong enough to describe my profound disappointment verging on devastation.
“Yeah. He’s pompous as hell. Condescending and superior…typical liberal,” Kirk muttered, walking more briskly.
“What?” I said, though after that performance, nothing should have surprised me anymore.
“Walt,” he said. “He’s brutal.”
I quickened my pace to keep up with Kirk’s long, angry stride. “It’s Walter. Not Walt.”
“Whatever.”
“And Walter’s not on trial here. Finch is.”
“Not yet he’s not,” Kirk said as we reached our cars.
“But he will be on trial….I think that’s pretty clear,” I said, opening my door. I tossed my purse into the passenger seat before squaring my shoulders and looking into my husband’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Kirk said. “And it’s bullshit. Quarterman’s already made his mind up about everything. As the headmaster, he should stay neutral. Finch is one of his students, too. And he’s a lifer.”
Lifer was the term given to kids who had been at Windsor since kindergarten—as opposed to those who joined in middle school or high school. I’d always been happy Finch had been among that group, if only for the sake of continuity, but I cringed at hearing it in this context. The implication was clear—Finch belonged at Windsor more than Lyla, and therefore was entitled to preferential treatment.
“Yes. But he has no defense. Zero,” I said. “I think that was abundantly clear in there.”
“Fine, Nina,” Kirk said. “He has no defense. But he’s confessed and he’s apologized. And this just isn’t suspension worthy. Not after years of perfect behavior. It was one stupid mistake.”
“I think others will beg to differ,” I said, wondering what he thought qualified as “suspension worthy.” In my mind, this was worse than cheating on a test, or drinking on school property, or getting in a fistfight, all of which resulted in suspension. “And it’s not up to us. It’s up to Windsor.”
“Well, I’m not going to let Finch’s fate end up in the hands of a few leftist wing-nut academics.”
I bit my lip, then lowered myself into the car. I could feel my husband’s stare—and it felt like a dare to reply.
“I don’t think you have a choice here,” I finally said, glancing up at him.
It was a foreign concept to Kirk—that something would actually be out of his control—and although in the past I’d found this quality attractive, it now filled me with disdain bordering on disgust. I tried to pull my door shut, but Kirk held it open with his hand.
“Just do me a favor,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows, waiting.
“Don’t do anything….Don’t talk to anyone. Not even Melanie.”
“Melanie already knows everything going on,” I said, thinking of the half dozen phone conversations we’d had since Saturday night. I think part of her felt culpable and worried that there might be some fallout or punishment for her son. After all, Beau had hosted the party, and she and Todd had, perhaps unwittingly, supplied the booze.
“Yes, but she doesn’t know about this conversation we just had, does she?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m sure she’ll call and ask.”
“Okay. Let her ask. But just keep the details on the down low….Let me handle this for now.”
I almost asked what “handling this” entailed, but I felt pretty sure I already knew. Over the next twenty-four hours, I imagined that Kirk would call his lawyer buddies, lining up a defense should things not go his way sooner. He’d then place a call to Lyla’s father, ask to meet with him “man to man.” He would get the meeting—and then would find a way to convince this man to just “let it all go.” That this result would be in “everyone’s best interest.”
* * *
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