“Mom, I really don’t think you want me to say.” At this, my heart sinks into my stomach and I know right away that it has to do with the video.
“It’s okay, honey. Just tell us.” My kid being exonerated is more important than my pride.
“He’s an eighth grader and he said that you’re a whore and that he heard that you and dad were, um you know, in a video, so I punched him.” He spits this out so quickly and doesn’t take his eyes off the floor.
Mrs. Wilson’s hand flies over her mouth. “What is he talking about, Mrs. Giordano? I’m very concerned.”
Well, at least now I know the old hag hasn’t seen the video and probably has no knowledge of the whole situation. “Okay,” I begin slowly. “There was a video of me and my husband leaked online and this boy obviously saw it. I don’t know why or how or where his parents were when he was looking at it.”
Trevor looks like he’s about to cry as I say this. I don’t know how much of this he knew before, but this may be worse than even Emma. I can’t even begin to imagine the ramifications—far beyond his getting into a fight. “I’m so sorry, Trev. I really am. I didn’t want you to find out like this. In fact, I didn’t want you to find out at all.”
“I already knew, Mom.”
My face must go white, because he quickly adds, “Don’t worry, I never saw it. The kid I punched didn’t either. He just heard his mom talking about you. I heard him say that. And, I promise I would never, ever watch it. I really don’t ever want to. I just know about it.”
I am about to ask how, but it doesn’t matter. It could have been Emma. It could have been a kid at school. It doesn’t matter. My boy who bottles everything up has obviously been bottling up his emotions about not only my split with Nick, but the video as well, putting up such a strong front. It’s no surprise he hauled off and punched someone, especially when that someone said something so hateful.
“Isn’t what that boy said bullying, insulting someone’s mother? If you have zero tolerance for bullying, shouldn’t he suffer the consequences as well? It’s not like Trevor just walked up to him and sucker punched him.” I’m shaking. I need to defend my kid and the fact that I brought it upon him, even though it wasn’t my fault, makes it even worse. I know he should never use his fists, but this other boy should never have called me a whore.
“Hmm, no one heard him say that, so I’m sorry—the punishment stands. I did ask for witnesses. It happened at recess, so there were others there and no one came forward to defend Trevor.”
“What about the teacher on duty for recess? There must have been an adult present. And why were sixth graders and eighth graders at recess together?”
“It was just in passing. The eighth graders were on their way in, sixth on their way out. And the teacher didn’t hear anything either. He was on the other side of the field. If Trevor had just reported what this boy said instead of punching him, the other boy may have been suffering consequences now. But, he didn’t report it.” She shakes her head disdainfully, then adds with almost malicious glee, “You do realize this will affect his grades, because he’s missing a test this afternoon.”
“Come on, Trev,” I say, pulling him out of the office.
As soon as we’re out of the building, I give Trevor a big hug.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” he asks sheepishly.
“I’m upset that you didn’t use your words, but I understand why you did it. You were defending me and that was kind of you. I’m just so, so sorry that you had to go through this. It should never have come to this. You know that was supposed to be a private thing—not seen by anyone else.” This is off the charts for discomfort. How can I possibly explain why I made a sex video? There’s no possible explanation that will make it okay for an eleven-and-a-half-year-old boy to know that there is a video of his mom and dad having sex floating around the Internet.
“Does this mean that you still love each other?” he asks softly. Except maybe that one. This question. He’s having such a hard time. This is all so ridiculously hard and yet, if I answer, “Yes, we still love each other,” he’ll probably feel okay with everything else. I truly don’t know what to say.
“We’ll always love each other,” I offer. “And, we’ll always love you, but I don’t think we’ll be living together anymore. I’m so sorry. That doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. It just means we love each other in a different way.”
