by Emily Giffin
“He needs to be punished.”
“Yes. And it is very likely that he will be.”
It was the first red flag in the conversation, and I could feel my usual cynicism kicking in along with a dose of self-loathing for letting him manipulate me this far into our conversation. “Likely?” I said. “I’m sorry. Why is there any question? We both saw the photo. We both read the caption. There seem to be almost no facts in dispute here.”
“Yes, yes. I understand, Tom,” he said. “But we have a process….We need to hear his side of the story, whatever that is. We need to trust the process and allow him a defense.”
“There’s no defense for what that boy did to Lyla.”
“I agree. But we still have to get all the facts….And putting Finch aside for a moment, I just…” He paused. “I just want you to understand there could be some unpleasant implications for Lyla as all of this unfolds over the next few days and weeks.”
“You mean the warning about drinking that’ll go in her file?” I asked, wondering if I’d read the handbook incorrectly. I told myself that it didn’t matter. I had to do this.
“No….Well, I mean yes, there is that. But I’m referring to the greater, unavoidable practical repercussions. For Lyla. Unfortunately and very unfairly, there sometimes are some of those.”
“Repercussions? Such as what?” I said. “Are we talking social ramifications?”
“Yes. From the other students. Her classmates,” Quarterman said, clearing his throat. “It isn’t right—but there could be some backlash. It has happened before.”
“Are you saying Finch is some big man on campus? And it might damage Lyla’s popularity?” I said, my voice rising as I got worked up again.
“Well, I’m not sure I’d phrase it like that. But yes, it could create some tricky terrain for Lyla. And it will certainly add fuel to the fire with respect to the photo. Is that something that you and your daughter are prepared to deal with?”
“Yes,” I said. “For one thing, the photo is already out there. You know how quickly these things spread. I’m sure the whole school has seen it already. For another, Lyla made a mistake by drinking, but she has nothing to be ashamed of. This boy is the one who should be ashamed. This image says way more about him than her. That’s the message that I hope Windsor will send to the students and parents at the school should they choose to insert themselves.”
“I hear you, Tom. I really do,” Mr. Quarterman said. “And believe me, I am most certainly not trying to talk you out of anything. Not at all. I want you to know that we are here to support Lyla….I just want to make sure you’re ready for what may lie ahead.”
For one beat, I pictured my daughter’s pleading eyes and tone this morning and found myself hesitating. Then I envisioned that photo again, coupled with those casual, cruel words, and reassured myself that I was doing the right thing.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m ready.”
* * *
—
THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN I picked Lyla up from school, she would not look at me. Before I could confess, she stared out the window and said, “Please tell me that you weren’t the reason Finch’s parents were at school today.”
I pulled away from the curb and took a deep breath before answering her. “I did call Mr. Quarterman, Lyla. But he had already seen the photo.”
“Wow,” she said, one of her favorite, and my least favorite, declarations. “Just wow.”
“Lyla. I had to—”
“Whatever, Dad,” she said. “Just forget it. You don’t get it. It’s not even worth trying to explain it to you.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” I said. “But I’ll tell you this—you are worth it. And if you can’t see that, I’ve done something wrong.”
As we pulled up to a red light, I turned to stare at her profile, but she refused to look back at me. I could tell in that moment that she had completely shut down, and that she wouldn’t be talking to me anytime soon. I had grown accustomed to the silent treatment over the past year or so, and I actually didn’t hate her tactic. It was better than fighting, and I found that after a little time, tensions eased and things generally resolved themselves.
So I left her alone that night, letting her skip dinner, knowing she’d eventually come out of her room if she got hungry enough. The next morning, too, I didn’t press her, listening to the news on the way to school rather than attempting any sort of conversation.
But by the following night, when she still wasn’t talking to me during our dinner of Chinese takeout, I lost it. I told her I’d had enough of her sulking, and she was lucky I hadn’t punished her for the drinking.
“Okay, Dad,” she said, looking defiant. “You want me to talk to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“Okay. Well, how about this? I hate you.”
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 nic
e 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.”
* * *
—
I RETURNED ABOUT twenty minutes later to an unusually quiet house. On any given day, there were often people milling about our home and property. Landscapers and repairmen; pool boys and Pilates instructors; our occasional chef, Troy; and at the very least, Juana, our full-time housekeeper, who had been with us forever, even when we lived in our old house in Belmont and she only came once a week.
