Teddy meets my gaze, then, not bothering to dispute a basic fact, says, “On some level, you didn’t think I was good enough for you. You wanted more. It’s okay. You can admit it.”
“That’s not true,” I answer quickly and emphatically.
“Then what was it?” he says. “Was it Kirk? Had you already met him?”
“No,” I say. “I promise. That wasn’t it.”
“Then why? Not that it matters at this point…”
My stomach in knots, I’m at a loss for what to tell him other than the truth. In a million years I would never have imagined sitting on my parents’ porch with Teddy, twenty-some years later, telling him how I was raped. But that’s exactly what I do. I report the facts, like a journalist, trying to get through the story without breaking down.
“So you see? I didn’t think you weren’t good enough for me,” I finish, feeling eighteen again—Finch’s age. A brokenhearted eighteen. “I felt I wasn’t good enough for you.”
“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.”
I smile, feeling warmth spread across my body, my regret immediately dissolving.
“I want to do it again,” he whispers.
Dizzy, I whisper back, “Me, too.”
* * *
—
DAD DOESN’T SPEAK to me on the way to school, and I can’t tell if he’s more mad or upset. I decide that it’s too risky to initiate conversation of any kind—so I keep my mouth shut for the entire torturous ride. When we arrive, he parks in a visitor spot rather than pulling into the circular driveway for drop-off, and I panic.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, though it’s perfectly clear.
“I’m going in. To talk to Quarterman.”
My mind races for a reasonable objection, as I lamely point out that he has paint all over his clothes and hands.
“So?” Dad says.
I think of the movie Jackie. How Mrs. Kennedy kept her blood-splattered pink suit on because she wanted everyone to see what had been done to her husband. Not that I’m comparing the assassination of a president to our vandalized porch, but I can tell Dad, on some level, is glad that he’s covered in paint. After all, he could have easily changed his clothes before we got in the car.
“Dad. Please let me handle this,” I begin to plead, but he shakes his head, as if to tell me there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. Then he adds, “Is there anything you want to tell me before I go inside?”
I shake my head.
“So you don’t know who did this?”
I shake my head again. “I don’t, Dad.”
“Do you have a clue? An…inkling?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?” he says.
/> “I mean…it could be anyone. It could be totally random.”
My last statement is ludicrous, but Dad nods, maybe wanting to believe that this could be true. That it was random vandalism—that nobody actually thinks his daughter is a slut.
“Okay. So hopefully this has nothing to do with the concert on Saturday night? Or you going over to Finch’s yesterday?” Dad says sarcastically.
I look at him, shocked and ashamed, as he shakes his head sadly, then gets out of the car.
I’m far from composed, but somehow I manage to keep my shit together for the first few minutes in Quarterman’s office. Even as I show him the photo of the word SLUT sprayed across our porch, I keep my voice low, just as I did in the car with Lyla. Somehow, it helps that Quarterman is visibly outraged.
“I am so sorry, Tom. This is terrible. Just terrible,” he says, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
“No,” I say.
“Does Lyla know anything?”
“She says she doesn’t.”
“Do you believe her?”
I let out a big sigh and shake my head. “No. Actually, I don’t. But I can’t figure out whether she’s covering for someone—or whether she’s just scared.”
“Of repercussions?” Quarterman asks.
“Yeah…This whole situation…with Finch…It’s gotten so out of hand….”
Quarterman furrows his brow, peering over at me. “How so? What’s going on now?”
I exhale, then say, “I don’t even know where to begin….”
“Just share whatever you’d like to share,” he says. “I promise you, Tom. I’m on your side here. I just want to help you and Lyla.”
For some odd reason, and despite the knowledge that he has to also be concerned about his other students, as well as the reputation of his school, I do trust him. Or maybe it’s just sheer desperation. But I start talking. I tell him about my meeting with Kirk, Nina and Finch’s visit Saturday morning—and Finch’s apology while I was out of the room. I tell him about the concert—and that Lyla went over to the Brownings’ yesterday, without permission or supervision. I read aloud Nina’s text message about Polly.
“Have you spoken with Nina?” he asks when I finish. “Since those texts?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not yet…But crazily enough, I feel like she’s an ally here. To Lyla.”
“Yes,” Quarterman says, nodding. “I think she’s really trying to do the right thing.”
Before I can respond, we hear a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Quarterman calls out.
We both stare at the door, waiting, as it opens a crack.
“Yes?” Quarterman says again, now sounding annoyed. “May I help you?”
The door opens farther, and there stands Finch.
“Excuse me, son,” Quarterman says in a stern voice. “We’re in a meeting here.”
“I’m sorry,” Finch says, but he doesn’t budge, other than to open the door a little more and throw out some bait. “But I just had some information about…what happened last night.”
Quarterman stands and waves Finch over to his desk. “In that case, come in. Have a seat.”
I tell myself to remain calm, as Finch sits in the chair beside me.
“Who did it?” I say, my voice rising. “Who spray-painted our porch?”
Finch takes a deep breath, finally showing his nerves—or at the very least, some pretty solid acting skills. “Polly did it,” he says, speaking rapidly. “Or one of her friends. If she didn’t do it herself, she knows who did. She was involved for sure.”
“Son, this is a pretty big accusation to make,” Quarterman says. “Do you have any sort of proof?”
