All We Ever Wanted(91)

   Around six o’clock, I awaken to another text message from Polly. This one is a photo. I brace myself as I click on it, waiting for it to download, somehow knowing that it’s going to be bad.

But it turns out to be much, much worse than anything I could have imagined. Because it’s another photo of me on Beau’s bed. A close-up of my face with a semi-hard penis resting on the bridge of my nose, pointing toward my mouth, almost touching my lips. At first I think it must be Photoshopped in—it’s just so shocking and horrible and disgusting. But after staring at it a few seconds, I can tell that it’s not. It’s real. A real penis touching my face. I can’t say for sure who it belongs to, but I think I may recognize it, along with the hand holding it.

My heart shatters as another ellipses appears, followed by a plea. Please, please call me.

This time, I do.

Polly answers, saying only hi. But in that one syllable, I can tell she’s been crying, probably for a long time.

“Where did you get that?” I say, too shocked to cry myself. “Did Finch send you that?”

“No. It’s actually a photo I took off his phone. They don’t know I have it,” she says, her words slurring together a little.

“They?” I ask, even though I already have a pretty good guess who his wingman is.

“Finch and Beau. I found so many photos of them with girls,” she says. “Including me.”

“You?” I say, floored.

“Yeah. And videos of me and him, too,” she mumbles. “Sex videos he told me he deleted. But they’re all there. On his phone…”

“Oh my God, Polly!” I say, completely freaking out. “You have to tell on him. We both do!”

   “No,” she says. “I can’t. My parents would kill me.”

“But we can’t let him get away with this!” I say. “We can’t!”

“It’s too late.”

“What do you mean it’s too late?” I shout. “The Honor Council meets tomorrow. It’s not too late at all!”

“I can’t….I’d rather be in trouble for what they’re saying I did than have my parents see all of this.”

“No!” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You just had sex with a boy you liked.”

“You don’t know my parents,” she says, her voice sounding oddly distant. “I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t…I just want to disappear…forever.”

“No, wait! Polly!” I yell into the phone, but she’s already hung up.

My mind races, wondering what to do, just as I hear my dad call me for dinner. I suddenly want to see him—if only not to be alone—and practically run to the table.

“Voilà. Linguine and clams,” he says when I get there. “Just pretend they’re not from a can. And the broccoli’s not from a bag!”

I manage to force a smile. But of course he sees how fake it is and says, “Are things really that bad?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I say, feeling shaky. “Kinda. Yes.”

“Talk to me,” he says through the steam still rising from our plates of pasta.

I want to tell him. I really do. I even take a deep breath and try to tell him. But I just can’t. Not about this. I get one of my intense pangs of wishing Mom were around. Well, maybe not Mom herself. But a normal mother.

“Lyla? What’s going on?”

I shake my head, then tell him the truth. That I love him and he’s a great father, but this just isn’t the kind of thing I want to talk with him about. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

   I expect him to get frustrated, maybe even angry, but instead he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Post-it note. He slides it across the table and says, “Here.”

I look down and see Nina Browning’s full name printed in small, pretty script. Under it is her phone number. “She gave me this today—to give to you.”

“Why?” I say, picking it up, surprised to realize that there is nothing I’d rather be holding at this second than Mrs. Browning’s phone number.

Dad shrugs and says, “I guess because she’s worried about you. And she likes you. She said you could call her. Anytime.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s so nice.”

Dad nods and says, “Yes. She is nice.” Then he picks up his fork and suggests we eat.

“Dad? Can I please be excused?” I ask.

He looks surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, but simply says, “Yes. Go ahead. You can eat later.”



* * *



—

A MINUTE LATER, I’m back in my bedroom, the note still in my hand. I dial her number. “Mrs. Browning?” I say when she answers on the first ring.

“Yes. Is this Lyla?”

“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”

“No,” she says. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”

Feeling overcome with relief that she’s so nearby, I ask her if she’ll come get me. I tell her that I need to talk to someone about Polly. That it’s kind of an emergency. That I’m worried she may try to hurt herself.