“Does Dad love Sloane now?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t know.” I’m being as honest as I can be. I don’t know. I don’t know if this is a fling, or if Nick’s found his true love. The strange thing is that the thought of Nick possibly being in love with Sloane doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to vomit anymore. I don’t really feel anything. It’s like I’m talking about a character in a book or movie. I’m interested to know if he’s in love with her, but it doesn’t really affect me personally. It’s the oddest feeling.
“I hope he’s not in love with her,” Trevor says sadly. “I really don’t like her. I know Emma does, but I think she just likes her because it makes you upset.”
I laugh. “You’re a pretty observant kid, you know that?”
“I guess.”
“Trev, I’m sorry that you’ve been holding all this in. I’m sorry that I thought you’ve been doing okay. I should have asked you if you were. You never did let your emotions out—even when you were a little, little boy.”
“I know the story,” he says with a sigh. “I never cried when I fell or anything and then I’d wake up in the middle of the night crying. It’s okay. I’m not going to cry now either.”
“It’s okay if you need to cry—that’s my point. Let out your emotions. You know, it’s not healthy if you hold it in all the time.”
He just shrugs and I realize I’m probably wasting my breath. He’s always going to be stoical. Maybe it will serve him well with girls when he’s older—being the strong silent type—but right now I know it’s the worst possible thing for him. I decide that the problems in our family are too big for me to make better with a kiss and some brownies. We need some outside help.
“Hey, Trev, I think we’ll talk to my friend one day—all of us. She’s really nice. You and I will go with Emma, Will and Sam. She’ll help us all feel better.” I used to see a therapist in my twenties, and I’m sure she’s still in practice because she was maybe thirty years old at the time. I just remember that she was very nurturing and warm. I don’t know how much I actually needed her. At that point I had long pushed my high school angst and fear of betrayal aside, but all of my friends went to therapists, so I did too. It was the ’90s—that’s what we did. She did help me get over some really awful boyfriends, but obviously my taste in men didn’t improve very much, because I ended up with Nick while I was seeing her. I stopped seeing her soon after we started dating. Who knows? Maybe if I’d stayed with her, she would have told me that I didn’t need to marry Nick, even though he was my baby daddy.
I had begged Nick to go to therapy with me not long after Sam was born. I knew he was using porn to escape—that was when I found it on his computer history. I just felt like we were so far apart—like there was a wall between us. I was wrapped up in the new baby. He would sit at his computer watching porn late at night—even though he knew I hated it. He tried to hide it, but he had to know that I knew. I figured therapy would help us get back on track—back to each other. He refused. He said therapy never worked and it would just be one more “distraction” for me. I should have realized then that he really didn’t care about our marriage. I make a mental note to look up the therapist and call her. Right now I just need to take care of Trevor.
“You hungry, Trevor?” I ask as we’re driving home.
“Nah.”
“You sure? I’ll take you to McDonald’s.”
“I’m okay.” This alarms me. Trevor has never turned down McDonald’s before. “But, I have a question,” he adds.
“Ask me anything at all
. Shoot.” I have no idea what he’s going to ask, but at least asking questions is better than just bottling it up.
“Do all those people taking pictures of you have anything to do with that video of you and Dad?” He looks down as soon as he asks this and starts picking at his nails.
“Actually, it does. People get a little silly with their interest in things that they really have no business being interested in. It’s kind of like reality TV—don’t I always say that it seems kind of silly to me that people are interested in someone’s life who’s famous just for being famous?”
“Yeah, I think all those shows are so stupid.”
I guess my explanation is enough, because Trevor changes the subject. “Does Dad know that I got suspended?”
“He does. They called him first and he called me.”
“Is he really mad?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“I don’t know if mad is the right word, considering the circumstances. I think he’s more disappointed and concerned than anything. We’re both worried about you. If you just hauled off and punched a boy for no reason, we would be a lot angrier, but we’re concerned that you’re not able to handle everything that’s been going on your own. And, we’re worried about you using your fists instead of your words. Since it’s the first time it’s happened, we know it’s not like you.”
