What I see is not Wendy. It’s a bad doll someone clumped together with clay and paint, using some old photo of Wendy bored out of her mind at a family event. Wendy’s hair is brushed in a way she never wore it, high and off her forehead. The hands on her chest look like wax. There’s beige makeup smeared all over her face. The lipstick’s too red, the eye shadow too dark. Someone put her in a black dress with a cardigan. There’s a scarf around her neck, an ugly green thing.
“Okay,” I hear Jenny whisper, “what she would say if she could? ‘Get these ugly-ass clothes off me.’ ”
I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing, because it’s so true and it’s so good to think of Wendy saying that. It’s stupid—who cares what you wear when you’re dead?—but appearance was important to Wendy.
Then I see the bruises. Dark shadows under the thick yellow paste. One high on her cheek, near the eye. Another on her chin. And, just visible at the edge of the scarf, the stain of death on her throat.
I hear Jenny’s choked whisper. “Bye, sweetie.” But I’m not saying good-bye. Not to this, because this is not Wendy. I don’t know if there’s a God or heaven, but there are spirits. A you-ness, a life. But it’s not here in this box. This is just some old clothes.
I don’t want to stand here staring. I have to do something, something good. My list. Useless, but all I have. Say something nice to Ms. Geller. Do what Wendy would have done for my mom. The crowd around her has cleared. A dark-haired boy sits beside her, doubled over.
Ellis.
Be kind to Ellis, another thing I meant to do. Good, two things at once.
But as I approach, I suddenly feel like an intruder. Trying to sense where it’s coming from, I look to Ms. Geller. But her back’s to me, she’s not even aware I’m near. It’s Ellis. As he talks to her, he keeps glancing at me. We know each other slightly, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. No welcome.
He doesn’t want me, I think. I should back off.
But that’s what I always think. Rain, I tell myself—for once, don’t listen. Just say what you should.
I say, “Ms. Geller? Rain …”
“Oh, Rain.” She gets up immediately. Hugs me. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
“I’m so sorry,” I hear myself say.
Ms. Geller squeezes my hands. “I know.” Her voice shudders as she says, “She was my sweet, funny baby.”
I nod, feeling choked up. “She was …”
God, why can I never say things?
Ellis stands and—maybe to rescue me—Ms. Geller asks, “Rain, do you know Wendy’s boyfriend, Ellis?”
Boyfriend? I hug Ellis, say, “Yeah, sure. Hi.”
He hugs back, but steps away quickly. I didn’t read him wrong before. He doesn’t want me here.
Jolted, I focus on his clothes. Ellis has fun with his clothes, he and Wendy had that in common. His suit is dark navy. His shirt is clean, simple white, with a dark-gray tie of heavy silk. Even in mourning, Ellis dresses well. Wendy would like that, I think.
Then Ms. Geller says, “Rain and Wendy were good friends when they were younger.” She manages a shaky smile. “You two had some adventures.”
Well, not actually the two of us, I think, remembering how Wendy used me to cover. I try to joke. “You weren’t supposed to know that.”
Ellis smiles nervously. Wanting to signal that I’m not out to embarrass him, I say, “You and Wendy were so great together.”
He manages to nod thank you, then says, “She was amazing.”
Ms. Geller puts her hand on Ellis’s arm. “Ellis was such an important part of Wendy’s life. We’re so happy to have him as … well, I think of you as family. I do.”
We all smile. Then Ellis’s mouth twists and he tears up again. Ms. Geller murmurs, “Oh,” and hugs him. While I think, Chill out. You dated for, like, six weeks.
Putting the thought away, I say to Ms. Geller, “I know everybody says this, but if there’s anything …”
The squeeze again, the smile. “Thank you. I always knew my girl was in good hands with you.”
My throat tightens as I feel again how much I let Wendy down. “Well, I’ll let you …”
What? Cry? Scream?
Ms. Geller gives me a quick hug, then lets me go.
