The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

  Then my grandmother says suddenly, “-endy!”

  My mom and I look at each other. “Who, Grandma?” I ask.

  Her mouth works. “W-endy …”

  “… Wendy.”

  We say it at the same time. My grandmother nods. “Wha happen … Wendy?”

  What happened to Wendy? I hesitate. For some strange reason, I want to tell my grandmother, I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to Wendy and …

  I’m scared. I don’t know why that comes into my head. Wendy’s partying in Atlantic City with Nico. She’s fine. Or she’s not with Nico and having some big nervous breakdown over how no one will ever love her. In which case, she’s fine too.

  Only why didn’t she get someone to cover for her?

  But my grandmother’s tired and this is not the time for me to blather on about a girl I haven’t hung out with in over a year. “I think she’s okay,” I say. “I haven’t seen a lot of her lately.”

  “Hey there!”

  “Hi.”

  Wendy stopped, not sure if she should or not. It had been three weeks since Jenny’s party. We hadn’t spoken since then. She had called once. I had not called back.

  Now I said, “Nice sweater.”

  “Well, thank you.” Someone said Hey, she nodded back, then asked me, “So, like—how are you?”

  “I am good.”

  “Yeah, I see.” She nodded. Then: “I’m sorry I …”

  I shook my head. “Nah.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She smiled uncertainly. “But we should—”

  I cut her off. “Definitely.”

  There was a silence; then Wendy said brightly, “Saw you eating lunch with Rima the other day. Hanging with the top girls, whoa.”

  She smiled, because in spite of everything, she saw how funny that was, and for a moment, I almost smiled back. But I didn’t.

  Wendy sighed. “Well, bye …”

  That was when I could have said, You know what, Wendy? You think you’re hurting those girls who have so much power—and you are—but the one you’re really hurting is you. And I wish you wouldn’t because I like you so much. At least I used to.

  I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I thought, Why bother? She won’t listen.

  So I waved. Bye.

  In the car, my mom says, “She needs to see people.”

  “Why? If she doesn’t want to?”

  “It’s not healthy. You need to connect, interact, otherwise …” She turns the wheel. “By the way, when did your grandmother meet Wendy?”

  “That winter,” I say. “You were in Greece? Grandma came to stay? Wendy slept over.”

  My mom nods, remembering.

  * * *

  “Do you think she’ll actually do it?”

  Weirdly, last night was the first time I’d spoken to Wendy in forever. Even though we went to a lot of the same parties, we went for different reasons. I was the girl who listened. I was the girl who held people’s heads when they puked. I was the girl who understood that you could love someone who treated you badly, that yes, it sucked when someone said they were skipping lunch and then you saw them eating with someone else, and that it was possible at sixteen to think you would never be happy. I never told anyone it didn’t matter or asked why they cared. In fact, I never told anyone much of anything. I just watched and listened to the crazy.

  And there was a lot of it, particularly when Wendy was at the party. And that night, people were hoping for more. I’d talked to Sean Pertwee about his mom’s new boyfriend, who was only three years older than him. I’d listened to Deirdre Fish angst about her crush on her best friend, Melanie, who didn’t seem to have a clue. And I’d nodded while Wilbur Pierce said his new meds were screwing up his head in a totally unfun way.

  Every single one of them asked me the same question: Do you think Wendy’ll actually do it?

  And every single time, I said, I have no idea.

  “I so don’t get what guys see in her,” said Layla Maxwell.

  I do, I thought. I completely got it. Wendy would come at you with that total, out-there emotion and suddenly, you were a part of the coolest, most fun club in the universe. Wendy always seemed to know where life was, and if you were lucky, she’d grab you by the hand and take you along for the ride.

  Funny, I thought. I’d forgotten that.

  Around eleven, I was overdosed on people, so I ducked into the kitchen for a break. The kitchen was right by the front door; you could see people coming and going, or watch them through the window space that looked onto the living room. I was wearing what I always wore to parties: my favorite pair of jeans, tall boots, black turtleneck, and my signature army jacket with the I LIKE IKE button. Red hair up, two of Chinatown’s best chopsticks stuck in the bun.

