“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 contravention 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?”