Making my way back through the crowd, I see Lindsey Adams. She’s standing by a large, ugly plant, arms crossed, staring at nothing. I remember now: she and Ellis had some girlfriend vs. friend issues while he was with Wendy. This can’t be fun for her. I wave, but she seems determined not to see anyone.
Wiggling through the crowd, I hear snatches of conversation. “My niece was attacked walking her dog.” “You walk down the street, you don’t know what’s coming at you.” “I bet they never catch him.”
I find Taylor chatting with a stranger. But the second she sees me, she says to the woman, “Again—I’m really sorry.” Taylor can do it, I think enviously. Sound grown-up and sincere even with someone she just met.
“Who was that?” I ask as we walk away.
“Long Island neighbor. Said she worried about Wendy moving to the city. You know, ‘with all the psychos.’ ” Taylor rolls her eyes. “I need to know what a bathroom looks like in a funeral home. You?”
“No, I’m good.” Taylor nods, heads off to one of the men in black to ask directions.
Waiting, I wander the lobby. There are other signs, other names, other rooms. How many dead people are here? I wonder. Then, How many people have died today? How many are buried, graves like craters all over the earth? I imagine the earth crumbling under so many dead.
Behind me, I hear, “Hey.”
I turn, see Karina. “Hey.”
Both heys are wary. We don’t like each other and we know it. Yet here we are.
Karina says, “Pretty awful, huh.” She could be talking about the decor. But I’ll decide she means Wendy.
“Horrible,” I say, even as I keep track of how many words I’m saying. “I’ll miss her.”
“Yeah”—her voice quickens, I just gave her an opening—“I saw you talking to her at the party.”
I nod as I take in this clue to the mystery of Karina’s sudden friendliness.
She asks, “Have you done the police talk?”
Done the police talk—Karina makes it sound like a joke. Boring, like homework. “Yeah. I didn’t have anything to tell them.”
Karina nods, trying to be sympathetic. “I told them how worried I was about her that night. It’s one thing if you go after a guy and bomb out in private. But to tell the whole world? Humiliate yourself like that? I mean … no wonder, right?”
No wonder she ended up murdered? Because she liked a boy? Don’t quite get the connection there, Karina.
Unless you want to tell me that the boy she liked murdered her.
Do I remember that Karina dated Nico a long time ago? Or am I making that up?
Then Karina asks, “What were you guys talking about?”
Her eyes are right on me. This is not a casual question.
“Um … party talk,” I say carefully. “ ‘Hey, how are you?’ That kind of thing.”
“Really? You guys were chatting for a while.”
Now I want to know. Whatever it is Karina’s fishing for, I want to know what it is—and why. Which means risking just a little more.
Shrugging, I say, “Just life, love, pursuit of happiness kind of things.” I slow down over the s’s, try to get them right. Once Karina spent a whole lunch hour shushing everyone whenever I said an s. “Sh, everybody! Rain says shush, be quiet.”
But if my s’s aren’t perfect, Karina doesn’t seem to notice today. “She was talking about Nico, right?” She rolls her eyes, inviting me into her club briefly to make fun of Wendy.
“A little.”
Karina smirks. “What, she was all like, ‘Oh, he’s totally going home with me’?”
One thing Karina is telling me without saying a word: she’s worried people will
think Wendy got with Nico. That’s why she wants to know what Wendy said to people that night.
She’s also told me I’m not the only one who’s connected the question mark around Nico and Wendy with Wendy’s death.
Karina presses. “That’s the thing, she told everyone. Put it on her stupid Facebook page. Then when it didn’t happen, she couldn’t handle it.”
One of the things that has worked for me in the past: be the nerd who knows nothing. Frowning, I say, “Oh, it didn’t happen? Her and Nico? ’Cause I heard—”
I break off, as if confused.
“What?” Anger now, narrowing her eyes, flushing her cheeks. “Someone’s saying they left together? Because they didn’t. No way.”
