The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

  “Students, this is a terrible day at Alcott. A young woman’s life has been taken, and we who knew her are left to grieve the loss. I … I confess I cannot quite believe it.” He glances toward the closed doors of the assembly hall. “I expect to see Ms. Geller walking in at any moment.”

  I feel a ripple in the crowd, an energy wave of agreement. From some parts of the room, sniffing, a sob.

  Then Mr. Dorland says, “Ms. Geller was relatively new to our school, and while I knew her, of course, and admired her wonderful spirit—”

  Fake, I think without wanting to. Wonderful spirit—it’s something a teacher says about someone they didn’t know. Or didn’t like.

  Mr. Dorland starts talking about loss. He quotes a poem. But none of it feels like Wendy. Which I guess he realizes because he finally says, “I wonder if now is the time for those who knew Ms. Geller to come forth and say a few words.”

  Now the wave has a different energy. Anxiety. Awkwardness. Mr. Dorland’s been so uptight and formal, no one wants to follow him.

  Taylor nudges me, but I shake my head. I do not do public speaking. When I was ten, my mom dug up these old home videos and got them transferred to disc. I was all excited. Ooh, I get to see myself as a little kid.

  Then I saw this three-year-old running around, yelling, “–i, Mom. ’Ook a me.”

  My mom was getting all misty, saying things like “You were so cute!” And all I could think was Why didn’t I know I sounded retarded? Why didn’t anybody tell me? How could she put me out in the world sounding like that?

  But someone has to speak for Wendy. Jenny’s gone home. Ellis looks too broken up to say anything. I think of all the girls who thought Wendy was so “hilarious,” the boys who thought she was “hot.” Why won’t they speak for her?

  Well, why won’t you, Rain? Wendy was the one person who said your cleft palate didn’t matter, so why are you letting that stop you? Raise your hand.

  But I can’t. My pronunciation is much better than when I was little. But when I imagine myself talking, all I can hear is Wendy wash a ’ood fend.

  Raise your hand, Rain, I order myself. I chant this over and over in my head. But my hand doesn’t move.

  Mr. Dorland is looking around the room. The longer the silence goes on, the weirder it gets. Now even someone who might have wanted to say something feels strange.

  Then I hear, “I’d like to say something, Mr. Dorland.”

  A man’s voice, not a kid’s. Light, precise, intelligent. I don’t even have to look to know. It’s Mr. Farrell.

  “Go for it, tigress.”

  All of a sudden, Wendy’s in my head, vivid, real, laughing. Only it’s two years ago and we’re standing in the hallway outside history when Mr. Farrell comes out of his classroom. He’s rushing down the hall, but stops to nod to us. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  And when he’s gone, I say, “Now, he’s hot.”

  I don’t actually want the word hot, though. I want the word beautiful. I want tall, want lean. I want to say, I didn’t know how to want until the universe showed me T. H. Farrell.

  Wendy would laugh if I told her that. Which is why I say “hot.”

  But Wendy gives me a long, strange look. As if my choice reveals just how little I know about men and sex. As if I had said, “I want to date Luke Skywalker.”

  Embarrassed, I mumble, “I’m just saying … if I had to pick someone at school.”

  Wendy snaps out of her stare and smiles. “No, no, I get it. Not my type, but he’s sort of …” She pauses as she looks again.

  Then she does laugh. “Hey—why not? Go for it, tigress.”

  “Yeah, he’s a teacher. Not to mention married.”

  “Oh, like that matters.”

  I miss you, Wendy, I think as Mr. Farrell replaces Mr. Dorland at the podium. Right now, if you were here, you’d be whispering, “Sit up, lady. Show yourself.” And I’d tell you, Quit it, but I’d love that you were trying to make me try.

  I look up at Mr. Farrell. Dark hair, huge gray eyes. A face that’s somehow Irish and Native American both. He’s a little nervous to be speaking in front of this big a crowd, you can tell. Maybe because he went to Alcott when he was a kid, sometimes he seems a little more one of us than a teacher. Kids like him, which is probably why Mr. Dorland made him acting head of the upper school when Ms. Johnson went on maternity leave. I’ve never had him for class. Taylor has him this year. I try not to be in total agony that he will fall madly in love with her.

