Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  Lacrosse doesn’t begin until January, though Lily plays on the club team in the off-season to practice her stick skills. Zoe calls them the Cavemen due to the rough and tough nature of the sport. Today the skies are clear blue without a cloud in sight. The perfect weather for a match.

  “How was school?” I ask.

  Zoe stares out the window, and Lily replies on her behalf.

  “She’s fine, Mom. We’ve got her covered.”

  But I need details. “Did anyone bother you?” I ask Zoe. “Did you take the biology test?”

  She looks up, but a nearby horn blasts through the car and takes her response with it. It’s the signal that the conversation is over. Lily puts in her earbuds, and I try again.

  “Did you talk to Mr. Harmon? You’re too talented to quit debate.”

  She loosens her seat belt, hangs over my seat, and pats my shoulder. “I’m fine, Mom, really.”

  Her insistence warms me. “Are you really?”

  She settles back. “I promise.”

  Other than the spectacles that hide her face, Zoe looks like herself. It’s me who is the mess. Me who is judging—gauging how she’s supposed to feel, what she’s supposed to look like—because I remember what I went through, how I fell apart. Lily sings along to a song on her phone. She has a beautiful voice. Zoe’s eyes are shut, and she rests her forehead on the window. She’s tired but seemingly content. Her hair falls down her face, and a wistfulness surrounds her. Lily’s on to the next song, one I’ve heard a thousand times before. I never noticed the phrase “Everything comes back to you.”

  We enter Central Park and follow the veering road toward the parking lot. Lily meets a group of girls who smile and high-five her. Some are in their team jerseys; the others are dressed in tight-fitting shorts and T-shirts cinched at the waist. I’m unloading the chairs and cooler, and Zoe offers to help, but I tell her to go on ahead. She trails behind with her backpack slung on her shoulders. She doesn’t even try to keep up.

  The fields are filled with boys and girls in padded uniforms that look more like combat armor. The lacrosse culture is like any other team sport where parents and players rely on an assortment of very good and very bad behaviors. No amount of healthy competition or team building can defuse the heightened energy of parents watching their prodigies excel on a field. Lily gets her athletic ability from my sisters. They both lettered in high school lacrosse and were offered scholarships out of state.

  We set up our chairs along the sideline with the other parents. Some I know well; others are from the opposing team. Evan Griggs is the team mom. She’s front and center under a collapsible canopy with our team name, Dolphins, emblazoned across the top. She moves over and makes room for us under the tent. Her daughter is the goalie, so her nerves should be the most rattled, but she’s always tough as nails. And sharp as a tack. She’s surrounded by Kami Frankel and Donna Benson. Their designer bags cost more than the coach’s monthly salary. They stop talking when we approach. Donna whispers something out of the corner of her mouth to Kami and another mom, Elena. I’m fuming, but I won’t let Zoe see. The last thing I need is their pity, so I give them my brightest smile and wave.

  The game is under way, and Lily’s finesse is in full swing. She plays attack, and by the end of the first period she leads the team in goals, 5–0. She’s that good. Probably better than my sisters.

  The team fathers stand. They don’t know how to sit. They cluster together like a pack of wolves pacing the sidelines. Only one of them has the willingness to congratulate me on Lily’s effort.

  “She’s really good,” he says.

  And I smile while the eyes of the other mothers burn holes in the back of my head.

  Screams come from another game. They’re louder than the usual “C’mon, son!” All eyes turn to the adjacent field, where coaches and players charge the grass.

  “I told you this sport is barbaric,” Zoe says.

  A mess of pads and sticks crash into each other. The metal sounds of helmet on helmet silence the other games. A whistle blows, and referees from all over the park race to break up a fight. The entire team is in the middle of the field except for one lone boy sitting on the bench. My eyes find him because Zoe’s watching, too. He stands up and walks off the field toward the bathrooms. Then he turns around again. Zoe gets up and heads in his direction.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I have to save somebody.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Price Hudson.”