“Not concrete proof,” Finch says. “But yesterday…Polly called Lyla…that word.”
“You mean a slut?” I force myself to say, my heart pounding in my ears.
Finch holds my gaze, then slowly nods. “Yes, sir. That’s the word she used.”
Something inside me snaps, and I lean toward him, seething. “Do you think you’re at all responsible here?”
Finch shakes his head and says, “No, sir. I didn’t do anything to your porch.”
“Well, don’t you think your photo of my daughter contributed to this?”
Finch returns my angry glare with a blank stare. Any goodwill built up from his visit Saturday morning goes out the window, and I have to fight a strong urge to lunge at him.
“I don’t understand what you mean—” he begins.
“What Mr. Volpe is saying,” Quarterman translates for me, “is that your photo—the one you took of Lyla—has perhaps put all of this in motion.”
Finch blinks, then boldly shakes his head and says, “No, sir. With all due respect, I do not agree with that statement.”
This time, I do leap out of my seat, taking some satisfaction at the look of fear on his face.
“Mr. Volpe! Wait! Please listen!” he shouts, holding his palms up. “I didn’t take that photo of Lyla! And I didn’t write the caption. And I didn’t send it to anyone!”
“What?” Quarterman and I shout in unison.
“I swear!” Finch continues. “Ask Lyla. She knows it’s the truth!”
“Well, you either lied then, or you’re lying now. Which is it?” Quarterman asks.
“I was lying then, sir. And I’m very sorry for that. But I’m telling you the truth now. I didn’t take the photo of Lyla.”
“Well?” I yell at him. “Who took it, then?”
“Polly took it,” he says, glancing at Quarterman, then back at me. “I was covering for her….But after what she said to Lyla? And what she wrote on your porch? She doesn’t deserve my help.”
He shakes his head, then stares me down so boldly that I am positive only one of two scenarios can be true. Finch is either completely innocent or a total sociopath. He’s either more like his mother or exactly like his father. I have no clue which one it is, but I will find out.
Iwake up a little after 4:00 A.M. in my childhood bedroom, knowing that I won’t be able to fall back asleep. I’m just too anxious, my mind spinning with thoughts of the past, the future, and the miserable moment of limbo that I’m in. Part of me regrets my candor last night. First in telling everyone about my plans to file for divorce—because no matter what he’s done, Kirk deserves the respect of hearing my decision before others. But also in telling Teddy about what happened to me in college. I know what they say about the truth setting you free, but really, what was the point in worrying and upsetting everyone?
Worse than regret about my past decisions, I dread what’s to come. I dread seeing Kirk, and I dread confronting Finch about the concert and the incident at our home. But I know I must, and that there is no point in stalling any further. So I get up, quickly make the bed, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I throw my pajamas and toiletries back into my overnight bag and tiptoe downstairs, expecting to leave a goodbye note and slip out the door. But my mother is sitting in her bathrobe at the counter, playing solitaire on her laptop.
“You’re leaving?” she says, glancing up at me before clicking on her next move. “So early?”
“Yeah. I have a lot of stuff I need to do today.”
She nods, then asks if she can make me a cup of coffee for the road.
“That would be great, Mom,” I say. “Thank you.”
She stands, walks over to the stove, and turns on the kettle. I smile to myself, realizing that she means instant coffee. Sure enough, she pulls out a jar of Folgers, along with powdered creamer and packets of Splenda and Equal.
“Black’s fine,” I say, thinking I might dump it out once I’m on the road and wait until I pass a Starbucks, or at least a Chick-fil-A. Then again, maybe my mom’s instant coffee is exactly what I need right now.
We both lea
n against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, looking straight at each other. “I’m so sorry about you and Kirk,” she finally says.
“I know, Mom,” I say. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I know this is none of my business, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she begins—which is sort of an unprecedented disclaimer for my mom. “But…do you think there’s someone else?”
I shrug and say, “Honestly, Mom? I’m not really sure. Probably so…But that’s not really why I’m leaving….I could get over an affair, I think, if that were the only issue.”
“You could?” she says.
“Yeah. I think so. Good people make mistakes,” I say, hoping this statement applies to Finch. “But…I’m afraid that Kirk isn’t a good person anymore.”
Mom nods, not even making a cursory attempt to come to the defense of her son-in-law.
“Did you ever like him?” I ask, thinking of Julie’s putt-putt memories.
“Of course I did,” she says a little too automatically.
“Really?” I say. “You can tell me the truth…please.”
Mom sighs, then says, “Well, in the beginning? I was unsure. I liked him, but I thought he was a little snobby, and that you two didn’t really…fit together….But I could tell you felt he was what you needed….”
“I did,” I say, nodding, amazed that my mother saw this so clearly—even before I did. Yet I also feel wistful for how things could have turned out. How we could have evolved together in a different direction.
“And I did love how he took care of you. He was a gentleman. But somewhere along the line that changed,” she says. “He changed. He seems a bit…selfish now.”
“I know,” I say, thinking that was an understatement. “When do you think that happened? When he sold his company?”
“I think so, yes,” she says. “He just got a little big for his britches. And I also think he started to take you for granted….There’s a certain…lack of respect that disturbs your father and me.”
I nod, knowing she’s right, cringing at the example Kirk has been setting for Finch—and the fact that I’ve allowed it to go on for so long. I say as much to my mom, and then add a hopeful, “Better late than never?”