“But, that’s what you think, Mom. Dad doesn’t even know why I punched him, so why are you saying, ‘we?’ So, is he mad?”
I realize that I can’t even answer him because I never gave Nick a chance to let me know how he felt. And honestly I really don’t care. But Trevor does, so I lie and tell him that I know his dad isn’t mad, just worried, because he told me that when I talked to him. Unless he’s completely heartless (which lately I’ve suspected he is) he has to understand why Trevor punched the little snot nose, especially since he “cracked noses” as a kid. I feel like I’m a terrible person and an even worse mother that I’m secretly happy that Trevor punched that boy after what he said.
Trevor sighs heavily and says, “Well, at least he’s not mad. Thanks for understanding, Mom. I know it’s not something I’m supposed to do, but I got so mad I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Now I probably won’t get into a good college, and I won’t get to play college basketball and then play in the NBA, all because I punched someone.”
“As long as you don’t get in trouble again, I’m sure you’ll be fine. They look more at high school than middle school anyway, so just make sure that you behave for the rest of middle school and all through high school, and maybe we can get it erased someday.”
Trevor smiles just a bit.
“You know, it’s really half a day of school that you’re suspended,” I tell him. “School was half over today. It could have been worse. It could have been first period, and then you would have missed a whole day. And the lunch detention thing will be over before you know it. Two weeks is nothing.”
Trevor’s smile is a little bigger, and he says that maybe he’ll have some McDonald’s after all. After his chicken nuggets and my french fries (I needed the salt and fat to take the edge off the day), we pick up Sam at Andi’s house.
On the way there, Trevor begs, “Please don’t tell Andi, Mom. I don’t want her to be upset with me. She’s always saying I’m a good kid and I don’t want to disappoint her. Plus, it’s embarrassing.”
“Honey, Andi would never judge you. You know that. She loves you. And I’m pretty sure she got into a fight when she was in sixth grade.”
Trevor’s eyes widen. “But, she’s a girl! Girl’s don’t fight.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure she did. She can tell you the story, but I think this boy teased her all the time about her…” I pause for a moment, and then continue, “Height. He called her ‘Giraffe’ and chased her around. So one day she told him to meet her outside in recess and she punched him.”
“That is so cool!” Trevor exclaims and I immediately regret telling him. I really shouldn’t glorify violence. My mothering skills are slipping by the minute. Plus, I kind of bent the truth. I’m pretty sure Andi punched him because he chased her around and called her ‘Dolly Parton,’ not ‘Giraffe.’ Andi was an early bloomer and had an hourglass figure by the time she was twelve, which she tried to hide under baggy sweaters. She’s told me the story many times about how she just wanted to be flat and skinny and this boy calling out her curves infuriated her, so she punched him.
Years later at a reunion, he admitted that he had a crush on her and was shocked when she punched him. Then he glanced down Andi’s shirt and slurred, “Still nice!” Andi thought for a second that perhaps she should slug him again, but she admitted that he grew up to be so handsome, she was actually flattered. “Is that bad?” she asked me the next day. “I mean, he was drunk—he probably didn’t even mean it. I guess I was more righteously indignant when I was twelve. But, if I knew how cute he would be as a man, I probably wouldn’t have decked him when he was a boy.”
I definitely don’t want her telling Trevor the true story if he asks her, so I pull over and quickly text her that if Trevor asks, the boy she punched in sixth grade called her “Giraffe.”
Andi texts me back right away. What in the world?
I’ll explain later, I text before I pull back onto the road. We’ll be there in a few minutes to pick up Sam.
As I’m ringing the doorbell at Andi’s house I turn to Trevor and say, “I know this is really hard. I’m proud of how you’re handling it.” He’s getting so tall we’re almost eye to eye. I’m sure that he’ll be looking down on me like Emma very soon. I give him a hug and say quietly, “I really think the other boy should have suffered some consequences too. He was bullying you, and although you should never use your fists, he was wrong in what he said. I’m sorry that I couldn’t convince Mrs. Wilson of that.”