  I found Wendy sitting on the windowsill. She had a plastic cup in her hand, one foot up on the sill, the other dangling toward the floor. And she was alone, which was strange. Wendy was never alone if she could help it.

  In some ways, Layla was right. For a girl who got a lot of guys, Wendy wasn’t that pretty. But she’d learned from all those top girls. She shopped where those girls shopped. She got her hair cut where they did. From a distance, she looked like a lot of thin, dark-haired girls in the city.

  Up close was a different story. Up close, you saw her great smile. Up close, you felt her energy. Wendy was fun. Her friends loved it when she squirted ketchup packets in her hair as a joke. Look, dye job! Or pretended to have a fainting spell in H&M so someone else could snatch a few bracelets. A lot of people still didn’t like her, but they paid attention to her.

  But Wendy wasn’t feeling fun that night. Maybe it was the way that dangling foot twisted like it was trying to find the floor. Or the way her fist sat pressed to her stomach. Or the way she breathed short little breaths like she was trying to get a grip on herself. She didn’t want to be alone. Only, the one person she wanted to be with wasn’t here.

  Was she really going to do it?

  The plastic cup was mostly ice by now, and she drained it. I said, “Hey, weren’t you, like …”

  Right away, she got the game. Do I Know You? We used to play it on people in the street. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me.”

  “I saw you in that …”

  “I heard your …”

  “You were so great.”

  “You were, like, amazing.”

  We laughed. “Hey there.” She got off the sill, gave me a hug. Wendy gave good hugs, long and strong.

  “Hey,” I said back.

  “Seriously,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m cool, I’m good.…” I hesitated. “How are you?”

  “I don’t know, let me check with my multiple personalities. ‘Good?’ ‘Yeah, all good, chief.’ ‘Good?’ ‘Just swell.…’ ”

  She waved her hands. “No, good, I’m good.”

  I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Hm?” She looked confused.

  “Wendy.”

  Wendy wandered over to the counter where people were dumping whatever bottles they had managed to steal from their parents or get someone to buy for them.

  Pouring vodka into her cup, she said abruptly, “Have you ever been in love with completely the wrong person? I don’t mean like he’s shorter than you or doesn’t have money or doesn’t call …”

  “Normal guy wrong.”

  “Right. I mean, like people could get hurt wrong.” She started to pick up the cup, then put it down again. “What would you say to someone who was in love with someone like that?”

  Love. This was new. Of course, I knew who we were talking about: Nico Phelps. Wendy’s obsession with Nico was all over school. This year, her Facebook page was practically devoted to him. His body, his eyes, his clothes. Supposedly they’d gotten together a few times over the summer. But it didn’t last. Nico dated up.

  Wendy had sworn to make another play for him tonight. The fact that he had a girlfriend—and that girlfriend was Sasha Meloni—probably just add
ed to the kick.

  Most kids thought: Wendy strikes again. To me, the whole thing felt a little … frantic. Now I saw why. She was seriously hooked on this guy.

  A memory of Nico flashed in my head. My stomach churned.

  “I’d say, Stay away. Don’t do it.”

  “What if you tried? What if it didn’t work?”

  “Try again? Wendy—”

  I wanted to say, Please, stop this game. Stop before you get hurt. Or hurt someone else. Again.

  The words were in my head. But they never reached the air. Before I could say them out loud, there was a group scream and the entire party seemed to surge toward the front door. The beautiful couple had arrived: Nico Phelps and Sasha Meloni.

  Everyone wondered how Sasha would handle tonight. Would she even come to the party? Would she let Nico come? Anyone who thought she would bail didn’t know Sasha. Sasha’s mother is a ballet dancer. Her father something with money. Swanlike Sasha with her long body, cascade of auburn hair, and passion for art. She’s not pool cleaner—and she’s no doormat, either. A lot of people were hoping that Wendy was finally going to get what was coming to her. She’d messed with the wrong girlfriend this time.

  In some ways, Sasha and Nico were an odd couple: Sasha so classy, Nico so bad boy. But I’d noticed that strange couples often paired up senior year. It was a last chance to try something new, experiment with a future self.

