Yes.

That’s your baby girl. Your pride and joy.

I sit silent. I knew this would be hard, but it’s harder than I expected. I’d thought about his judgment, feared his disgust, but I’d never thought about his grief.

The grief is in his face, in his eyes.

These pictures make him sad, sad because of me, sad for me, and it’s unbearable.

“So.” He folds his hands on his stomach, over the top of the ratty beige cardigan that he wears on top of his Oxford shirts at home. “Tell me how this happened.”

I take a deep breath and imagine a string tied to the crown of my head, pulling me up straight and tall. An exercise that our high school choir director gave us, but one that comes in handy anytime I need to be perfectly poised, perfectly careful.

“Nate took the pictures. When we were still going out. And he—they showed up online right after we broke up.”

The lines around his mouth deepen, twin parentheses framing his impatience. “Am I correct in remembering that you broke up with Nate soon before returning to school in August?”

“Yes. It was August when he first posted them.”

“You know that he posted them.”

“No. I assume it was him, but I can’t prove it. They were submitted anonymously to the sites. He denied it.”

“Caroline.” My father looks right at me, leaning in a bit. “It’s March.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what happened between August and March.”

“I made a systematic effort to remove the photos from the Internet. I set up automatic searches, sent out cease-and-desist email—”

My dad makes an impatient sound. He doesn’t approve of homegrown lawyering.

“—and whatever else I could think of to get them off-line. And then, when that wasn’t working, I hired a service to help me scrub my reputation. On the Internet, I mean. They do the searching for you, get photos wiped, try to push the legit results up on the search pages …”

And I haven’t heard from them in weeks. The reports they did send me were late, sketchy, and incomplete. It’s possible they’re frauds or just crap at what they do.

It’s possible I threw away fifteen hundred dollars of West’s money on a pipe dream.

How many hours of his effort, his sweat, did I waste so I could cower in my dorm room, wishing life were fair?

On the list of my regrets, that loan is way up near the top.

“But this latest attack was launched from an online bulletin board,” I continue. “Presumably by Nate. A number of others participated in it with him. I don’t know their identities. What I do know is that the pictures have spread so far and wide, it’s probably a wasted effort trying to get them removed. I’d like to focus my energy at this point on—”

“A wasted effort? Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you if you don’t remove the pictures?”

“I have a good idea, yes.”

“You’ll have trouble getting into law school. Recommendations will be difficult, but even assuming you can present a good application—admissions committees search the Internet. Internship applications, scholarships, job applications. There’s no chance at the Rhodes Scholarship, the Marshall. Getting the pictures off-line will have to be your top priority. You should have brought me in from the beginning, Caroline. So much damage has already been done.”

So much damage.

But to what? To whom?

“I’m not damaged.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It is, though. You’re talking about this—about my future—as though it’s this white, pure thing that I’ve gotten dirty. Like you sent me out to play in a white dress, and why wasn’t I more careful with it?”

He frowns.

“I’m not a white dress, Dad. And I didn’t take those pictures. I didn’t share them. I didn’t say all that stuff about me. Nate did.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Fine. Someone did. The important thing is, that someone wasn’t me.”

He grunts and looks out the window at our yard. Our house is in the nicest part of Ankeny, with a big shaded lot and an acre of lawn that I had to mow in high school if I expected to be allowed to go out on the weekends. Today it’s overcast, patchy snow still on the ground, spring weeks away.

It’s not my yard anymore.

This isn’t my house.

I’m not a child.

“Did you report this incident to the college?” he asks. “Or to the police?”

“No. But I intend to.”

“You say you suppose Nate posted these photos in the first place because he was upset. Does he have any reason to continue to be upset with you? Something that prompted this second attack?”

It’s West, of course. West and me, together. Out in public, around campus, so obviously a couple, so obviously into each other.

What did Nate tell me that night at the party, when he blocked me from leaving the room? That he was worried about me. That we were friends, we’d always be friends.

