“Yeah. But it’s clear Polly had a motive. Jealousy, pure and simple.”
“I don’t know, Mel,” I say, as I survey the scene of the crime—at least one of the crimes. The Volpes’ house is set on a rather steep hill, two flights of concrete steps leading up from the street to the front porch, a small grassy landing in between. There is no cover whatsoever, and it would take nerves of steel to climb all those steps and vandalize an exposed porch so close to the street. “I just can’t see Polly doing this.”
Melanie sighs, clearly annoyed. “The picture or the porch?”
“Either. I wasn’t at the party. And I wasn’t home last night,” I say. “I was in Bristol with my parents.”
“But wasn’t Kirk home?” she asks. “Wouldn’t he know if Finch left your house?”
“You would think. But maybe Finch sneaked out. Or maybe Kirk just…looked the other way. He’s not exactly reliable these days,” I say.
I then ask her if she knew that the boys went to the Luke Bryan concert with Lyla and her friend.
She hesitates, then says yes, she did. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But Kirk told me not to mention it…because you’d say no…and I thought it was a sweet gesture. I’m sorry.”
I almost tell her that I can’t believe she lied to me, but I actually can. I’m suddenly as done with her as I am with Kirk, thinking that Julie would never in a million years conspire with anyone against me. And certainly not with Kirk.
“Nina?” Melanie asks, as I see Tom and Lyla pull up to the curb on the other side of the street. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” I say, watching as father and daughter get out of their car and walk up to the front door, neither of them noticing me.
“Honey. We’re just trying to save you from yourself….Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues, which is almost always a precursor to an insult, “but you’re so…irrational these days. I mean why would Finch vandalize her property when he’s already going to the Honor Council?”
“I don’t know. To frame Polly?” I say, desperately hoping that that’s not the case.
Melanie continues to tell me how unstable I sound, how worried she is about me, how nothing is more important than “our boys.”
I can’t hear another word of it. I tell her that I have to go. And that, for the record, I can think of a few things that are just as important—maybe more.
“Like what?”
“Like honesty and truth and character?” I say.
“Oh my God, Nina,” she says. “It’s like you think you’re better than all of us.”
“Better than who?” I say, really wanting to know.
“Your husband. And all of your friends. At least I thought we were your friends.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I really thought so, too.”
Afew minutes after we get home from visiting Dad’s friend Bonnie (who I never even knew existed before today), Mrs. Browning shows up at our house. Dad’s back in his bedroom, so I answer the door, feeling reassured to know that he actually has friends.
“Hi, Lyla,” she says, looking and sounding frazzled. She’s wearing almost no makeup and workout clothes, her hair in a messy ponytail.
“Hi, Mrs. Browning,” I say. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please. I’d really like to talk to you and your dad,” she says, just as he appears in the hallway behind me.
I brace myself for a tense exchange, but Bonnie’s calming effect seems to have lingered because he just says hello and asks her to come in. Then we all walk into the living room. The two of them sit on the sofa, and I take Dad’s chair.
Mrs. Browning speaks first, staring down at her hands. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening.” She looks up at my dad, then turns her gaze to me.
“It’s okay,” I say, betting that Dad will correct me, and announce that it’s not okay.
But he doesn’t, saying only “Thank you, Nina.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Browning takes a deep breath, then says, “May I ask you something, Lyla?”
I nod, staring back at her.
“Who do you think took that photo of you? Finch? Or Polly?”
I hesitate, not because I have any doubts whatsoever, but because I know she or my dad will probably ask for my reasons next, and it’s really hard to put everything into words.
“Go ahead, Lyla. Tell her what you think,” Dad says.
“I think Polly took it,” I blurt out. “And I think she wrote that word on our porch, too….I think she’s done everything out of jealousy…because she knew she was losing Finch. And now she’s lost him. For good.”
My cheeks burn as I say the last part, picturing what Finch and I did in his basement, and knowing Polly has very good reason to be jealous. I don’t dare look over at Dad, for fear that he’ll be able to figure that last part out.
“But weren’t they still dating on the night of the party?” Mrs. Browning asks, looking so worried and confused. “When the photo was taken?”
“Technically, I guess,” I say with a shrug, acknowledging to myself that maybe Finch’s version of the story doesn’t completely add up. But then I remember the way he looked at me when I was standing in Beau’s kitchen. And it all makes sense again.
Dad and Mrs. Browning wait for me to say more, but when I don’t, they look at each other instead. It’s almost as if they’re having a conversation with their eyes. Not the kind that Finch and I have had—more of a we’re-in-this-bullshit-together type gaze. I take the opportunity to stand and slip out of the room, feeling immense relief when neither of them tries to stop me.
A few seconds later, I’m alone again. I close my door, find my phone, and climb into my bed. All I want to do is talk to Finch. I feel certain that he has a positive update, too, and that we are only hours away from his name being cleared. One step closer to being together—if we aren’t already.
But I quickly discover that Finch has not called or even texted. Instead I see a text from Polly. My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is read her attacks. But you can’t just ignore a message from your enemy. So I open it and read.
Dear Lyla, I am so sorry that I called you a slut. It was a really ugly thing to say, and I actually don’t think that about you. I’ve just been really upset and confused about so much. But I did NOT take that picture of you. It was Finch and Beau. And I have proof. I also have something else really big to tell you. Will you please call me? Please, Lyla. I’m desperate and scared and begging you. From the bottom of my broken heart, Polly
I finish reading, telling myself that she’s full of shit. Just trying to cover her ass and pin everything back on Finch because that’s how bitter and jealous she is. The very definition of a hater. I tell myself to delete the text and erase every word from my memory.
But I can’t and don’t. Because deep down, I’m feeling pretty scared, too.
* * *
—
THE AFTERNOON CRAWLS by as I read Polly’s text over and over and over, believing her a bit more each time. What makes me feel so much worse is that Finch doesn’t call or text. I end up falling asleep, with my ringer on high just in case.
Around six o’clock, I awaken to another text message from Polly. This one is a photo. I brace myself as I click on it, waiting for it to download, somehow knowing that it’s going to be bad.
But it turns out to be much, much worse than anything I could have imagined. Because it’s another photo of me on Beau’s bed. A close-up of my face with a semi-hard penis resting on the bridge of my nose, pointing toward my mouth, almost touching my lips. At first I think it must be Photoshopped in—it’s just so shocking and horrible and disgusting. But after staring at it a few seconds, I can tell that it’s not. It’s real. A real penis touching my face. I can’t say for sure who it belongs to, but I think I may recognize it, along with the hand holding it.
My heart shatters as another ellipses appears, followed by a plea. Please, please call me.
This time, I do.