  All eyes were on Sasha, Nico, and Wendy. As Sasha accepted fiercely loyal hugs from her friends in the hallway, I thought I saw her glance at Wendy through the entrance to the kitchen.

  Wendy was watching Nico. Her energy was crackling, out of control.

  Get her out of here, I told myself. Right now.

  Wendy frowned, as if she had just remembered something. To me, she said, “Could you ’scoose me? Something I gotta do.”

  But she didn’t leave right away. Instead she looked at me, mouth slightly open. About to tell me something—or hoping I would say something.

  I opened my mouth. Wendy, let’s just get coffee. Eat some raw cookie dough.

  I never said it. And a second later, Wendy left the kitchen to find Nico. A little while later I left the party. ’Cause at this party, I’d seen the Wendy I’d really liked, the girl I thought would be my best friend till we were ancient.

  But then she went racing after Nico Phelps and I didn’t want to see what happened next.

  “Thank God,” my mom says, turning onto our street. “Home.” Home. Our building is called the Britannia, and it feels very English; my mother says it’s like living at Oxford. As I go into the building, I wave to the two gargoyles above the door, who I think of as Lola and Hubie. The first time Wendy saw them, she said they creeped her out.

  It’s after seven. As we unlock the apartment door and start turning on lights, my mom says, “We’re ordering. You pick.” She crosses to the answering machine, says, “Ugh.” It’s flashing furiously. I can guess: two of them will be Taylor.

  Both with pretty much the same message. Oh my God, did you hear what Wendy did?

  Also, I hope, one from Ms. Geller. Good news, everything’s all right.

  I’ve had to pee for the last half hour, so I go to the bathroom. Then I go to my room and take my cell phone out of my bag. Time to call Taylor and hear the whole horror story.

  Taylor’s number is ringing when there’s a knock at the door. With a weird sense of déjà vu, I say, “Yeah?”

  My mom opens the door. “Honey, I need to talk to you.”

  I’m listening for Taylor, show my mom the phone. In my ear, Taylor says, “Hey! Oh my God …”

  My mom comes in, takes the phone from me. “Taylor? Hi, sweetheart. Can Rain call you back? Thank you, lovey.”

  “Mom!” I say as she hangs up.

  She doesn’t answer. Just sits on the bed, puts her hands on my shoulders. “This is going to be hard. And I want you to know I’m right here and I always will be. Are you listening? Did you hear that?”

  “Yes, you’re three inches away from me.”

  “Honey. Rain. They found her. In the park.”

  Why is my mom telling me this? I wonder. Who is her?

  Oh, Wendy. Right. God, you spend a whole day thinking about someone …

  Found her. They found her in the park. Playground. Swings. Kids. Good. So they found her in a nice place, not a motel, which was kind of what I was expecting.

  Except … they? Not her mom?

  They found her. I shake my head, because there’s something weird about found. You find sweaters in the park. Or lost dogs. Found is like Wendy’s not a person. Not a living …

  My mom is crying. That tells me what found means. Why Wendy isn’t a person anymore. That Wendy is dead.

  Don’t watch, my mom says. You don’t need to see this.

  But I do. I really do. I sit in front of the TV, watching people with microphones talk about Wendy. Or, not Wendy. The girl in Central Park.

  On the TV, a reporter is standing outside the park walls. “There have been several attacks in the park in recent months. Cutbacks in housing and mental health services mean more mentally disturbed and drug-addicted people out on the streets. While police will not speculate, one wonders if this is just the latest tragedy in a larger trend of violent crime.…”

  Why didn’t I say something? I should have said something, I think numbly. Asked her to go somewhere. She wanted me to. That’s why she hesitated.

  “God,” says my mom. “I hope her mother’s not seeing this. They make you a thing.”

  I look up. “Should I call her?”

  “Not now, baby.” My mom sits down, hugs me for about the millionth time.

  “I want to do something for her,” I say. “I feel like I totally …”

  I shake my head. My mom says, “What, honey? What?”

