“No,” I say, knowing it won’t do any good—she’ll just deny it, and it might even make things worse for me. “Please don’t do that.”
“Okay,” he says, but he still sounds really pissed.
“Finch?” I say nervously. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says.
“Did you…tell anyone?” I ask, my voice shaking a little. “What we did?”
“Hell, no,” Finch says.
I believe him but want more reassurance. “Not even Beau?”
“No. Nobody,” he says. “I don’t kiss and tell, Lyla.”
“Okay,” I say, wishing, for one second, that it were only a question of kissing. Polly would still think what she was going to think, but I’d sure feel better about looking my dad in the eye. I also can’t help but think of how much easier it is to be a boy than to be a girl. Nobody is gonna write the word slut on Finch’s porch, that’s for damn sure.
“Did you take a picture?” Finch asks. “Of your porch?”
“Um, no. Why would I do that?”
“For evidence. You need to show Mr. Q.”
“No, Finch. There’s no way I’m telling Mr. Q. I don’t want this spread all over school. It’s bad enough that everyone’s gonna know I went over to your house yesterday.”
“So?” Finch says. “You have every right to come over to my house and hang out. We’re friends.”
My heart sinks as I blurt out, “Is that all we are?” I hate that I’m asking the question, but I can’t help myself.
“You know what I mean….I mean…it’s more than that, obviously. I’m totally into you,” Finch says, his voice turning soft. “And I love what we did yesterday.”
I smile, feeling warmth spread across my body, my regret immediately dissolving.
“I want to do it again,” he whispers.
Dizzy, I whisper back, “Me, too.”
* * *
—
DAD DOESN’T SPEAK to me on the way to school, and I can’t tell if he’s more mad or upset. I decide that it’s too risky to initiate conversation of any kind—so I keep my mouth shut for the entire torturous ride. When we arrive, he parks in a visitor spot rather than pulling into the circular driveway for drop-off, and I panic.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, though it’s perfectly clear.
“I’m going in. To talk to Quarterman.”
My mind races for a reasonable objection, as I lamely point out that he has paint all over his clothes and hands.
“So?” Dad says.
I think of the movie Jackie. How Mrs. Kennedy kept her blood-splattered pink suit on because she wanted everyone to see what had been done to her husband. Not that I’m comparing the assassination of a president to our vandalized porch, but I can tell Dad, on some level, is glad that he’s covered in paint. After all, he could have easily changed his clothes before we got in the car.
“Dad. Please let me handle this,” I begin to plead, but he shakes his head, as if to tell me there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. Then he adds, “Is there anything you want to tell me before I go inside?”
I shake my head.
“So you don’t know who did this?”
I shake my head again. “I don’t, Dad.”
“Do you have a clue? An…inkling?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?” he says.
“I mean…it could be anyone. It could be totally random.”
My last statement is ludicrous, but Dad nods, maybe wanting to believe that this could be true. That it was random vandalism—that nobody actually thinks his daughter is a slut.
“Okay. So hopefully this has nothing to do with the concert on Saturday night? Or you going over to Finch’s yesterday?” Dad says sarcastically.
I look at him, shocked and ashamed, as he shakes his head sadly, then gets out of the car.
I’m far from composed, but somehow I manage to keep my shit together for the first few minutes in Quarterman’s office. Even as I show him the photo of the word SLUT sprayed across our porch, I keep my voice low, just as I did in the car with Lyla. Somehow, it helps that Quarterman is visibly outraged.
“I am so sorry, Tom. This is terrible. Just terrible,” he says, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
“No,” I say.
“Does Lyla know anything?”
“She says she doesn’t.”
“Do you believe her?”
I let out a big sigh and shake my head. “No. Actually, I don’t. But I can’t figure out whether she’s covering for someone—or whether she’s just scared.”
“Of repercussions?” Quarterman asks.
“Yeah…This whole situation…with Finch…It’s gotten so out of hand….”
Quarterman furrows his brow, peering over at me. “How so? What’s going on now?”
I exhale, then say, “I don’t even know where to begin….”
“Just share whatever you’d like to share,” he says. “I promise you, Tom. I’m on your side here. I just want to help you and Lyla.”
For some odd reason, and despite the knowledge that he has to also be concerned about his other students, as well as the reputation of his school, I do trust him. Or maybe it’s just sheer desperation. But I start talking. I tell him about my meeting with Kirk, Nina and Finch’s visit Saturday morning—and Finch’s apology while I was out of the room. I tell him about the concert—and that Lyla went over to the Brownings’ yesterday, without permission or supervision. I read aloud Nina’s text message about Polly.
“Have you spoken with Nina?” he asks when I finish. “Since those texts?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not yet…But crazily enough, I feel like she’s an ally here. To Lyla.”
“Yes,” Quarterman says, nodding. “I think she’s really trying to do the right thing.”
Before I can respond, we hear a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Quarterman calls out.
We both stare at the door, waiting, as it opens a crack.
“Yes?” Quarterman says again, now sounding annoyed. “May I help you?”
The door opens farther, and there stands Finch.
“Excuse me, son,” Quarterman says in a stern voice. “We’re in a meeting here.”
“I’m sorry,” Finch says, but he doesn’t budge, other than to open the door a little more and throw out some bait. “But I just had some information about…what happened last night.”
Quarterman stands and waves Finch over to his desk. “In that case, come in. Have a seat.”
I tell myself to remain calm, as Finch sits in the chair beside me.
“Who did it?” I say, my voice rising. “Who spray-painted our porch?”
Finch takes a deep breath, finally showing his nerves—or at the very least, some pretty solid acting skills. “Polly did it,” he says, speaking rapidly. “Or one of her friends. If she didn’t do it herself, she knows who did. She was involved for sure.”
“Son, this is a pretty big accusation to make,” Quarterman says. “Do you have any sort of proof?”
“Not concrete proof,” Finch says. “But yesterday…Polly called Lyla…that word.”
“You mean a slut?” I force myself to say, my heart pounding in my ears.
Finch holds my gaze, then slowly nods. “Yes, sir. That’s the word she used.”
Something inside me snaps, and I lean toward him, seething. “Do you think you’re at all responsible here?”
Finch shakes his head and says, “No, sir. I didn’t do anything to your porch.”
“Well, don’t you think your photo of my daughter contributed to this?”
Finch returns my angry glare with a blank stare. Any goodwill built up from his visit Saturday morning goes out the window, and I have to fight a strong urge to lunge at him.
“I don’t understand what you mean—” he begins.
“What Mr. Volpe is saying,” Quarterman translates for me, “is that your photo—the one you took of Lyla—has perhaps put all of this in motion.”
Finch blinks, then boldly shakes his head and says, “No, sir. With all due respect, I do not agree with that statement.”
This time, I do leap out of my seat, taking some satisfaction at the look of fear on his face.
“Mr. Volpe! Wait! Please listen!” he shouts, holding his palms up. “I didn’t take that photo of Lyla! And I didn’t write the caption. And I didn’t send it to anyone!”
“What?” Quarterman and I shout in unison.
“I swear!” Finch continues. “Ask Lyla. She knows it’s the truth!”