Chapter Sixteen

That night, as the older two girls were heading up to bed, Susie stayed curled up on the big old leather sofa nearest the fire. Nicholas breathed a silent prayer of thanks from his recliner opposite, then cleared his throat.

Susie looked up. "Is this where you tell me why you were at school today?"

"I didn't know you'd seen me."

"Friend of mine was working as an office aide. She told me."

"Ah. Well. So, tell me what Instagram is. This is not one of the . . . programs? that I've used. Is it like Facebook?"

She rolled her eyes. "Noooo. Not even."

"What would you compare it to?"

"It's, it's Instagram. It's what it is. It's pictures, mostly."

He thought about asking "So it's like Picasa, or Flickr, or a photo sharing site?" but decided it was just going to start a non-productive conversation going. "How did you get picked on with it, then?"

Another eye roll. "Dad, it's not picked on stuff. It's stupid. Just some girl wanting to be important, and making some of us feel bad so she can feel good."

"Do you know who this girl is?"

"Prolly."

"What?"

"Probably. It's stupid. Don't worry about it."

"Well, the school is worried about it."

"Oh, jeez Dad, if being called a slut was a real problem, then we'd be really bad off. Worse gets said every day in the cafeteria."

"Great," he thought, but did not say. "Apparently some girls, or at least their parents, feel differently."

"I know. Some take it seriously, but it's just like a joke. A mean joke. Let it go, Dad."

"Alright. It . . . it makes me sad to know you got called names, and to know you got . . . tagged in a . . . . folder? called 'sluts' makes me sad for you, and sad for the young woman or young man who did this."

She smiled at him. "Dad, you're sad for all of us. It's okay, it really is. Remember, we were in foster care before you and Mom got us. We know what people say. We got called sluts just for being foster kids, and that was in grade school when we didn't know what a slut was."

"Which means you do know now," he thought, but did not say.

She went on, uncoiling off of the sofa and stretching in front of the fire. "People like putting people in categories. That's part of what some girls like about Instagram and Pinterest. You can put everything in a category. And you can make up a category." Susie came over to Nicholas, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "And I'm not a slut. A blurry pic of me in the hall at school with a tag on it doesn't make me one. Good night; love you."

"Love you," said Nicholas to her back as she trotted up the stairs. He looked into the fire as the logs shifted, crinkled, and burned down to ash. It was an hour later before he pulled the wire screen across more firmly in the middle and went to bed.