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.”
“Thank you,” I said, and as much as I wanted to shoot the messenger (or slap her across the face), I knew that Kathie was no longer the point. “I have to go now….I need to get back to Kirk.”
“Of course you do,” she whispered somberly, giving me a pat on the arm. “Bless your heart, Nina. I’ll be praying for y’all.”
* * *
—
WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, Kirk and I were home, and I’d received the image from two other friends, including a hysterical Melanie, who recognized her son’s bedroom and was racing home herself.
“What in the world was he thinking?” I asked as Kirk and I stood on either side of the island in our kitchen.
“I can’t imagine,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “Maybe it was a dumb inside joke?”
“An inside racist joke?” I said, a fresh wave of despair washing over me.
“Well, it’s not really racist per se….” Kirk said.
“Seriously? Green card? It’s totally racist. Kathie said she’s Hispanic,” I said.
“Well, she really doesn’t look Hispanic….She just looks…like a brunette. Italian, maybe.”
I stared at him a beat, then shook my head, unsure how to even respond to this.
“Kathie doesn’t know everything,” Kirk said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he’d left on the counter. I pushed it away from him.
“Okay. Look, Kirk. Even if she’s not Hispanic, his comment is still offensive and racist toward Hispanics,” I said, my voice steadily rising. “And regardless of this girl’s race or ethnicity, her nipple is showing! So if he did this, joke or not—”
“Then he’s in trouble,” Kirk said. “Obviously. But maybe there’s more to the story….”
“Such as?” I said.
“I don’t know. Maybe someone took his phone. Maybe it’s a doctored screenshot. I have no idea, Nina. But try to calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough.”
I nodded and took a deep breath, but before I could reply, we heard the front door open, followed by Finch’s footsteps in the foyer.
“We’re in the kitchen!” I called out. “Can you come here, please?”