Polly answers, saying only hi. But in that one syllable, I can tell she’s been crying, probably for a long time.
“Where did you get that?” I say, too shocked to cry myself. “Did Finch send you that?”
“No. It’s actually a photo I took off his phone. They don’t know I have it,” she says, her words slurring together a little.
“They?” I ask, even though I already have a pretty good guess who his wingman is.
“Finch and Beau. I found so many photos of them with girls,” she says. “Including me.”
“You?” I say, floored.
“Yeah. And videos of me and him, too,” she mumbles. “Sex videos he told me he deleted. But they’re all there. On his phone…”
“Oh my God, Polly!” I say, completely freaking out. “You have to tell on him. We both do!”
“No,” she says. “I can’t. My parents would kill me.”
“But we can’t let him get away with this!” I say. “We can’t!”
“It’s too late.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?” I shout. “The Honor Council meets tomorrow. It’s not too late at all!”
“I can’t….I’d rather be in trouble for what they’re saying I did than have my parents see all of this.”
“No!” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You just had sex with a boy you liked.”
“You don’t know my parents,” she says, her voice sounding oddly distant. “I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t…I just want to disappear…forever.”
“No, wait! Polly!” I yell into the phone, but she’s already hung up.
My mind races, wondering what to do, just as I hear my dad call me for dinner. I suddenly want to see him—if only not to be alone—and practically run to the table.
“Voilà. Linguine and clams,” he says when I get there. “Just pretend they’re not from a can. And the broccoli’s not from a bag!”
I manage to force a smile. But of course he sees how fake it is and says, “Are things really that bad?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I say, feeling shaky. “Kinda. Yes.”
“Talk to me,” he says through the steam still rising from our plates of pasta.
I want to tell him. I really do. I even take a deep breath and try to tell him. But I just can’t. Not about this. I get one of my intense pangs of wishing Mom were around. Well, maybe not Mom herself. But a normal mother.
“Lyla? What’s going on?”
I shake my head, then tell him the truth. That I love him and he’s a great father, but this just isn’t the kind of thing I want to talk with him about. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
I expect him to get frustrated, maybe even angry, but instead he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Post-it note. He slides it across the table and says, “Here.”
I look down and see Nina Browning’s full name printed in small, pretty script. Under it is her phone number. “She gave me this today—to give to you.”
“Why?” I say, picking it up, surprised to realize that there is nothing I’d rather be holding at this second than Mrs. Browning’s phone number.
Dad shrugs and says, “I guess because she’s worried about you. And she likes you. She said you could call her. Anytime.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s so nice.”
Dad nods and says, “Yes. She is nice.” Then he picks up his fork and suggests we eat.
“Dad? Can I please be excused?” I ask.
He looks surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, but simply says, “Yes. Go ahead. You can eat later.”
* * *
—
A MINUTE LATER, I’m back in my bedroom, the note still in my hand. I dial her number. “Mrs. Browning?” I say when she answers on the first ring.
“Yes. Is this Lyla?”
“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”
“No,” she says. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”
Feeling overcome with relief that she’s so nearby, I ask her if she’ll come get me. I tell her that I need to talk to someone about Polly. That it’s kind of an emergency. That I’m worried she may try to hurt herself.
Her voice is calm and reassuring as she tells me she’s going to hang up and call Polly’s parents—and she’ll head over to see me after that.
“Are you sure?” I say, feeling guilty. “I know it’s getting late.”
“I’m sure, Lyla,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”
After leaving Tom and Lyla’s house earlier this afternoon, I do not go home. I can’t. Instead, I drive around again. Only this time, it’s not quite as aimless. As filled with despair as I am, I have a vague purpose now, along with hope. I am looking for somewhere to live after I move out, trying to imagine the beginning of a new, different life. I decide East Nashville really might be the answer. Not the only answer—I can actually picture moving back to Bristol for a while. Or maybe I’ll get an apartment in Princeton—or wherever Finch winds up going to college. But if I do stay in Nashville, I want to be on this side of the river, with people less like Kirk and Melanie, and more like Tom and Lyla. All I know for sure is that Finch is now my only real priority, and wherever I physically end up, I will do everything I possibly can to help him become a good man. The person I know he can be.
As afternoon becomes evening, I wind up at the same coffee shop in Five Points where Tom and I first met. Our table is taken, but I sit at the one next to it, laying out the real estate brochures and newspapers that I’ve picked up over the day. I then pull a pen from my purse and start circling listings while I sip a decaf latte. I allow myself to dream a little about all the possibilities of a new life that could lie ahead for Finch and me.
Then, just as I’m gathering up my things with thoughts of going home, my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. At first I think it might be a realtor calling me back, as I’ve contacted a few already. But when I answer it, I hear a girl’s voice saying, “Mrs. Browning?”
“Yes,” I say. “Is this Lyla?”
“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”
“No,” I say. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”
“Oh, wow,” she says, then blurts out, “Could you come get me?”
“Now?” I say.
“Only if you can….I’m just worried, and it’s kind of hard to talk to my dad about this,” she babbles, then uses the word emergency. Of all things, she says she’s worried about Polly. That she may do something to hurt herself.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, heading toward my car. “What happened?”
“She’s just really, really upset about some things,” Lyla says.
I tell myself that teenage girls are prone to melodrama, and yet, I can’t help but think of some of the calls I’ve answered for Nashville’s suicide helpline, as well as the girl from Windsor who took her life. The very reason Kirk and I went to the gala the night of Beau’s party. “Honey, let me try to call the Smiths,” I say. “Then I’ll head over to see you. Okay?”
“Are you sure?” Lyla says. “I know it’s getting late.”
“I’m sure, Lyla,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”
In a low-grade panic, I hang up and log on to the Windsor directory, finding the Smiths’ home and cell numbers. I don’t expect them to answer—and they don’t—but I leave multiple messages asking them to please call me. I add that it’s urgent and about Polly. Then I start my car and drive back to Avondale for the second time today.
When I arrive five minutes later, I see Lyla standing by the street, her white high-top sneakers, light jeans, and a silver bomber jacket all glowing in my headlights. There’s no way that I could miss her, but she still waves frantically at my car, then runs up to my window.
“Hi,” she says, out of breath. “Did you call Polly’s parents?”
“Yeah. I tried them, but no one answered.”
“She’s not answering her phone, either,” Lyla says.
“Okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I think I’ll drive over there and knock on the door. Just to be sure.”
Lyla nods, then asks if she can come with me.