  “I should have talked to her.”

  My mom looks puzzled.

  “Wendy. I should have talked to her. I should have told her …” I take a deep breath. “I should have gotten her out of there. Only I didn’t. And now …”

  I throw my hand at the TV. My mom snaps it off with the remote.

  Lifting my face, she says, “There was nothing you could do. I don’t know how to say that so you’ll believe it, but there was nothing you could do.”

  “I could have said—”

  “What? Don’t drink? Don’t go to Central Park? Don’t run into some creep who will hurt you? Honey …”

  “Do you think that’s what it was? Some crazy guy?” It’s ridiculous but I can’t stand the thought of Wendy being attacked by a stranger. I think of evil, hurting hands reaching out of nowhere. Wendy grabbed, the terror she must have felt.

  “I don’t know, honey, I have no idea. I don’t think the park in the middle of the night is a good place for a young girl who’s not thinking clearly.”

  She takes my hands in hers. “I do know: Wendy wasn’t listening to anybody last night except Wendy.”

  But I was listening to Wendy, I think. I knew she wasn’t okay. And I just left her.

  The school sends out an email.

  We will be marking the tragic loss of Wendy Geller with a special assembly tomorrow afternoon. Regular classes will be held as scheduled. But we understand that students may wish to mourn in private. No student who wishes to stay home will be considered absent.

  I can’t sleep. Lying in the dark, staring up at the blankness of the ceiling, all I can think of is what it means not to be. The ceiling becomes a coffin lid, the sound of traffic outside a world I’ll never rejoin. Am I breathing? Can I move? Panicked, I turn over, clutch at the blanket.

  Once, when I was very little, my mom taught me a bedtime prayer. “If I should die before I wake …” I didn’t want to say it. I imagined the universe saying, Ah, she said it! Time’s up! It’s okay to take her.

  Take her. An unknown hand grabs you, and your life is over. How does that happen?

  Rolling over, I try to feel what it means that Wendy
is gone. That she’s not at home, on the phone or watching TV. She’s not at her dad’s, or on the street, or … anywhere. I try to fix an image of Wendy in my head. Try to hear her voice. But already I can’t. It feels like a second betrayal.

  I get out of bed and turn on the computer. Three days ago, if you Googled Wendy Geller, you would have gotten maybe a few hundred hits, mostly Facebook stuff and Twitter. Now it’s almost 100,000. WENDY GELLER Wendy Geller Geller, Wendy Wendy Geller Wendy Geller all over the screen.

  I try to focus, click on News About Wendy Geller. My mom would want me to read the Times article, so I click on that.

  A seventeen-year-old woman was found slain yesterday morning in Central Park. The police said she had apparently been sexually abused and strangled.

  The body of the victim, Wendy Catherine Geller, was found by a jogger at about 9:30 A.M., according to Capt. Michael Fiske of the Manhattan 19th Precinct detective unit. Partially hidden, the body was discovered in a cluster of bushes in the Billy Johnson Playground, located at 67th Street and Fifth Avenue. “It was a cold, drizzly morning,” said Lena Mosher, who regularly runs past the area. “I was out, but the playground was empty, thank God.”

  Ms. Geller was five feet, five inches tall with long brown hair. She was lying facedown in a garden circle in the center of the playground. She was wearing blue jeans and a red sweater. A black wool coat was on the ground nearby. Her clothes were disheveled. No weapons were found.

  Ms. Geller attended Alcott School, a private school on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Family members say she was outgoing and well liked. “She had many friends,” said her aunt Sonia Woolf, standing outside the building on East 73rd Street where Ms. Geller lived with her mother. “She loved fashion and design. This was a happy girl.”

  There have been several attacks in the park in recent months. Police are investigating the possibility that Ms. Geller’s death might be part of a recent uptick in violent crime.

  “You have a lot of mentally ill people in this city,” said the victim’s uncle, Louis Geller. “Nobody’s watching them. People hurting for money, people on drugs. This is not a safe world.” Ms. Geller’s father, an attorney, lives in Garden City, Long Island, with her stepmother, Heidi Geller.