All We Ever Wanted(81)

   “Oh my God, Nina,” Teddy whispers, his eyes filling with tears. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah. That was the point,” I say. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“You should’ve told me. I would have been there for you.”

“I know,” I say, wishing I could go back in time. Wishing I could do so many things differently.





Iforgot to close my blinds before bed last night, and the first thing I see when I wake up is Dad outside my window, crouched on our front porch with the garden hose, a big brush, and a bucket. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up, and his intense scrubbing motion reminds me of watching him saw or sand in his workshop. With a sickening hunch of what’s happening, I get out of bed and go over to the window. That’s when I see the neon orange letters sprayed onto the front porch. SLU is all that remains, but I know what letter is missing, and what the word once was.

I feel as if I’m going to throw up—literally—so I run to my bathroom, flip open the lid of the toilet, and wait. Nothing happens, fear and dread replacing my nausea. I walk back out to the hall, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, then open the front door, feeling the chill of the spring morning.

Dad, who is still on his hands and knees, glances up at me and says, “Go back in the house.” His voice is calm, but I know from experience not to be fooled. We are in the eye of a really bad storm.

I tell myself that I need to follow his instructions, but I just stand there. I just stand there, staring. Most of the U is now gone, leaving only the SL. There are so many things I could be thinking right now, but I find myself feeling extreme gratitude that the paint is washable when it could have been permanent. Somehow I know that Dad isn’t seeing that bright side.

   “I said go back in the house!” Dad raises his voice this time but does not look up at me.

I back away a few steps, retreating inside, then run to my bedroom to get my phone. I have no new messages, nothing that came in since I last checked, sometime in the middle of the night. I quickly dial Finch.

“Good morning,” he says, sounding day-after-sex chipper.

“No, it’s not,” I say, watching Dad from the window again. He is standing now, spraying the area with the hose, the nozzle on the most concentrated setting. Orange-tinted sudsy water runs down the steps and onto the edges of our lawn.

“What’s wrong?” Finch asks.

“Somebody spray-painted our porch,” I say.

“Huh?” he says.

“Like, with graffiti. Someone vandalized our property. Our porch.”

“Oh, shhit,” Finch says. “What’d they write?”

It takes me a second to answer. “Slut,” I make myself say, feeling a wave of shame. “My dad’s out there cleaning it off right now. He’s so pissed.”

“God. That sucks. I feel terrible.”

“It’s not your fault,” I mumble, my face burning. “I bet it was Polly.”

“I’m sure it was….Do y’all have cameras?”

“No,” I say, thinking of the Brownings’ security alarm—and all the nice things inside their house that need to be protected.

“Maybe your neighbors do?”

   “Pretty sure they don’t,” I say, feeling a twinge of annoyance. I get that he’s just trying to be helpful—but he has to know that nobody has security cameras in my neighborhood.

“I’ll call Polly,” he says. “I’ll get the truth out of her.”

“No,” I say, knowing it won’t do any good—she’ll just deny it, and it might even make things worse for me. “Please don’t do that.”

“Okay,” he says, but he still sounds really pissed.

“Finch?” I say nervously. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Did you…tell anyone?” I ask, my voice shaking a little. “What we did?”

“Hell, no,” Finch says.

I believe him but want more reassurance. “Not even Beau?”

“No. Nobody,” he says. “I don’t kiss and tell, Lyla.”

“Okay,” I say, wishing, for one second, that it were only a question of kissing. Polly would still think what she was going to think, but I’d sure feel better about looking my dad in the eye. I also can’t help but think of how much easier it is to be a boy than to be a girl. Nobody is gonna write the word slut on Finch’s porch, that’s for damn sure.

“Did you take a picture?” Finch asks. “Of your porch?”

“Um, no. Why would I do that?”

“For evidence. You need to show Mr. Q.”

“No, Finch. There’s no way I’m telling Mr. Q. I don’t want this spread all over school. It’s bad enough that everyone’s gonna know I went over to your house yesterday.”

“So?” Finch says. “You have every right to come over to my house and hang out. We’re friends.”

My heart sinks as I blurt out, “Is that all we are?” I hate that I’m asking the question, but I can’t help myself.

“You know what I mean….I mean…it’s more than that, obviously. I’m totally into you,” Finch says, his voice turning soft. “And I love what we did yesterday.”