  He starts off by saying, “Wendy Geller was not my best student. In fact, I think the first thing I ever said to her was ‘If you have something to share, Ms. Geller, please share it with all of us.’ ”

  People laugh. Part of the problem has been Dorland talking about Wendy as if she were some nice white-bread girl, just because she’s dead. It feels good to remember how ditzy she could be.

  Now Mr. Farrell says, “Wendy was a person who had a lot to share.” He pauses. “Even if she didn’t always pick the best times.”

  Or the best people, I think.

  “She had laughter, she had warmth, she had a … genuine caring. I often felt bad that she didn’t seem to realize how rare those qualities are, how special.”

  I find myself nodding. Mr. Farrell sees me, smiles a little. I smile back.

  Then Mr. Farrell drops his head as if what he’s feeling is too private to show. “I don’t want to talk about how we lost Wendy, about … anger and … rage and … stupidity. I would rather be grateful that Wendy did share her laughter and her love with so many of us. And feel sad that she will not be able to share them with the rest of the world.”

  I’m crying. Taylor’s staring into the distance, trying not to cry. And we’re not the only ones. Someone’s finally said: Hey, this girl wasn’t perfect, but I liked her. I’m really mad that she’s gone. All around, I can feel the energy’s opened up. No more embarrassment or fakeness. Just sorrow. Loss. The things that really are. I look at the photograph on the table, the little light flickering in front of it. The big brown eyes and the friendly smile. Hi there!

  Wendy.

  Later, as we file out of the hall, I notice there’s a table with flyers on it. Wendy’s picture in grainy black-and-white. If we know anything, we’re supposed to contact the police.

  Why? I wonder. If the killer was some random crazy guy, why ask us?

  * * *

  I’m standing outside Mr. Farrell’s room. The school is mostly empty. Most people cleared out after the assembly.

  I have never spoken to Mr. Farrell. My tongue is twisted up with nerves, and for a moment, I feel panicked that an ugly mess will come spitting out of my mouth. Mithder Faruhl? Not that he would be mean about it. If anything, he would be horribly kind.

  So what? I hear Wendy say. Take it from me, babes. You only live once.

  Impulsively, I knock on the door. A weird moment of silence. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s gone home.

  Then I hear, “Come in.”

  Mr. Farrell’s is one of the smaller classrooms, with high windows on one side. Most teachers cover the walls in pictures and posters, but his are plain, just the white plaster and dark wood molding. To look, you don’t know; are you in a German class? Trig? Art history? Mr. Farrell teaches English, but there’s nothing in the room to tell you that.

  In the center is a big round table. Mr. Farrell is sitting near the window. There are papers on the table. But it doesn’t look like he’s touched any of them.

  I stay half in the hallway as I say, “Mr. Farrell? I don’t know if you know me, but …”

  He smiles. “Rain, of course I know you.” He gestures. “Come on in. You can shut the door.”

  How happy this makes me, that he lets me in, says close the door, as if we need privacy. You’re sad, I tell myself, really sad. But it doesn’t stop me from being happy.

  Of course, now I have to speak.

  “I, uh …” I had words. I rehearsed them on the way here. They were perfect, w
ise, mature … and now they’ve vanished. “I …”

  He pulls out a chair. “This has been a very hard day. Why don’t you sit?”

  I do. It’s both better and worse. Better because I’m near him. Worse because I’m near him. Wendy, I think. I’m here to talk about Wendy.

  I mumble, “What you said about Wendy …”

  “Yes.” I like how he says just enough to fill in the blank spaces, but not so much that I feel rushed.

  “I’m really glad you said it.” Now I can look at him. “You know, that somebody did.”

  He coughs a little, pushes at the papers. “Well, I appreciate that, because I thought it was pretty … inadequate.” He smiles, and that connection I always knew was there—two people scared to speak—hums between us. “I thought any friend of Wendy’s would think, Who does this guy think he is?”

