All We Ever Wanted(24)

“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!”