Over the next two weeks, Betty met with Layla’s teacher about the edited photo. After Betty told her the truth, Layla decided she still wanted to meet me.
They met me at a coffee shop.
Layla kept her sleeves pulled over her hands.
Layla decided she still wanted to meet me.
“My mom told me what she did to you,” Layla said.
“That must’ve been hard to hear.”
“It was. I got very angry with her.”
“You had every right to be angry.”
Betty swallowed.
“That must’ve been hard to hear.”
“She asked me why I lied. I told her I was ashamed.”
Layla looked at me.
“Then she said you might understand.”
“I understand what it feels like to think a picture can prove something bad about you.”
I opened my bag and placed my school photo on the table.
“I told her I was ashamed.”
“That’s you?” Layla asked.
“That’s me.”
“You look sad.”
“I was, but I was also funny, loyal, and good at fixing things.”
Betty reached into her handbag and pulled out a creased class photo. One corner had been cut away.
Layla’s chair scraped backward.
“You look sad.”
