Walter sighs and says, “Well, hopefully tomorrow’s proceedings will bring some clarity.”
“Clarity?” Tom shouts. “The only clarity I see is that my daughter is getting victimized left and right and somebody here is lying. Maybe both of them are. Maybe this whole thing is an elaborate plot to make sure no one gets blamed.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Volpe. That’s not what is happening here,” Polly’s dad says. “My daughter has admitted to calling your daughter a terrible name, but—”
“But what?” Tom fires back. “But ‘no big deal’?”
“Tom, please. I know it’s hard, but please try to calm down,” Walter says.
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! This is a circus. A total circus!” Tom stands suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair, before storming to the door. “Someone get my daughter outta class! Now!”
Walter looks completely rattled as he grabs his phone, dials an extension, and says, “Can you please have Lyla Volpe report to the front entrance?…Yes. Right away, please.”
Meanwhile, Tom is out the door, slamming it behind him.
I jump, my heart racing, as I make eye contact with Finch. He stares back at me, with his hand over his heart. “I swear, Mom,” he whispers. “I didn’t do it.”
Idon’t know if I’ve waited three seconds or three minutes, but when Lyla doesn’t immediately materialize in the lobby, I start pounding on the ledge of the check-in desk, yelling at that smug receptionist, and demanding that I get my daughter now. I even make a move down the hall in the general direction of the high school classrooms.
“Mr. Volpe, you can’t go down there!” The receptionist stands up in a panic, as if I were an armed intruder.
Sure enough, her voice trembles as she adds that she is going to have to push a button for the police if I take another step.
I stop, turn, and walk back over to her. “Please don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on around here. Because I’m pretty sure you know everything that’s going on around here!”
I pound my hand on her ledge one more time for good measure, just as Lyla rounds the corner and rushes toward me, looking mortified.
“Dad? What are you doing?” she says as I catch the receptionist staring nosily at us over her reading glasses.
“C’mon. We’re leaving. Right now.”
“I can’t leave, Dad!” she says, glancing around, looking desperate. “I’m in the middle of a science quiz! And I don’t even have my stuff.”
“Now!” I yell.
She starts to protest again, but I turn around and walk out the front door. I am nervous about what I’ll do if she doesn’t follow me. I feel pretty sure that it would involve that woman’s panic button. Fortunately, we don’t have to find out, because a few seconds later I hear Lyla’s footsteps on the pavement behind me.
I only walk faster, my strides getting longer. By the time Lyla climbs in the car beside me, she is completely unhinged, crying so hard that she is starting to hyperventilate. Part of me wants to put my arms around her and calm her down. But my anger, along with my desire to get the fuck out of Belle Meade, outweighs any sense of compassion.
So I start driving, passing countless motherfuckers in Range Rovers and BMWs and Mercedes. What in the world was I thinking sending my daughter to this neighborhood every day with these soulless, money-worshipping, lying sons of bitches? Why didn’t I learn my lesson when I was a bag boy at the Belle Meade Country Club? When I slept with Delaney and realized that she was using me as her pawn—a sick way to make a point to her daddy and her bullshit high society? Well, Lyla has become a pawn, too, and I’m not going to allow it any longer. Effective today, my child will not be attending that godforsaken school. No education is worth all of this. I mean, what’s the endgame? An elitist education gets you what, exactly? An elitist group of friends and a jackass husband like Kirk Browning? Fuck that. I’d rather Lyla grow up and live paycheck to paycheck like I do than turn out anything like these people. I’d rather she be lonely and alone than lonely with them.
Us versus them.
It is the drumbeat in my head as I drive. The entrance to 440 looks jammed, so I keep going through town, hitting stoplight after stoplight, Lyla’s tears never letting up. Every few minutes, I think of Quarterman and Nina, and know that I am brushing with too broad a stroke. Then again, they are right in the mix, playing the goddamn game. I mean, how could Quarterman run a school like Windsor if he weren’t drinking the Kool-Aid on all the bullshit? And I really like Nina—I can’t help myself—but her son is shady. Maybe he didn’t take the picture or write on our porch, but he definitely lied at some point—and at Lyla’s expense.
“Dad, slow down!” Lyla screams as I nearly slam into the back of a black Lexus. I hit my brakes just in time, my heart pounding, my hands sweaty on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” I say under my breath, telling myself to get a grip. To get help. Then I think of Bonnie and make a left where I should make a right.
“Where are you going?” Lyla stops crying just long enough to ask me.
“To see a friend,” I say.
“What friend?” she asks.
The question is telling. She thinks I have none.
Without answering, I keep driving, weaving my way through historic Belmont, until I get to Bonnie’s quaint, old foursquare. Her ancient Volvo station wagon, covered with bumper stickers, is sitting in her driveway at a virtual diagonal. If it were any other day, her parking effort would have made me smile.
“Dad, whose house is this?” Lyla says. She is still upset, but her curiosity has dampened her hysteria.
“I told you. My friend’s house,” I say, parking behind the Volvo. “Her name is Bonnie. I sometimes talk to her about things. About you…Come on and meet her.”
We both step out of the car and close our doors as Lyla trails behind me to the front door.
“Are you…dating her?” she asks, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
At that second, Bonnie appears through the glass door panes, wearing enormous glasses and a weird shawl that looks more like a blanket. Her gray hair is wilder than usual. I catch a fleeting look of disappointment in Lyla’s eyes.
“Well, hello there, Tommy boy,” Bonnie says, as she opens the door.
“Morning, Bonnie,” I say. “Sorry for the surprise visit.”
“Well, it’s a nice surprise, Tommy. A very nice surprise,” she says, looking past me. “And you must be Lyla?” Her expression becomes even warmer.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lyla says, forcing the mandatory tight-lipped smile that comes with an introduction to an adult.
“How positively wonderful to meet you. I’m Bonnie,” she says, one hand appearing from the depths of the shawl. She shakes Lyla’s hand, then pulls her into a half hug. “Come in, sweetie.”
As Lyla takes a step into the house, and I follow, we are bombarded by the smell of baking, though I can’t identify the exact scent. Maybe cinnamon? By now, I can see that Lyla is intrigued, not only with the concept of me having a friend but with Bonnie herself. For once, it feels like I made a decision that my daughter and I can agree is the right one.
Bonnie leads us onto her back sunporch, which is drenched in morning light and decorated with jewel-toned upholsteries. I take an emerald chair, and Lyla chooses the sapphire-blue one across from me.