“No, the person didn’t say that—”
Karina interrupts. “Is this Jenny? Chick’s off her meds. I saw Wendy leave. And believe me, she was all on her lonesome.”
She makes a fake sad face, her contempt for Wendy right out there. The need to do something that I felt looking into Wendy’s coffin floods back. And with it an idea. Usually, I don’t lie well. But now I need to.
My voice vague, I say, “Yeah, but you know what’s funny? I was waiting for a cab. And I could have sworn I saw Nico outside.”
My heart pounds as I wait for Karina to call me a liar or say she has no idea what I’m talking about. But as Karina stays silent, the pounding starts to feel like: You’re right. You’re right. You’re right.
She steps in close. “If I were you, I would not be spreading that around. Nico only left to—”
Then she realizes what she’s admitted.
“Stay out of it,” she hisses. “This is real life, okay? You don’t know shit.” She leans down, whispers, “Keep your mouth shut, Rain. It’s the only time people can stand to be around you.”
For a moment, I wonder, Is that true? But I sense Karina’s fear, and that gives me the strength to say, “Well, here’s what I know, Karina. I know Nico left the party. And I know you’re worried about it. And that’s a lot. Thanks.”
Then I leave before she can say another word.
When Taylor comes out on the street, she sees my face and says, “What? What happened?”
“I can’t here,” I tell her. “Let’s walk.”
We head uptown, moving through the bright normal world of Amsterdam Avenue. There are moms pushing strollers toward the park, little kids coming home from school. Someone’s going into Starbucks, another into a dry cleaner’s.
Then Taylor stops. “Okay, it’s far enough. Speak.”
I lower my voice, “Karina just told me Nico left with Wendy that night.”
“But he didn’t,” says Taylor with maddening certainty.
“Okay, like right after Wendy.”
“And?”
I widen my eyes. “And? That means—at the very least—he was the last person to see her alive.”
“You absolutely do not know that.”
“Tay …”
“He could have left to get booze, cigarettes, a breath of fresh air.”
“Or be with Wendy.”
Taylor shrugs.
“Why do you think that’s so impossible?”
Taylor sighs. “Because if he did it, he’d be arrested by now. Besides, he’s with Sasha, and Wendy was a skank.”
I wince. “Jesus, Tay.”
“I’m sorry.” She puts an awkward hand on my arm. I shake it off. “But just because Wendy made up this whole story about how she was going to get Nico—doesn’t make it so.”
“Why are you taking his side?”
“I’m not. It just pisses me off that because of what Wendy said, you think this guy killed her.”
“I do not think that.”
“Don’t you?” She challenges me with her eyes.
For a moment, I think of stepping down, saying, You’re right, I’m nuts. What am I thinking?
Then I remember what I’m thinking. I’m thinking Nico’s sneer, his finger jamming into my mouth. I’m thinking Karina’s fear. How everyone wants to say how screwed up Wendy was, but no one says how screwed up Nico is.
“Why don’t you think it?” I snap. “At all? Why is it so impossible to think?”
Taylor doesn’t answer.
Frustrated, I say, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Taylor stares down the block. “I’m just wondering …”
“What?”
“I know people were pretty crappy to you about the whole speech thing. I don’t know if Nico ever …”
“No.” I see where Taylor’s going and I don’t want to give her any ammunition.
“But people like him—the Karinas of this world—they can be …”
“Evil,” I say simply.
Taylor nods reluctantly. “So, I don’t blame you for hating them. At all. But I’m not going to make the jump to murder, either. Because what I saw is Wendy leaving alone.” She hesitates. “And I swear I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
That throws me. But then I say, “He did it and came back.”
“The guy really didn’t look like he killed somebody,” says Taylor. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Look, if you’re right, I’m sure the police are on it.”
But how can the police be on it when Nico’s friends are protecting him? Who’s going to say he left the party? Not Karina. Not Sasha. I even protected him, I realize. I didn’t tell them half the things I could have.