  My heart skips, and I follow her gaze. The boy is suspended between joining the ruckus and disappearing. One final turn, and he’s walking with purpose toward the action. There is nothing mean about his face, but he suddenly looks angry. Zoe stands in front of him, blocking his path, and I can tell by the way his hands come up, he’s telling her to get out of his way.

  Worry curdles my stomach.

  His arms come back down, and a grin spreads across Zoe’s face. An impasse. Is she laughing? In her glasses? They look like characters in a John Green movie, not the stars of an awful after-school special. Then I notice the moms around me watching, too, and I’m faced with the deep-seated need to defend my child from their stares.

  Breathe. Let her do this. Whatever this is.

  The chaos from the opposite field subsides, and soon, games resume and teams are in motion. I plant myself in my seat and wait for the sign that says Save me. So when someone taps my shoulder, I jump.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The woman is at once recognizable and unfamiliar, but I draw a blank. “I’m Price’s mom,” she says. “Monica Hudson.”

  I’d been so consumed at the time, wrestling with devastation and damage control, that I hardly remembered the face of the woman entering the principal’s office.

  Studying her carefully, I notice her height and the windblown blonde hair. She’s still skinny, bony like her son, but far prettier than the woman I passed in the doorway. Her face is free of makeup, and she doesn’t appear to mind the faint lines that cross her forehead. Her smile is hesitant, her lips uncertain. Her pale-blue eyes squint in the sunlight, first at me, and then at the kids standing behind us.

  “You’re Zoe’s mom, yes?” There’s a hint of an accent in her tone.

  I steal a glance at the kids and nod. “Yes, I’m Zoe’s mom. Emma Ross.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I watch her lips move and feel sick inside. I hate this woman. I hate everything she stands for. I hate that she didn’t teach her son to respect girls. I hate that we’re connected in this drama. I hate that our kids have been exploited. And I hate that I hate, because at the center of it all is blame.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” she says, while a small, cherubic girl approaches and asks her mom for some pop. The girl can’t be more than seven. Price has a sister.

  With a water bottle in her hands instead, the little girl, Ruby, takes off running, her yellow dress whistling in the breeze.

  “How did this happen?” I blurt.

  Monica studies the grass before she finds my eyes again. “I’m not sure. We’re new here. Nothing like this has ever happened at home.” Then she asks if we can talk. “In private.” And she points to the adjacent park with plenty of trees.

  I’m rooted to the seat. The other moms have stopped cheering. I’m not imagining them leaning closer.

  “Please?”

  I hesitate, watching Zoe face her enemy. But the whispers guide me to my feet. Monica reminds Ruby to stay close to her brother. We walk in silence side by side along the field. I glance back at Zoe. “I’m not comfortable leaving my daughter over there.”

  She has a casual breeziness about her when she says, “I think we need to learn to trust them again. Give them some time to work through this themselves.”

  I release a long, held-in breath. “They’ve had enough alone time. He’s a boy. He took advantage of her.”

  She settles onto the par
k bench and stares down at her fingers. I stand off to the side, leaning on a wooden beam that’s part of a fitness trail. “I deserve that,” she says. “If it were my daughter, I’d probably feel the same way.”

  Sounds of whistles and screaming coaches pass through the wind, and the cheers of parents and teammates carry the tune. “You hate me,” she says.

  I shuffle along the apparatus. “I do.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve made a voodoo doll of your daughter.”

  “My daughter doesn’t do stuff like this.”

  “Mrs. Ross, your daughter did do this. They both did this. You think girls never go after boys? Do you know what it’s like for a teenage boy to say no to a willing teenage girl?” The breeziness is turning into a weapon. “What if I told you that Price is an honors student and has never gotten into any trouble in or out of school?”

  “I’d say the same about Zoe.”

  A vibration stops me from listing the litany of superlatives that describe Zoe, and I take my cell phone from my back pocket and hit “Ignore.”

  “I see you’re upset, Mrs. Ross,” she says.

  “Upset? Upset isn’t close to what I’m feeling. I have no idea how this will affect Zoe. I don’t know how many kids are watching that video, sharing it with their friends, and”—I pause—“laughing at her.”