  “I was friends with Wendy, and that’s not what I thought.”

  “Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It was a long time ago.” He filled my silence before; now it’s my turn. “I know, people think, Hm, pretty different …”

  “No.”

  “But that was one of the things that was sort of great about Wendy. She didn’t …” I’m not putting it right. “She wanted to be popular? But she wouldn’t put other people down. She was into status, but she wasn’t a snob. Actually, she could get pretty fierce when people were snobby to her.”

  “I wish you had said that at the assembly.”

  Immediately, I shake my head. “Public speaking and me …”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  I check his face. He’s serious; he has no idea why I would be afraid to speak. It makes me think of Wendy in my kitchen: Give up the silence.

  For no reason, I blurt out, “I already can’t remember what she looked like.”

  “That happens,” says Mr. Farrell. “When my dad died, I kept all these pictures of him on my desk, so I could have him fixed in my head.”

  I have this horrible impulse to tell him that I don’t have any pictures of my dad. That I might not even know when he dies.

  Mr. Farrell’s briefcase is open on the table. Inside the top, there’s a photo of a little boy. Just past baby. He has big happy eyes and brown hair. He’s crazy about whoever he’s looking at, you can tell from his face. Total love.

  “That’s your little boy?” I ask.

  “Nathaniel.” He moves the briefcase so I can see better.

  “So cute.”

  “Thank you.” He glances at the picture. “He … Well, he’s mine. So he must be the most wonderful, perfect kid ever born, right?”

  “That’s how dads should feel,” I say.

  Looking at the picture of Nathaniel and thinking of Wendy reminds me of Ms. Geller. She has the same picture of Wendy—hundreds of them, I’ll bet.

  Without thinking, I say, “I said totally the wrong thing.”

  “When?”

  “Wendy’s mom called me. That morning. She wanted to know if I knew where Wendy was. And I was all like, Oh, she’s fine, don’t worry. Now I feel horrible.”

  He leans in. “That’s what she needed to hear, Rain. You sensed that, so you gave it to her. There’s nothing wrong with that. It was kindness.”

  I shake my head. “You should call Ms. Geller. Tell her what you said.”

  He smiles, breaking up the sadness. “What, that her daughter talked too much in class?”

  “No.” I smile back. “The part about Wendy laughing, caring. That stuff. She’d like that.”

  “Really?” He looks unsure, and I love that he’s so cool and doesn’t know it.

  “Really,” I say. “Hey, made me feel better.”

  He laughs. “Well, then I’m really glad I said it.”

  I twist my hands together. “Mr. Farrell?”

  He leans in. “What?”

  “I don’t want to gossip or anything. But … do you know what the police are …? Like, if they have a suspect? You probably can’t tell me things like that.”

  “I can’t,” he says gently. “Because I don’t know myself. They’re keeping a very tight lid on this.”

  “Why were they here?”

  He considers his answer; I wonder what he might be hiding. “Primarily so that Mr. Dorland could introduce Detective Vasquez. We felt it would be easier for students if they saw him before they got a call from the police.”

  “Do you know who they’re calling?”

  He shakes his head. “Why?”

  I stare down at the ground. “No, I just hope they talk to people who …” I look up. “Not everybody liked Wendy. Some people are into trashing her, saying, like, she deserved it, ’cause she …” I wave my hand, not wanting to list the reasons people think Wendy deserved to get killed.

  Mr. Farrell says, “When disaster strikes, people get scared. They want to find a reason it won’t happen to them. Something the victim did wrong that they would never do.”

  “Yeah.” I nod gratefully. “I think there’s a lot of that going around.” Then in a burst, I add, “It’s like when people pick on a kid, they know it’s wrong? But they always find some reason the kid deserves it.…”

  Too much. Way too much. I stop talking, stare at the floor. What am I doing, blathering like this?

  I mumble, “I guess I’m just freaked by the whole thing.”

  “Of course.” A pause. “Do you feel like you could talk to Ms. Callanan?”

  I shake my head. Freshman year, when I was having a really rough time, I went to her once. All she did was grip my hand and say things like You must feel so SAD. You must feel so ALONE. I was like, Well, yeah—and?