Then Taylor says, “But just so you know, I did tell the cops I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
“What else did they want to know?”
She rolls her eyes. “Was I at the party? Did I know Wendy? What’d I think about how she seemed that night?”
“What’d you tell them?”
“What I told you. That she seemed crazed and she didn’t have a habit of making the best choices. I’m sorry, that’s what I saw.”
“It’s okay,” I say, numb and automatic.
“We good?” Her voice is uncertain.
I don’t want to fight with Taylor, so I say, “Yeah, sure.”
There’s an awkward silence. Trying to ease it, Taylor says, “Cops are so obvious, the way they try and put you at ease. They were like, ‘Oh, we hear you’re the coeditor of the school newspaper. Big achiever. Got an E pin.’ ”
Puzzled, I say, “How’d they know? They saw it on your bag?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have it with me. Who knows? They’re goons.” She gives me a hug. “I’m really sorry, Rain,” she whispers. “You don’t deserve this pain.”
Then she nods toward the crosstown bus stop. “I’m going to get this. See you tomorrow.”
I nod.
As I walk home, the heels hurt my feet and I don’t care because I’m so angry. Skank, bitch, slut—everyone talks about Wendy like she was some trashy whore who made yet another mistake. While Nico’s just fine. People are excusing him, covering for him, just like they always have.
Do you really think he killed Wendy? a voice whispers.
I don’t know, I answer. But I want to know why he left the party right after her.
That’s not proof of anything, the voice insists.
And that, I have to admit, is true. Still, I wonder, do the police know Nico left the party?
Should I tell them?
On the corner, I’m stopped short by the sight of Wendy’s face. Smiling, pretty, but grainy, out of focus. Because it’s printed on cheap paper, the kind you toss away when you’re done. Wendy’s on the front page of the Herald. Above her face, crowding it, the words …
WHO WAS WENDY GELLER?
Life of a Party Girl Ends in Violence
Snatching up the paper, I put a dollar on the counter and don’t wait for change. I fold the newspaper under my arm and head to the nearest Starbucks. It’s packed with Columbia kids, but I find a stool in the corner and start to read.
Wendy Geller’s young life came to a tragic end early Sunday morning. Her body was found beaten and strangled in Central
Park. How did a wealthy, popular girl, who attended one of the city’s finest schools, end up dead and thrown away like so much trash? The answer may lie with today’s hard-partying teens—kids with too much money and not enough guidance from permissive moms and dads who want to be their kids’ friends instead of their parents.
Seventeen-year-old Wendy was pretty, outgoing, and popular. The stylish teenager had many friends at the prestigious Alcott School in Manhattan. But she also made enemies.
“She’d get in fights with other girls,” said one Alcott student. “Over stupid stuff. Like they hadn’t invited her to a party or said something behind her back. She’d get revenge by messing around with their boyfriends.”
Wendy reportedly kept a “hit list” in her diaries and later on her Facebook page. In the list, she kept a record of boys she was interested in. Generally, they were already dating other people.
“Nobody will say this,” said the student, “but there are some people here who aren’t too sad to see her go. Like, not that she deserved it. But—karma, you know?”
Sources say that Geller had attended a party the night she was murdered. Toxicology reports have not come back yet, but witnesses report that Geller was “trashed.”
“She had on her little happy high,” said one source.
Taylor, I think, oh my God. They’re quoting Taylor. That reporter in the diner yesterday—she must have overheard our conversation.
The city has seen many young women’s lives end in violence. Young women who court danger and find it. One wonders if their parents know—or care—what they’re doing.
“Sadly,” said a source close to the investigation, “there are instances when young women indulge in drugs and alcohol …”
Who says Wendy took drugs? I wonder furiously. Nobody, nobody said that.
“They’re walking around, not in the best state to make good decisions, and tragically, it ends like this.”
I can’t believe it. All anyone can talk about is Wendy—as if she somehow did this to herself. I look at the name on the article. Stella Walcott. Digging in my book bag, I find that card.
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