“It’s okay,” Trevor answers me. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I answer, trying not to show how excited I am that he said he loves me first. It’s not that often that my son says, “I love you” without it being in response to my “I love you.” Perhaps there will be a silver lining to everything that’s happened. They always say, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” so perhaps my family will emerge closer—maybe not Emma, but the rest of us. I can only hope.
Luckily Sam seems completely over his traumatic morning. He’s so excited to see Trevor, he comes running down the hallway and throws his arms around him, launching himself in the air. “Trev! Trev!” he shouts.
Andi pulls me aside and whispers, “What’s up with my Trev-man? Why is he home from school already, and why in the world do you want me to tell him that my nickname was ‘Giraffe?’ Do you think I look like a giraffe?”
“No, of course not! You’re tall, yes, but totally gorgeous.” I tell her the whole story, including how I shared her fist fight experience, while Sam pulls Trevor into the den to see the Thomas tracks that he and Logan have built.
“That hard ass Mrs. Wilson will never cut a kid slack,” she tells me, a frown on her usually sunny face. “Michael spent more than his fair share of time sitting in her office. She’ll never listen to the other side of a story. She just hates boys. Once a boy is on her shit list, forget it. I’m sure you don’t know that, because your oldest is a girl. I’m sorry to tell you, but this probably won’t be the last time you hear from her.”
“Ugh, three more years of this—that sucks. And what if my other boys get in trouble? Sometimes, I really just want to pick up my kids and move far away. Just leave the Island. I mean, that boy called me a whore. An eighth grader called me a whore. I think I need a glass of wine, or maybe something stronger. Have any whisky?”
“Since when do you drink whisky?” Andi asks incredulously.
“I don’t know, maybe since I had to watch myself having sex on a porn site, knowing my daughter had seen it. And, I think having an eighth grader call me a whore is as good a reason as any to have a shot of whisky, don’t
you?”
“Yeah, I do. But, I don’t think I have any. I seriously can’t believe that boy called you that. I also can’t believe he even saw the video. Don’t his parents keep an eye on him when he’s online?”
“Who knows? Maybe the kid saw it on his phone. What if someone sent him the link? They all have e-mail on their phones. What if more kids saw it, but just didn’t say anything to Trevor?” I’m starting to shake and I can’t breathe. “Do you have a paper bag?” I ask Andi. I feel that tingly, speckly-vision feeling that I get when I am about to pass out. When she hands it to me, I put it over my face and breathe in and out slowly.
“You need to calm down, Max,” Andi says matter-of-factly, and I feel like screaming at her, Easy for you to say. You’re not floating around the Internet for everyone to see, even adolescent boys!
“I can’t calm down. I was serious before. I need to leave this town. I need to move far away. I can’t face anyone ever again,” I wail, still clutching the paper bag in my hand. I really feel like I can’t go to school functions—band concerts, graduation. I really, truly feel like I have no choice but to take my kids and run away. It’s one thing for other moms to see it, quite another for kids.
“You can’t leave East Hollow.”
“I feel like I have to. You know, I was so concerned about Trevor that I didn’t even think about that boy watching it.”
“Maybe he didn’t see it,” Andi says soothingly. “Maybe he just overheard his mom talking or just saw something about it on Yahoo. Maybe he saw the cover of his mom’s trashy magazine. You don’t know.”
“But, how can I know? I can never know how many people saw it.”
“Okay,” Andi whispers, “Let’s think about exactly what he would have seen even if he did see it. Did the video show any hoo-ha?”
I look at her blankly.
“You know, frontal nudity?”
“No,” I answer. “Just my butt.”
“Did you do anything kinky?”
“Please keep it down,” I beg, glancing around, hoping my boys—or Andi’s boys—don’t hear her. “No, just the missionary position—or as the blogger, Kristy, put it ‘bread and butter sex.’ It’s still horrifying and embarrassing.”
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