  Her fair skin turns bright pink. “I understand,” she says. “When we made mistakes, nobody saw. I’m scared for Price. And it’s not only the kids. The parents are just as mean.”

  Bobby’s face flashes in my mind. Monica’s voice takes on a softer tone. “We can’t make it go away. Whether I blame you or you blame me, the community has formed their opinions about us. We’re negligent, irresponsible. We’ve been judged. Our kids have been judged.” She looks off into the clear blue sky then circles back to me. “This is such a small percentage of who my son is. If it’s a numbers game, five percent. That’s what it comes down to. In Price’s short life, he’s been decent for ninety-five percent of the time. But no one sees that. They’ll hold on to this. And that percentage will stick to him like glue.

  “We don’t promote this type of behavior,” she continues, ignoring my quiet. “We’ve tried to be good role models.” The wind picks up, kicking the trees and rustling leaves. “Despite our good intentions, we never expected this.” Her eyes fill up with weakness. “I never fully realized what being a mom meant. I knew you felt what your child felt, deeply, but I never ever thought it would hurt this much . . . to be unable to protect them . . . to take away their pain.”

  A flicker of sympathy spreads through my body. I want to hold on to it; I want to fall into those words and let their meaning soften me.

  Shouts and cheers dissolve my worry, and I turn to see Lily charging the field with the ball in her net. Zoe yells her name—actually, her nickname, Wheels, because she can drive past anyone who gets in her path. When she raises her stick, we all know it will go right in, and it does. Her teammates pat her on the back, the coach claps, and I set aside my distress to make room for pride.

  “She’s a natural, eh?” Monica says.

  Her compliment dissolves some of my anger. “She always has been.”

  “The girls are twins, yes?”

  I nod, but I won’t look into her eyes. Instead, I stare at the field. “Fifteen minutes apart.” I pause, my thoughts willing me to go on. “I never thought it would be Zoe. Lily was always physically faster.”

  Her eyes flash a hint of understanding. “I never thought it could be Price. I still don’t.” Funny how that happens. How wrong we can be. “What our kids did was one thing, but whoever held that record button down, they’re the offenders. They violated their privacy and didn’t think anything of humiliating them publicly. They’re the ones who should be punished.” She says this, and there’s nothing smug about her now.

  Unwinding the story has come to this: I was so intent on Zoe’s actions I’d forgotten to read the remaining pages of the script. A fury that had welled up inside me scrambles to come out. We could leave it alone and trust that the kids learned a mighty lesson, deleted the video from their phones, and moved on to the next sordid story. Or we could go after the culprit and teach these kids a bigger lesson.

  “What do you plan to do?” I ask.

  “We’re conflicted. The kids have deleted it. We want it to go away. Seeking justice may have the opposite effect. It’s a tough call.”

  My phone vibrates again, the buzzing too persistent to ignore. It’s a text from Bobby. STK wants the hotel. Howard’s group, too. We’re in the best position to negotiate. B

  The words shout at me from the screen.

  But before I can fully process them, Zoe and Price bolt our way. Zoe’s face is an explosion of sadness. Price is on the verge of crying, his skinny knees banging into each other as he approaches his mother’s side. Zoe is out of breath, and panic returns. Price hands his mother his phone.

  “What is it?” she shrieks.

  I watch Monica’s eyes and the way her fingers handle the keypad. Zoe’s gaze tells me not to look. She’s hunched over, the prospect forcing her to look away and hide her face. It’s a YouTube video. Their names are plastered beneath. I reach out to touch her, but she collapses to the ground. I join her there, wrapping her in my arms. My eyes close, and I let her sob into my chest.

  “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” she says, unable to finish.

  I hug her hard while her body shakes, a violent tremble I can’t slow down. I thought I could protect her, and I failed. No matter how hard you try, no matter the level of wishful thinking, there are some things that are beyond our control.

  “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Zoe fights me. She pushes me away and runs toward the car.

