All We Ever Wanted(23)

“I beg your pardon?” she said, as if I’d just offended her.

My blood pressure starting to soar, I talked with exaggerated slowness. “One of Windsor’s students…a boy by the name of Finch Browning, took a photo of my daughter, Lyla, at a party over the weekend….She was asleep, and her breast was exposed,” I said. “He then proceeded to give the photo a racist caption before sending it along to his buddies. I am beyond livid and would like to discuss this matter with Walter Quarterman. Today.”

   “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Volpe,” she said, her whole tone changing into one of grave concern. “Let me track him down right away. What number is best for you?”

I gave her my cell, then hung up without saying goodbye.

Within moments, my phone rang.

“Hello. This is Tom,” I said.

“Mr. Volpe?”

“Yes.”

“This is Walter Quarterman. Returning your call.” His voice was softer than I remembered from his school persona, almost in the category of gentle. It disarmed me but not enough to offer any niceties. Instead, I got right down to business, telling the whole story and sparing no details, including the fact that Lyla had been consuming alcohol. He did not interrupt once and waited until I was completely finished before he told me he had actually already seen the photograph, that another parent had sent it to him over the weekend.

I felt a strange mix of relief and rage. I was glad he had seen it—it was very difficult to capture the essence of the offensive image with mere words. But I was incrementally more pissed that he, and others, had seen my little girl in such a state. And why hadn’t he called me first?

“And you saw his caption, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It was appalling. I’m so sorry.”

I eased up just a bit as he went on to tell me he’d already made a call to Finch’s parents. “I can assure you that we will get to the bottom of this, and address it appropriately.” He spoke calmly but not condescendingly.

“Thank you,” I said.

   “I do need to inform you of one thing, Mr. Volpe,” he said. “I hesitate to even bring this up, because it’s so ancillary to the issue at hand, but are you aware that drinking, even off campus, is against Windsor’s Code of Conduct?”

“Yes,” I said, although I’d done a little research last night and knew from reading the online Windsor handbook that there was no formal punishment for the first documented use of drugs or alcohol, simply a warning that went into a student’s file. This was Lyla’s first offense and, in my mind, would only reinforce our discussion about drinking and serve as a deterrent for the future. I said as much to Quarterman, then added, “I want you to know I take drinking very seriously.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You’d be surprised, Tom, that many parents really do not….It makes things much more difficult when students are getting mixed signals from the adults in their lives.”

“Yes,” I said. I hesitated, then added, “Lyla’s mother is an alcoholic.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, actually sounding sorry.

“It’s fine,” I said. “She’s not in our lives….It’s just…part of my daughter’s medical history….That’s why I mention it.”

“Of course.”

“And as a result of her drinking, you should be aware that my daughter was passed out when that photo was taken of her. It wasn’t as if she posed for it….She was unconscious…completely vulnerable.”

“I know, Tom.”

“In some ways, the caption actually upsets me more than the photo,” I said, because if I was being painfully honest with myself, I could imagine taking a similar shot when I was a dipshit teenager—if I’d grown up in a cellphone generation, had a buzz, and seen a girl with her boob hanging out of her dress. The caption, though, was a different story altogether. It was not only ignorant—Lyla was as American as the boy was—but also offensive. “It was way out of line.”

   “I agree one hundred percent.”

“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.