  “I think I have to get through it myself,” I say.

  “No, you don’t,” he says.

  Something in that statement gives me the guts to look up. We sit there looking at each other. It occurs to me that if the silence lasts one more second, he will know how much I like him and this will go from wonderful to deeply embarrassing.

  Actually, he probably already knows and the only thing left is to show him that it’s cool, I’m not a moron.

  So I get up. “I’ve wasted a lot of your time.”

  “You have not,” he says.

  “Well … at any rate”—I start toward the door—“thank you again and …”

  “Rain?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitates. “You’re welcome. First. And …”

  I wait.

  “Come talk to me anytime.”

  “Okay.” He doesn’t mean it. I do get that. He’s being nice.

  “And I’m not just being nice.”

  I laugh. “Okay.” Wanting this to last, I glance at the bare walls. “You don’t like pictures?”

  “I don’t like pictures,” he says, grinning. “I like words. When people are in my class, I want them to listen. Really hear the words and feel the emotion. Not get distracted by a picture of the person or their life. Listening—it’s an old-fashioned concept, I know.”

  “Yeah, I do know.”

  He smiles.

  Most Alcott kids live near school, in the Seventies and Eighties, either on the pretty wealthy West Side or the flat-out rich East Side. I live on 110th, up near Columbia University, which is a different scene. My mom got a huge apartment there when she wasn’t making a lot of money. The neighborhood’s changed since then, but a lot of professors and writers and artists still live here. My mom says she’ll never leave because this is where she brought me home after I was born. Plus our building has gargoyles. “How can I leave the gargoyles?” she asks. Not to mention St. John the Divine, the Hungarian Pastry Shop, and V & T’s, which has the best pizza in the city.

  As I walk, I think about what Mr. Farrell said about Ms. Callanan. Maybe I should try again. The thing is, the one time I saw her, she was so busy feeling sorry for me, she never even heard why I was there in the first place. I feel like I could have told her exactly what happened with Nico in the stairwell and
she still would have gushed on about SAD and LONELY. She would have made it about me and not him.

  Right after the thing with Nico, I thought about it every day. I would play it over and over in my mind; what Nico said was always the same. What he did was the same. But in my imagination, I fought back.

  Which was not what happened, of course.

  I haven’t thought about it in a while. Now the whole rotten memory comes back in a rush like vomit.

  “Come on, I want to see.”

  It was in ninth grade, during that not-great time when my two friends, Layla and Sophie, had left. I would walk/run through the halls, praying no one would speak to me. It had been years since kids deliberately said hello just so they could make fun of whatever I said back. But why risk it?

  So why did I risk it with Nico Phelps? Maybe because he was new to the school. A year older than me, he’d never made fun of me. Probably because he had no idea who I was—but still. I knew who he was, of course. Everyone knew Nico Phelps, the moody blond guy whose worn cashmere sweaters stretched tight across the elbows and shoulders.

  I’d noticed those sweaters. They were expensive, but not new. Hand-me-downs? Not something you saw at Alcott every day.

  I think that’s why, when he said hello that afternoon on the stairwell, I felt … excited. Happy. I was on my way to chorus practice. We were alone on the stairs, one of the smaller, windowless stairwells that leads down to the basement. They’re old-fashioned, cramped. I remember thinking, Yeah, he would want to wait till no one was around. He is breaking the rules by talking to me.

  Which is why I said “Hi” back.

  “Rain, right?”

  He knows my name, I trilled to myself. He cares who I am.

  “Right. And you’re Nico.”

  He smiled, Um-hm. Then said, “I want to see the hole.”

  I didn’t get it right away. His voice was still friendly, his shoulders relaxed. I felt no threat; it just didn’t make sense.

  I must have shaken my head, because he continued, “They say you’ve got a hole in your mouth. That’s why you talk like a retard.”

  Even then, I accepted it. He wasn’t being mean, just explaining. It was what people said about me. I had a hole in my mouth, I talked like a retard. It was the way it was. How could I be hurt by that?