All We Ever Wanted Page 6

  “Well, we need to tell him that—”

  “Kirk,” I said. “Banning Finch from all social interaction—”

  “And driving, except to school,” Kirk said.

  “And yes, driving his Mercedes SUV anywhere but school—”

  “Why do you say it like that, Nina? You agreed on buying that car for him.”

  It was an ancient battle. It had been nearly two years since I had argued it was outrageously excessive to buy a sixteen-year-old a G-wagon, and Kirk had replied that it was excessive only if we couldn’t afford it—and we could. I remember how he had deftly compared it to our furniture—and my wardrobe, saying some might consider those things “excessive,” too. At the time, I was flustered—because he was right, at least on the surface. Only later did I distinguish the difference. Namely, that I wasn’t a teenager. I was an adult. For Finch, a car like his was a windfall, an indulgence, a tacit seal of entitlement. Moreover, I often had the feeling, with both Kirk and Finch, that they wanted things for the status of owning them, and I can honestly say that I’d never, not once, purchased anything with the goal of impressing anyone. I just loved design and fashion. For myself.

  “I know I agreed to get him the car,” I said. “And I regret it….Don’t you see that it might have contributed to this?”

  “No,” Kirk said. “I don’t.”

  “Not at all? Don’t you think spoiling him has had a cumulative effect?”

  I heard more clicking as he mumbled, “What happened Saturday night has nothing to do with being spoiled. It was just stupid….” His voice trailed off, and I could tell he was only half focused on our conversation.

  “Kirk. What are you doing?”

  He launched into a technical explanation of his current consulting gig—something about a CRM implementation.

  “Well, I’m sorry this is interfering with your work, but do you think you could stop doing it for a few minutes and focus on Finch?”

  “Yeah, Nina. That’s fine,” he said with a sigh. “But we’ve been over this a hundred times. All day yesterday. What he did was wrong. And he needs to be punished. He is being punished. But he’s a good kid. He just made a mistake. And the car and our lifestyle choices have nothing to do with the poor judgment he exercised on Saturday night. He’s a typical high school boy. Boys do dumb things sometimes.”

  “Regardless,” I said. “We still have to deal with it….I still need to return Walter’s call.”

  “Okay. So then go call him,” he said, as if I were the one trying his patience.

  “I’m about to,” I said. “But I wanted to check with you first. What time is your flight?” I couldn’t remember the details of his trip, whether it was for business or pleasure or, most likely, pleasure disguised as business.

  “Three-thirty,” he replied.

  “Great. So you have time.”

  “Not really. I have a meeting and a couple calls before then.”

  I took a deep breath. “So should I just go ahead and tell Walter that you’re unavailable because you have more important things to do today?”

  “Jesus, Nina,” he said, now on speakerphone. “No, you shouldn’t tell him that. You should tell him that we are aware of the situation. We are handling it at home. But of course we would be happy to discuss it with him. However, nothing works for our schedule today. I could come in later in the week….Or we could do a conference call on my way to the airport?”

  “I don’t think Walter wants to do a conference call,” I said. “He asked us to come in and see him. Today.”

  “Well. As I said. I cannot. So maybe you could just go alone.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I trust you to handle this one and represent us both.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. Was he being passive-aggressive? Or was he burying his head in the sand? Or did he actually think that what Finch had done was not that big a deal?

  “Don’t you realize what’s happening here?” I finally asked. “Finch is in trouble. With Walter Quarterman. With Windsor Academy. He’s in trouble for posting a sexually explicit photo with a racist caption. This is real.”

  “C’mon, Nina. Stop exaggerating. The picture was not sexually explicit. Or racist.”

  “Well, I disagree. And more important, I think Walter disagrees. Clearly he thinks there should be consequences to this post—”

  “Would you please stop saying that? He didn’t post anything. He sent it to a few friends,” Kirk said.

  “What difference does that make?” I shouted. “He might as well have posted it! Everyone forwarded it around. You know a kid got thrown out of Windsor for sending a picture of his penis—”

  “C’mon, Nina. This wasn’t a dick pic. It was a little side boob.”

  “Kirk! First of all, this was no side boob. Everyone and their grandmother knows that it comes down to whether or not the nipple is showing. But let’s put that aside. How about the racist caption?”

  “It wasn’t that racist.”

  “Like not being that pregnant?”

  “There are degrees of racism. There are no degrees of pregnancy. You either are or you aren’t,” he said. “And this is a classic example of political correctness run amok.”

  “ ‘Looks like she got her green card’?” I said slowly. “You think that’s okay, Kirk?”

  “No. I don’t think it’s okay. I think it’s extremely rude, and yes, it’s a little racist….And I’m very disappointed in him. Very. You know that. Finch knows that. But I don’t think it rises to the level of me changing my flight so that both of his parents can sit through being chastised by the raging liberal headmaster of Windsor Academy.”

  “This isn’t about politics, Kirk,” I said, wondering how I seemed to be losing ground since yesterday. It was as if work was more important to him than Finch.

