All We Ever Wanted(7)

   Meanwhile she gave me a look so grave that I had no real choice but to ask what was wrong.

She inhaled deeply, pressing her palms together while she glanced up at the ceiling, as if gathering strength. “Oh, dear. Do you not know?…” Her voice trailed off.

I knew her pretense to compassion well—and that the charade was simply a precursor to gossip. Perhaps someone had passed out at the dinner table. Or was dancing inappropriately with someone else’s spouse. Or had debuted a bad boob job. There was plenty of fodder to work with at any gala.

“Don’t know what?” I asked, against my better judgment.

She winced, pursed her lips, then drew another amazingly slow breath. “Finch’s Snapchat,” she whispered on the exhale with a fleeting but unmistakable expression of glee.

My heart sank, but I told myself to remain strong, resist her entrapment, say nothing. So that’s what I did, simply staring at my own reflection, brushing an additional layer of gloss over my lipstick.

It was clear that my silence both confused and frustrated her, and it took her a few seconds to find her footing. “You obviously haven’t seen…?”

“No. I don’t have Snapchat,” I said, seizing a slice of the moral high ground that comes with opting out of any form of social media.

She let out a little laugh. “Well, good heavens, I don’t either. And even if I did, it wasn’t on his ‘story.’…Apparently he sent the photo to his friends.”

“Then how did you see it?” I asked, putting my gloss back in my bag.

“Someone took a screenshot and it spread. Like wildfire…Lucinda sent it to me a few minutes ago. During Kirk’s speech, actually. But don’t worry. She won’t share it further. She’s very discreet when it comes to these sorts of things, and we’ve been strict with her about appropriate usage of social media.”

   “That’s so kind of her,” I said, thinking of Kathie’s daughter Lucinda, and how she shared her mother’s meddling tendencies. My mind raced with the possibilities. What could Finch possibly have texted that could warrant all of this drama? Perhaps he’d bragged a bit too much about Princeton? Or maybe he was drinking a beer in celebration? I reminded myself to consider the source—that this was vintage Kathie, stirring the pot so she could look superior, then play savior. But I still caved, turning away from the mirror and staring directly into her bug eyes. “So what was in the photo, Kathie?”

“It was a photo of a girl,” she quickly replied, lowering her voice to a loud whisper, likely hoping that people were eavesdropping.

“And? So?” I said, trying to remain unflappable.

“So,” she began. “So…the girl was basically…naked.”

“What? Naked?” I said, crossing my arms in disbelief. There was no way, no chance Finch would ever do something so stupid. Everyone knew that that was 101 on how to get thrown out of Windsor, right up there with stealing.

“Well…half naked, anyway…”

I bit my lower lip, now envisioning a lingerie-clad model—or perhaps a risqué photo of Polly, who could be known to dress a bit provocatively, but no worse than many of the other girls. “Well,” I said, turning again toward the door. “Kids will do that—”

Kathie cut me off. “Nina. She was passed out. On a bed.”

“Who is this she?” I snapped.

   “Her name is Lyla. I guess she’s a sophomore at Windsor? Hispanic girl. Maybe you should see it….” She whipped her phone out of her Chanel bag and pulled up her text messages, an image filling her screen. She held it out for me to see.

I took a deep breath and looked down. At first glance, all I saw was a girl lying on her back on a bed, mostly dressed or at least far from naked, and I felt a small wave of relief. But as I peered more closely, I saw the details. Her little black dress hitched both up and down, as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to yank it off—or haphazardly put it back on. Her thighs slightly apart. Her calves dangling over the foot of the bed, her bare feet not quite touching the floor. And her left breast spilling out of a bra, nipple and all.

There were other details, too, less jarring than the girl herself, though somehow still disturbing. The dingy clutter of a teen boy’s bedroom. A tan comforter. A nightstand covered with beer bottles and crumpled tissues. A poster of a band I didn’t recognize, its members grungy, menacing, tattooed. And very strangely, a green Uno card in the girl’s left hand, her fingers curled around it, her nails painted crimson.

I took a few breaths, trying to remain calm, hoping that there was some explanation. That, at the very least, this image had nothing to do with Finch.

“Did you read the caption?” Kathie asked, still holding the phone in front of my face.

I looked down again, squinting at the photo, this time seeing Finch’s name, as well as the words that were typed onto the image, blending in with the comforter. I read them, hearing Finch’s voice: Looks like she got her green card.

My heart sank as any defense of my child melted away.

“I’m sorry,” Kathie said, slowly pulling her phone away from me, then stowing it in her bag. “I especially hate that this happened on a night when you and Kirk are being honored….I just thought you should know.”