But that afternoon, nobody was there, and I had over an hour to kill before Finch got home from school. The rare solitude filled me with simultaneous relief and panic. I put my bag down in the kitchen and considered making myself lunch, but I had no appetite. So I went to my office, designed as the “servants’ room” back when the house was built in the twenties. It was where I worked on my charities, answered emails, and did my online shopping.
I sat down at the built-in desk, gazing out the window onto the sun-drenched courtyard lined with boxwoods and blue hydrangeas. The view was beautiful, and it usually put me in a cheerful mood, especially this time of year. But now something about it pained me.
I lowered the roman shades and stared down at my desk, searching for a distraction. Still a paper-calendar girl, I flipped open my planner for at least the third time that day, though I already knew nothing was on my schedule this evening—almost as unusual as our empty house. I closed the leather book, then eyed a box of stationery, contemplating writing an overdue thank-you note and an even longer-overdue note of sympathy. I couldn’t muster the energy for either, so I got up and began to pace aimlessly around the house. Every room was neat, pristine, clutter-free. The hardwood floors shone. Throw pillows were fluffed and perfectly arranged. Orchids were in full bloom on three coffee tables in three different rooms. I made a mental note to thank Juana—something I didn’t do enough—for her work and attention to detail. Our home was nothing short of exquisite.
But as with the view from my office window, the beauty inside our home only unsettled me further. It suddenly felt like a farce, and as I passed through the butler’s pantry, I had the urge to grab a piece of crystal from the lit shelves and smash it against the marble countertop, the way people did in the movies when they were really upset. In real life, though, I knew the satisfaction wouldn’t approach the effort required to clean it up. Not to mention the possible risk of cutting myself. Then again, a trip to the emergency room might be a nice diversion, I thought, reaching up to touch a wine goblet.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said aloud, dropping my hand to my side. I turned and made my way down the hallway toward the master suite, which had been added to the house sometime in the nineties. I looked around, my eyes settling on a white-velvet chaise longue I’d had shipped from a Deco furniture store in Miami. It had been a splurge—too much to spend on one chair no matter what name it was given—but I’d told myself I would use it often, meditate or read there every morning. Unfortunately, that seldom seemed to happen. I was always too busy. But I walked over and sat on it now, thinking of Kirk, wondering about his character. How could he so easily gloss over what Finch had done to Lyla? Had he always been th
is way? I really didn’t think so, but if he hadn’t, when did he change? Why hadn’t I noticed? What else was I missing?
I thought about how often my husband traveled and how seldom we were intimate these days. I had no real reason to think that he’d ever been unfaithful, and frankly he seemed to be too into his work to bother with an affair. But I still put the fidelity odds at only about eighty–twenty, then mentally lowered that to seventy–thirty, perhaps a by-product of having a best friend who practiced divorce law.
It had been a few days since Julie and I had communicated even by text, a long stretch for us, and I had to admit that I’d been avoiding her, at least on a subconscious level. I dreaded telling her what Finch had done. It wasn’t that she was holier than thou. In some ways, though she had very high moral standards, she was actually the least judgmental person I knew. But ever since the seventh grade, she’d always given it to me straight. It had caused a few arguments over the years, as sometimes she hurt my feelings with her bluntness. But I cherished our filterless relationship and considered it the truest measure of a best friend, greater than pure affection. Who was the person you trusted enough to be your most transparent self with, in both good times and bad? For me, that person had always been Julie.
So, just as I’d called to tell her about Princeton, feeling confident that there would be no element of competitiveness or resentment in her reaction, I knew I could trust Julie with this. I found my phone in the kitchen, returned to my chair, and dialed her number.
Julie answered on a late ring, sounding breathless, as if she’d just run up a few flights of stairs—or more likely, down the hall of her small law firm.
“Hey. Can you talk?” I asked, part of me hoping she couldn’t, having sudden second thoughts about sharing everything when I was already so drained.
“Yeah,” she said. “I was just reviewing a PI report. It’s a doozy.”
“Your PI?” I asked
“Unfortunately, no. The other side,” she said with a sigh. “I’m representing the wife.”