What did he want that night when he came to West’s apartment with Josh and offered to buy weed? To stake some kind of claim over me? To prove he was better than the guy I ended up with?

“I think he might still have feelings for me.”

“I see.”

Then my dad is silent, and I have to endure the ticking of the grandfather clock and await his judgment.

“I’m going to have to speak with Dick,” he says. “He might have some insight into the best course of action on matters like this.”

Dick Shaffer is my dad’s friend, a prosecutor.

“I’ve looked into that,” I say. “And I have a meeting with the Student Affairs office this afternoon, where I’m going to ask about possible approaches. It’s not illegal to share sex pictures online, provided they’re pictures of an adult and they’re the possession of the person who shares them—that they’re not stolen and they weren’t coerced. Which means, I think, there isn’t much of anything the police can do. But if we go after Nate for violating the technology policy—”

My dad’s gaze sharpens. “Go after him?”

“Yes, because the post he made last night, if he was using the campus network, that was a violation of the campus tech policy, and I think if it goes to a hearing—”

My dad stands up abruptly and carries his laptop over to his desk, where he leaves it, silver and shining. He tucks his hands behind his back and begins to pace, deep in his own thoughts.

I’ve lost the thread of my argument. I don’t think he was listening, anyway.

I don’t know what to say to get him to listen.

“Do you remember,” he asks, “what I told you when you turned fifteen and I allowed you to have your own Facebook account?”

“Yes.”

He twirls a finger at me. Repeat it.

“You told me to be careful, because the Internet is a public forum and nothing I do or say online will ever go away.”

“And I told you it was especially important for you to be careful, didn’t I? More than your sisters. Because you want to be a lawyer. You want to be a leader of men.”

I did.

I do.

“Is this the behavior of a leader of men, Caroline?”

That question—it makes me dizzy for a second. It sends a wash of fire through me, a hot rush of some feeling that I can’t immediately identify.

Before my sophomore year at Putnam, I’d never understood that your whole world can pivot on a few words.

A text message that says OMG.

One question from my father: Is this the behavior of a leader of men?

The answer comes up from deep inside me. From that place beneath my lungs, that ripped-open wound that’s been cut and kicked and battered. The part of me that has refused, still refuses, to give up.

Yes is what it tells me. Yes, it fucking is.

If there’s anything I learned from a childhood spent poring over the biographies of world leaders, it’s that people who make a difference in the world succeed not despite what’s happened to them but because of it. Being a leader—it’s not about only doing things your father will approve of. It’s not about being good and smart and pretty and lucky. You can’t lead from inside a bubble.

You have to live to lead, and the past few months I’ve been alive. I’ve been falling in love with a boy my father forbade me to talk to. Hell, not a boy, a man. A smart man who works hard and never skips class except when he has to because I’m in the middle of a crisis.

A drug dealer. A brawler. West is both of those things.

But he’s also a son, an older brother, a generous lover, and a kind, amazing guy.

This year I’ve been figuring out who I am. I’ve been learning what I want, and it’s the same as what I’ve always wanted, only I’m different.

Leaders live and grow and learn. They run into dragons, get burned by them, temper their swords in the fire, and take them on.

That’s what I want to do. That’s who I want to be. Not this girl cowering in her father’s office.

I want to be fierce.

So I stand up, too. I plant myself in the middle of his rug, cross my arms to match his. I let my eyebrows draw in, the corners of my mouth fall, and I ask him, “What do you mean by this?”

“Sorry?”

“You said, ‘Is this the behavior of a leader of men?’ What do you mean? Are you asking me if leaders have consensual sex with their long-term monogamous partners? Yes. They do. Are you asking, are leaders ever betrayed? Yes. All the time. The question is—”

“The question is one of judgment,” he interrupts. “There’s a reason you’ve never seen a sex-photograph scandal involving the president of the United States, Caroline, and it’s because—”