All We Ever Wanted(22)
“Yeah, we’ll try to swing by,” Grace said, as if we’d scored plenty of invites to senior parties.
I followed her lead and said, “Yeah. We’ll try, for sure.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, we continued to play it cool as we got ready for the party over FaceTime, holding up various outfits while we strategized what I would tell my dad. I certainly didn’t tell him about the party. Dad is stricter than her parents, and I couldn’t risk that he might tell me I couldn’t go, or God forbid, call Beau’s parents, who I felt fairly confident did not know about their son’s gathering. I’d heard plenty of rumors about how much Beau got away with.
Predictably, I had some trouble getting out of the house, and I almost overplayed my hand by telling Dad I was going to be studying. He totally called bullshit on that but ultimately let me go, just giving his usual overprotective spiel about being careful.
And I was careful. At first. So was Grace. We only had one drink while we got dressed at her house—Chardonnay that we drank from stemmed glasses. It was all very grown-up and civilized, and we vowed that we wouldn’t get drunk or make asses out of ourselves.
But then we got to Beau’s, and I felt so nervous and giddy in Finch’s company outside of school that I sort of forgot my promise to myself and started downing Jack and Cokes.
At one point, Grace and I stood in the kitchen, covertly watching Finch and his friends across the room, cracking up and ripping on each other while they played a variation of Uno as a drinking game. Every few minutes, Polly would come over and sit on the arm of his chair, leaning down to whisper something in his ear or rub his neck. She was wearing a light denim miniskirt, a white tank top, and gladiator sandals, the straps winding halfway up her long, thin calves. Her strawberry-blond hair was in a loose French braid, and she wore turquoise earrings and a leather choker. I was so jealous of her that it hurt—literally gave me chest pains—and I told Grace I wanted to leave. Then I caught Finch looking over at me. He smiled, and I smiled back. Grace saw it, too, and actually got excited for me. “Oh my God,” she said. “He’s flirting with you right in front of Polly!”
“I know,” I said, still making eye contact with him, my heart racing.
A few minutes later, after Polly had sucked Finch into some kind of side drama, Grace and I went upstairs and joined a few random people who were chilling in Beau’s bedroom, vaping and listening to stoner music. We took a couple of hits, and also drank a beer from the stash in Beau’s bathtub, but Grace eventually declared the mood “way too mellow” and went back downstairs. Feeling a little dizzy and tired, I told her I was going to stay put for a bit, then curled up on Beau’s bed so that I could close my eyes for a few seconds. Grace said okay and promised to be right back. And that’s the last thing I really remember before I dozed off.
The next thing I knew I was on my bathroom floor, puking and crying next to my dad.
All the following night, Lyla continued to beg me not to, in her words, “narc on Finch.” She threw out every rationale imaginable. That I was blowing things out of proportion. That Finch was usually a nice guy and did we really want to ruin his future? (Um, yes, I did.) That if I “made a big deal out of it,” it would only mean more eyes on the photo, and she might even end up getting in trouble for drinking at the party. (Her most solid points, but risks I was willing to take in exchange for simple justice.)
I pretended to give it some thought, vacillating for a second or two here and there, but on Monday morning, when we pulled into the circular driveway in front of her school filled with all those entitled rich kids, I knew there was no way in hell I could just drop it. What kind of message about her self-worth would that send to her?
“Have a great day, Dad,” Lyla said, getting out of the car, pleading with her eyes.
“You, too, honey,” I said, looking away.
She continued to stare at me, then said under her breath, “Please don’t call the school today, Dad.”
“I love you,” I said in response.
“Love you, too, Dad,” she said, closing the door. I watched her walk a few steps before I drove away, feeling nauseated.
After her drop-off, I drove to my workshop, but I remained in my car as I looked up the number for Windsor’s headmaster. Lyla referred to him as Mr. Q and seemed to indicate that she liked him, but the few times I’d met him, I’d gotten an intellectual, elitist vibe. So I braced myself for the worst-case scenario as I entered his number on my phone. I couldn’t imagine him outright siding with Finch, but I know the way the world works. For one, birds of a feather. For another, guys like Finch always get away with things—and a lifetime accumulation of no consequences was how we probably got to this point.
My jaw clenched as I listened to the sound of his phone ringing. A woman answered. “Mr. Quarterman’s office,” she said.
“Is he there, please?” I said.
She informed me that Mr. Quarterman was in a meeting, then asked if she could take a message.
“Yes. You can,” I said tersely. “This is Tom Volpe. I’m Lyla Volpe’s father. She’s a sophomore.”
“Okaaay. And this is…regarding…?” she said.
I bristled. To be fair, this woman had no way of knowing that I was calling about a serious matter. But her blasé tone still annoyed me. I took a breath, then said, “This is regarding an offensive photo of my daughter taken by another Windsor student.”