Billy stands, looking at her, fed up. “What I was going to say was that I fucking get it, okay? Is this what you finally want to hear—that it was all for nothing? That my father is going down in history as a murderer? Your family was responsible for the engine of our weapons of war, Bunny. I don’t see anyone in your family behind bars.” Billy throws his hands up in the air. “You honestly don’t even know—”
“I do know, Billy!” Bunny leaps from the bench. “Why do you think I was trying to give my money away?” she yells, her temples pounding.
“Giving money away to a man accused of murdering your friend is not going to fix anything, Bunny!” Billy yells back.
Bunny stands in the cold, her lip quivering, on the verge of tears, when Marty comes sprinting down the stone steps, across the koi pond bridge, and through the garden to where they’re standing. Out of breath, he throws his hands down on his knees. “You guys… oh my God,” Marty gasps, pushes his glasses up his nose, “the video, the video of us, it’s gone viral.”
Bunny wipes a tear under her eye. “What? What video?”
Billy drops onto the bench and puts his head down between his knees. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“The video!” Marty yells as if Bunny’s an imbecile. “The video of us waterboarding Billy at Stan’s party!”
“Oh my God—it was on Stan’s cell phone, he had it,” Bunny says, defensive.
“You’re the one who filmed it, Bunny,” Billy accuses her. “Give us your phone!”
“I don’t have it, I don’t have my fucking phone! It wasn’t me!”
“No, wait, she’s right, dude,” Marty says, pulling up the video on his own phone, “this was Stan’s phone. It was filmed on his phone—and I can’t find that little fucker anywhere.” He begins to dial Stan’s number.
“I tried him yesterday, he’s MIA. And he didn’t show up for our history final on Friday,” Billy says, a rare mixture of panic and confusion building in his stomach.
“Fuck, man,” Marty says in his upper register, “Harvard’s gonna rescind my acceptance if they see this. My life is over, my parents will kill me.” He sits down on the icy grass, flinging his North Face backpack to the side. “What the fuck do we do?”
Flooded with guilt for filming that night, Bunny’s unsure of what to say. “I’m really sor—”
“AGHHHHHH!” Billy stands and throws a punch into the trunk of the three-hundred-year-old oak tree beside them, its trunk twice the size of the three of them combined. A loud crunch as his knuckles splinter the bark; blood oozes over his hand.
The hour strikes. The National Cathedral bells begin to ring—first the treble, then one after another in sequence, a crescendo of overlapping bells as the Washington Ringing Society commences its practice.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mackenzie steps out of Betsy’s Jag wearing a brunette wig. After an emergency visit to her primary care doctor, Mackenzie has been diagnosed with trichotillomania (hair pulling classified as an obsessive-compulsive disorder) and immediately referred to a psychiatrist. Instead of calling the psychiatrist for an urgent appointment, Betsy took her to buy a wig and have her makeup done at the Tysons Corner Chanel makeup counter before taking her to school.
The waiting area of the school administration office has two plaid sofas facing each other and a large globe in the corner. Marty sits across from Chase with a stiff upper lip. Billy stands in the corner spinning the globe with his eyes closed, his pointer finger stopping on one of the seven continents. All three have been called into the principal’s office after word about the video spread like wildfire. E-mails from the press are flooding the school’s general mailbox. The school principal has seen the video; Marty’s and Chase’s parents have seen it; a message has been left for Billy’s father—and everyone is on their way for a meeting with the headmaster.
Mackenzie follows her mother into the office, beset by the kind of high school dread due to a complete lack of confidence, brushing strands of the wig out of her eyes, and sees Marty waiting on the couch. He stands as she enters.
“Hey,” he says, puzzled by her hair but too distressed to comment.
“Hey, what are you guys doing in here?” Mackenzie looks around the lobby area, pretending everything is normal, and sees Chase slouched over texting on his phone, Billy in the corner spinning the globe.
“Uh…” Marty puts his hands in his pockets, trying not to fidget. “It’s, uhh, it’s not good,” he whispers.
“What happened?” Mackenzie asks.
“I’ll, uhh, tell you later.” Marty takes a few steps back as Betsy approaches.
“Hello,” Betsy says, staring at Marty, who fidgets from nerves, pushes his glasses up his nose; the timing couldn’t possibly be worse—meeting the mother of the girl whose virginity you’ve just taken.
“Mom, this is Marty,” Mackenzie says.
Marty steps forward, sticks out his hand like a soldier with his chin out. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wallace.”
Betsy smiles as if she’s sucking on a sour candy, turns to Mackenzie. “Well, they’ve got my note, you can go to class. Teresa will pick you up after violin practice. I told her you could drive home.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Mackenzie’s violin case dangles from her arm. “See you guys later,” she says to them, relieved that Marty is amidst his own crisis, which allows her to escape a conversation about her hair.
As Mackenzie and Betsy part ways in the hall, Linda Williams comes barreling down the corridor in a pastel-blue cashmere sweater and Burberry quilted coat.
“Betsy!” Linda calls.
Betsy spins around. “Oh, Linda!”
Betsy stopped attending French classes after her interview at the Washington Club, and has stopped returning any of Linda’s calls.
“Did you get my message the other day?” Linda asks.
“Gosh, I am so behind on my correspondence,” Betsy says.
“Your daughter posted a meme of me and my daughter on a fake Instagram account, and it circulated through their class. Becca has