  “I know that. But Walt will do his best to turn it into something political. Just wait and see—”

  “You know Windsor has an honor code—”

  “But Finch didn’t break the honor code, Nina,” he said. “You and I read it together. There was no lying. No cheating. No stealing. It was an off-color remark, but he sent it privately—and he wasn’t on school property. He wasn’t using a school device, and he wasn’t on their network. I really think that this is being blown out of proportion—and everyone is overreacting.”

  “Okay,” I snapped. “So what you’re telling me is that I won’t be seeing you at the meeting?”

  “Not if it’s today,” he said. “Because I’m not changing my flight.”

  “Well, it’s good to be clear about what, exactly, your priorities are. I’ll tell Walter you were otherwise engaged, and I’ll try to remember to send you an update on our son’s future,” I said, slamming down the phone.

  * * *

  —

  I DIDN’T KNOW if it was the hang up that did the trick, or whether I’d gotten through to him about the stakes involved, or whether he simply didn’t trust me to handle the meeting his way. But after I’d CCed him on an exchange with Walter’s assistant in which we’d scheduled a two o’clock meeting, Kirk pulled into the Windsor guest parking lot about five seconds after I did. We made eye contact through our car windows, and he gave me a conciliatory wave. I forced a smile back, still pissed, but also intensely relieved that I wasn’t going into that school alone.

  “Hi, honey,” he said a little sheepishly after we both got out of our cars and stepped onto the sidewalk. He leaned in to kiss my cheek, resting his hand on my back. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, softening slightly. It wasn’t often that Kirk actually apologized—so it always meant something to me. “So you got a later flight?”

  “Yeah, but I’m in coach. Business class was fully booked,” he said.

  Oh, cry me a river, I thoug
ht, as we walked toward the entrance of the building, its stone Gothic architecture seeming more foreboding than it ever had, including when I brought Finch here a dozen years ago for his admissions interview.

  Kirk opened the door for me, and we entered the quiet, overly air-conditioned lobby, which was more like a foyer, decorated with antiques, oil paintings, and Oriental rugs. The longtime receptionist, Sharon, looked up from a file folder to say hello. She had to know who we were by now, but she pretended that she didn’t.

  “Hello. We’re here to see Mr. Quarterman,” I said, my stomach in knots.

  Sharon nodded briskly, then pointed to the clipboard on the counter in front of her. “If you’d sign in, please?”

  I carefully printed our names, just as Walter entered behind us, carrying an old-school leather briefcase with a hue that verged toward orange.

  “Kirk. Nina. Hello. Perfect timing,” he said, his expression as inscrutable as Sharon’s.

  We said hello back, and he quickly thanked us for coming in on such short notice.

  “No problem,” Kirk said lightly.

  “Of course,” I said, nodding.

  “Let’s head to my office?” Walter said, gesturing down the hall.

  I nodded again as he led us down a long corridor. Along the way, he made measured small talk, first remarking on the speed of the passing school year, then apologizing for the construction noise coming from the renovation of the athletic facilities across the courtyard.

  “It’s looking good,” Kirk said.

  “Yes. Still in Phase One, though. We have a ways to go,” Walter said.

  “How’s the capital campaign coming along? Have we reached our goal yet?” Kirk asked. I knew his question was purposeful, and I had the feeling Walter knew it, too.

  “We have,” he replied. “Thank you again for your very generous contribution to the campaign.”

  “Of course,” Kirk said, as I thought of the form letter we’d received thanking us for our pledge, along with the hand-scrawled note from Walter at the bottom: We appreciate you! Go Wildcats!

  A few seconds of silence later, we rounded the corner into Walter’s office. I realized it was the first time in all these years that I’d actually been inside it, and for a few seconds, I just took in the details—the dark wood ceiling beams. The wall of books. The large desk covered with stacks of papers and more books. Then, as we walked the whole way in, I spotted Finch, sitting forlornly on a wingback chair, wearing his school uniform of khakis, a white button-down, and a navy blazer. His hands were folded in his lap, his head lowered.

  “Hello, Finch,” Walter said.

  “Hello, Mr. Quarterman,” Finch said, finally looking up. “Mrs. Peters said I should just wait here for you. That’s why I’m here….” His voice trailed off.

  Before Walter could answer, Kirk chimed in with “We didn’t know Finch would be joining us.” It was clear that he didn’t approve of the decision—or at least resented that we hadn’t been warned ahead of time.

  “Yes,” Walter said. “I thought I mentioned that to Nina in my message.”

  “No. I don’t believe you did,” Kirk answered for us. “But that’s okay.”

  Walter’s secretary appeared in the doorway, interrupting the awkwardness to offer us a beverage. “Coffee? Tea? Water?” she asked.

  We all declined the offer, and Walter gestured to the empty chairs flanking Finch’s. As we sat, he pulled up a fourth chair, completing our circle. He then crossed his legs at the knee, cleared his throat, and said, “So. Is it safe to assume we all know why we’re here?” His voice rose in a question.

  Kirk responded with a loud yes that made me cringe.

  Walter looked at Finch, who said, “Yes, sir.”

  “So I don’t need to show anyone the photo that Finch took—and sent—of another Windsor student? You’ve both seen it?” he said, glancing at me, then Kirk.

