“One last thing: there’s a topless photo of me floating around out there that I paid to have taken down from the Internet. But I’m not ashamed of that photo. I’m ashamed that the world thinks I should be ashamed of it,” my mom says.

This is it, I think as my mom wipes at her face, and we weep and laugh and clap with abandon from the sidelines, Isla and I in our ridiculous matching pink gingham. I guess you do know when you hit it.

This is bottom.

How glorious it is to finally look up.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Now

Later, after they all leave—the cameras and Brittany Brady and a livid Paloma, who kept saying over and over, “Did you have to mention the cheek implants? Cheek implants are not a crime!”—we sit outside at the big wooden table near the fire pit, a giant pizza between us like a peace offering. My dad puts on some low music on the speakers, possibly because it’s a lovely thing, having music piped into your backyard, but more likely to protect our privacy.

After my mother’s appearance today, though, who cares what the neighbors hear? We have nothing left to hide.

My parents have both poured themselves generous glasses of wine, and though sometimes they let me have my own small smidge, today they seem scandalized when I ask.

“Okay, so yeah. Let’s talk. The things I did—” my mom starts.

“We did,” my dad interrupts. “Just because I’m not on the tape doesn’t mean I wasn’t part of this. I hate that you have to be the one…I hate it. The things we did.”

“I’m sorry that we paid someone to correct your SATs and that we bribed your way into SCC. I’m spelling it out because I think that’s part of apologizing. Not being queasy about what you did wrong,” my mom says. My guess is she consulted an expert, a child psychologist, maybe, about how best to approach this with us. I’d be annoyed except I think she’s right. I like hearing it spelled out. None of us being allowed to flinch.

“I’m sorry too,” my dad says. “For everything. I’m also sorry for not being on that tape, and that your mom has to shoulder all the blame alone.”

“You did get fired,” my mom says.

“Temporarily,” my dad says. He’s pretty sure that as soon as this all blows over, his company will hire him again. Money is more important than morality in the venture-capital business.

I reflexively want to say it’s okay when my parents apologize, which is what I always say when someone apologizes to me, but obviously this time, it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all.

We will be, though, I think.