  “Leave me alone,” she cries, the tears streaming down her face. I get up and chase after her, all while I dial Bobby.

  “You need to come home,” I cry into the cell phone. “You need to come home now.”

  There’s panic in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

  It’s painful to say aloud. “Zoe’s on the Internet.”

  Silence echoes through the phone.

  “Bobby . . . Bobby, are you there?”

  “Jesus, Emma. How the hell did this happen?”

  I can’t even begin to answer all the ways that question can be interpreted. When I reach the car, I find Zoe planted on the ground by the passenger door. “I’ll call you right back . . .”

  She howls, curled up in a ball. I try to lift her, but she flings me away. “Stop! Leave me alone. My life is over.”

  “Zoe,” I say, choking on the emotion, “get up and get in the car.”

  She refuses, hyperventilating, kicking at me when I get too close. Kids walk by and stare. I try to block their view, but her noises can’t be camouflaged. My fingers shake when I text Lily to get a ride home with one of her teammates.

  “Zoe, please get up,” I beg. “I’ll take you home. We need to do something. We can’t do that with you sitting on the ground.”

  My phone rings, and it’s Bobby. “Talk to me.”

  Zoe’s on her feet, and I’m holding the car door for her. She crawls inside, sinking into her seat. Her body slumps, and she throws her glasses on the floor before her head collapses against the window.

  My voice shakes when I answer. “We’re getting in the car. What do we do?”

  “We’re calling Jo Jo Sturner. She’s the lawyer Nathan told me about.” He pauses. “The expert on cybercrimes. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

  Cybercrimes crashes into me, and I weaken from the force. I maneuver the car out of the parking lot, but I’m physically sick, dissolving into the leather cushion. The phone transfers to Bluetooth, and Bobby comes back with a woman on the line.

  His voice trembles. He is caught between embarrassment and rage. “Our daughter, she’s fifteen . . . she was at a party . . . now there’s a video of her . . . on YouTube.”
<
br />   I’m not sure I can breathe.

  “Nathan said I might hear from you.” She sounds young but firm. “I’m sorry you have to bear witness to how unkind the modern world can be.”

  Zoe stares out the window. God only knows what she’s thinking.

  The deception has ravaged my ability to reason. My earlier hostility is now turned on someone else, someone less worthy of forgiveness.

  “How can this happen?” Bobby asks. “Anyone can upload a child to any site? There are no restrictions? No content provisions? Nothing?”

  “Slow down, Mr. Ross. We’ll get to the parameters and regulations. There’s a lot to cover. First and foremost, the video needs to be flagged as inappropriate. Go to the site and report it. Usually it takes twenty-four to forty-eight hours for them to comply.”

  “What if it spreads?” I yell. “That’s too long!”

  “I want to know who did this.” His tone is flat, but the threat is loud. Zoe covers her face with her hands. “I want this asshole to go to jail,” he says. “Whoever did this needs to be punished.”

  He’s right. We have to make the person pay, the one who committed this horrible crime against our daughter.

  “I understand,” she says. “This is very painful for families. We take sexual cyberharassment and cyberbullying very seriously.” The weight of her words shuts the world down around us. “My people can start a full investigation . . . your daughter’s friends, anyone at the party who might’ve seen or heard anything . . . YouTube . . . we have ways to find out who did this.”

  “No, Mommy,” Zoe pleads. “I don’t want to do that.”

  My fingers squeeze hers so tight it makes her cry worse, and she pulls away. I grip the wheel instead. My knuckles turn a painful white, but it does nothing for the nausea slamming against my stomach. Bobby is silent, but I know he’s pacing back and forth somewhere in New York, ready to go through the roof.

  “Whatever we need to do,” he says. “Just do it.”

  Jo Jo continues talking about laws and managing fallout, but I only hear the plan to meet at her office tomorrow. It’s a rope that pulls me to safety. She hangs up, and Bobby says he’s changing his flight. Tears pound at my eyes to come out. I push them back, trying to be strong for Zoe. I am heartbroken, afraid to look at her and see the anguish on her face. My fingers dig into the wheel.