  I nodded, my throat too tight and dry to speak, wishing I had asked for that water, as Kirk said, “Yes. We’re unfortunately familiar with the image. Finch came home Saturday night and shared it with us. He was very contrite.”

  I glanced at him, taken aback by his mischaracterization and more so that he would lie in front of Finch. Then again, I wasn’t that shocked. He’d told plenty of white lies before. Come to think of it, I had, too, although I think in circumstances much more innocuous than this.

  “So you’re familiar with the caption he penned as well?” Walter said.

  “Yes. Though obviously he didn’t pen anything per se!” Kirk chuckled.

  Walter flashed a tight-lipped smile. “Figure of speech. But you did see it?”

  “Yes,” I echoed quietly, shame now overpowering my nervousness.

  Walter’s hands came together prayer-style and he raised his fingertips to his lips, looking reflective. A thick silence filled the office. I shifted in my seat and took a deep breath, waiting.

  “Well. I think, unfortunately, Finch’s words speak for themselves. But I wanted to give him a chance to explain here, to all of us, any context. Perhaps we are missing something? A piece to the story?”

  We all looked at Finch. I felt the simultaneous instinct to both protect and strangle him. Seconds passed before he shrugged and said, “No, sir. Not really.”

  “Is there anything at all you want to tell us about what happened?”

  I prayed that he wouldn’t lie, that he’d instead launch into a heartfelt apology for mocking a defenseless female peer, hurling a racist insult at her, insinuating that she was beneath him or somehow did not belong.

  But when he finally opened his mouth, he simply said, “Um. No, sir. I really don’t have an explanation. It was just a joke….I wasn’t thinking….”

  Kirk cut in, saying Finch’s name, his brows sharply raised.

  “Yes?” Finch said, looking at his dad.

  “I’m sure you have something more to say about this?” It was the ultimate in leading questions.

  Finch cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, I don’t really have anything else to explain…except that I didn’t mean for it to get around the way it did….And I really didn’t mean it as an insult to Lyla….I was just trying…to be funny. It was just a joke….But I see now that it wasn’t funny. I actually realized it wasn’t funny that night. When I told my parents about it.”

  My insides clenched as I listened to my son follow his father’s lead and skew the truth—no, flat-out lie—and noted that he’d yet to utter the word sorry. Kirk must have noticed it, too, because he said, “And you’re very, very sorry. Right, son?”

  “Oh, God—gosh—yes. I’m so sorry I did that. And wrote that. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Finch inhaled, as if he had something more to add, but Kirk cut in again.

  “So, as you said, Walt, the photo speaks for itself. It was in poor taste. It was wrong. But I think what Finch is trying to tell us is that there wasn’t further malicious intent. Right, Finch?”

  “Definitely,” Finch said, nodding. “Absolutely not.”

  Kirk continued, “And we want you to know that Finch is being severely punished at home for his lapse of judgment. I can assure you of that, Walt.”

  “I understand,” Walter said. “But unfortunately, the situation is a little more complicated and requires more than simply doling out a private punishment.”

  “Oh?” Kirk said, adjusting himself in his chair, literally shifting into what I knew to be his offensive mode. “And why is that?”

  Walter inhaled audibly through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth. “Well. For one thing, Lyla Volpe’s father called about the photo. He’s understandably quite upset.”

  His use of the word understandably was not lost on me, but Kirk pressed on. “And for another?”

  “Well,” Walter said calmly. “For another, Finch’s actions were in co
ntravention of our core values as expressed in Windsor’s Code of Conduct.”

  “But this didn’t happen at Windsor,” Kirk argued. “It happened at a friend’s home. On private property…And…and is this girl even a minority?”

  I stared at him, mouth agape, stunned by the question.

  “The Code of Conduct does not have geographical restrictions. It applies to all students enrolled at Windsor, wherever they may be,” Walter said calmly. “And yes, Lyla is part Latina, actually.”

  Finch looked appalled by his father’s question, too, but then I wondered if it was actually just panic. Maybe the direness of the situation was beginning to sink in for him. He turned to Walter and said, “Mr. Quarterman…am I getting suspended?”

  “I don’t know, Finch. But if these charges go forward to the Honor Council, and I see no reason why they wouldn’t, the issue of suspension will ultimately be decided by that group.”

  “Who’s on this Honor Council?” Kirk asked.

  “Eight students. And eight faculty members.”

  “And? How does this work?” Kirk pressed. “Would Finch have representation? I assume we can bring in our lawyer?”

  Walter shook his head. “No. That’s not the procedure we use for these matters….”

  “So he doesn’t get a fair trial?”

  “It’s not a trial. And we like to think that it’s very fair, actually.”

  Kirk sighed, looking extremely put out. “And if he’s ultimately suspended? What’s involved with that? What are we talking, exactly?”

  “That varies. But if Finch were to be suspended, he would not be allowed to walk at the graduation ceremony. And we would be required to notify the colleges to which he’s been accepted of his suspension.”

  “He just got into Princeton,” Kirk said.

  Walter nodded and said yes, he was aware. He then added his congratulations.

  “Thank you,” Kirk and Finch said in unison. Kirk added, “So then what?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, regarding Princeton?” Kirk asked.