“All right. Well, why don’t you come down and have some breakfast. Or lunch, I suppose.”
The mere mention of food made her head spin harder. Emma waited until her mother left. She did not, as Emma had hoped, close the door. Emma groaned and reached for her phone.
The second she turned her phone on, notifications filled the screen. One after the other, it vibrated and dinged in her hand. Emma sat up, squinting.
Her Instagram account was ablaze with notifications. Same with Snapchat. “Nice work” someone commented. Some of the names were kids from school, some she didn’t even recognize.“Girls gone wild,” someone else said. A comment from Kyle: “Taking it off.” Emma felt her stomach lurch.
There, at the top of her story was a picture. A picture of her, in just her bra and panties. With Sully on one side and Kyle on the other. Her eyes were half-closed and she held a beer in her hand. To her horror, there were 368 likes and 42 comments. As she scrolled through them, a wave of nausea washed through her. Hands shaking, she checked her Snapchat. Her photo was everywhere. But the one she noticed first: Amanda Hastings. Posted at one thirty-three a.m. On Amanda’s story was the picture of Emma.
Then came the texts. One group text with so many people that the contacts alone filled her screen. “Who is that?” someone texted. “She looks like shit,” another said. “Slut.” Emma dropped her phone, ran to the bathroom, and threw up all over the tile floor.
She was still vomiting when her mother burst into the room, whimpering and holding her cell phone out in front of her as if it were radioactive.
“Whatisthis?” she howled. “A parent from the Club sent this to me!” Then, seeing her daughter crumpled on the bathroom floor, she snapped back to mother mode and sank to her knees beside her. “Oh, honey.”
Worse was her father. He came home early, clearly summoned. And then he paced. Around the kitchen. Up and down the stairs. Along the hall outside her room, while she lay in bed and nursed her hangover with glasses of water and Tylenol and toast, which her mother delivered every fifteen minutes. Emma listened to their strained conversations on the other side of her door. “How could this happen?” was all her father could ask. As though this was something that had been done to her by some outside force, and not something Emma was capable of doing herself.
She understood her parents were scared. But she was also offended. Was she so dull and meek in their estimation that it was unimaginable she could have made these bad choices herself? On some twisted level, though, it made her feel better. At least now she felt seen.
For once, her mother was the one who asked the questions. “Did you do anything other than drink? Were drugs involved? Did anything happen with a boy?”
Emma answered each one honestly.No, no, no.
The worst thing was Alicia hadn’t called or texted once. Emma had tried to reach her: “Are you okay? I’m sorry I didn’t come home with you.” But there was no reply. She thought of texting Chet, but she was too humiliated. She cringed at the thought of him seeing the picture. She wanted to die when she imagined all the adults who might have: Her camp director. Her father’s friends at the clubhouse. The neighbors she babysat for. Her parents must have realized the extent of her suffering because they finally stopped asking questions and left her alone. Since really, what more could anyone say?
Sometime later, her parents called her down to the kitchen. Dinner had been made, and it seemed they expected her to sit down and join them. She took her seat at the table and stared at her plate. “I’m sorry.” It was all she could say. And it was the truth.
The look on her mother’s face was mixed. “We know you are, honey. But all those posts, those comments… why do kids do that? I hate the internet. I just hate it.”
As she looked at her parents’ expressions, the fallout crystallized. Emma hadn’t just scared them; she had disappointed them. She’d lied, she’d gotten drunk, she’d left her best friend and chosen to stay at a party with people who didn’t even care about her. Now she was the punchline of a joke. Emma pushed her plate away.
Her mother picked up her fork. “What is going on with the drinking this summer, Emma? This is not who you are.”
Emma turned to her father. This was his terrain: managing crisis. Coming up with a plan. Onward! But he had deflated to the point he’d become one with his chair. His glasses were smudged, his hair mussed, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. Then she speared a forkful of salad and popped it in her mouth. It was bitter on her tongue, but she took another bite and forced it down. Chewing and swallowing. That much she could manage. She was working her way up to trying a bite of chicken when her father finally cleared his throat.
“Emma.” His voice was muted with sadness. When she looked up at him, he couldn’t meet her gaze. “What happened?”
It was the question of the summer. What happened on the boat? What happened to their perfect daughter, the one with the good grades and the nice manners—the kid every neighbor asked to babysit their own kids?
That was the problem. Everyone in her parents’ world saw that girl. They even adored her. But no one in Emma’s world did. In her world, at high school—at camp—at the beach—that girl didn’t matter. That girl was invisible.
It was the one thing she’d wanted that summer; she’d wanted to be noticed. Look at her now. She’d made her wish come true.
Perry
Crisis was Perry’s professional specialty. It was what he did. And he did it better than anyone else.
Two summers ago, when a country-western concert had gone awry due to drunk and disorderly behavior that turned into a mob brawl, Perry’s firm handled the fallout. They didn’t just handle the insurance. They hired a legal team. And a publicity team. They managed the news reporters, the investigation, and the following medical claims. All of it. Though he was, of course, sorry for the injured, especially two children, and the property damage, Perry had compartmentalized his emotions and gotten to work. He relished the challenge of walking into his company boardroom and coming up with a strategy that addressed everything from lawsuits to financial damages to image refurbishment.
Just as he had during a crane collapse outside a minor-league baseball game three years earlier. There had been construction outside the stadium, and though it was shut down during the game and the spectators were partitioned off from the entrances in that location, the collapse had resulted in several injuries and the death of a security worker that day. As the news flashed on screens across the city, Perry was already in his office with hisshirtsleeves rolled up. That was Perry Goodwin’s relationship to crisis. It was tragic, but he had a job to do.
Now, however, when it came to his own flesh and blood, he was useless. The fallout had found them. He could thank social media for getting word out across the miles. All he could do now was attempt to manage the damage.
The first call came in on Monday morning. It was so early, Perry hadn’t left the house yet for the train. “Mr. Goodwin, it’s Jeff, the director at the clubhouse camp.”
Perry set down his coffee. “Good morning, Jeff. I’m glad you called.” Perry was ready for this call. “We appreciate the time off you gave Emma after the accident, but I’m afraid she may need to take another day or two. She’s not feeling well.” Perry hated lying. But he didn’t want to get into the details with the camp if he didn’t have to. Emma was great at her job, and the community families loved her.
