The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

  Say, Sash? How many of those do you have? Two? Don’t suppose you’d tell me where you keep the other one. Oh, you gave it to Nico? That’s sweet.

  Inspecting the piece, she says, “ ’Sup? I thought you were about vocal arts.”

  This, I had planned. “A friend of my mom’s wants to send her kid here. Art, very big thing for her. I’ve, uh, been sent to scope.”

  “Well, it’s the best.” Sasha takes a drink from a clay-smeared cup, hiding her mouth, lowering her eyes.

  There’s a pause. I feel I’m losing Sasha to her work. Needing her attention, I blunder, “Wendy liked art.”

  It’s not how I meant to begin. I meant to talk about art and E pins and how many Sasha has and what she’s done with them. My mistake gets a chill blast from Sasha, and no wonder. Wendy liking what Sasha likes—I couldn’t have gone more wrong.

  “She was more into fashion design,” I say lamely.

  Sasha shrugs. I couldn’t care less what she was into.

  Then, trying to be polite, Sasha asks, “Did you go to the service?”

  “Yeah. Did you or Nico—?” I can’t quite get the Nico out there.

  “Me, no. Nico, maybe.”

  Her voice is casual. If Nico went, if he didn’t—she doesn’t care either way. Supposedly. But I notice she’s really attacking that clay.

  “He can be into that,” she explains. “Doing the correct thing. His mother’s insane about it. It’s her reason for being.”

  A lot of information here. Nico’s mine—I know what he’s into. I know his mom. We are together. Wendy touched us not at all.

  How good a liar are you, Sasha? Do you really not know that Nico left the party right after Wendy? Or do you know, and also know what that might mean—only, you love him, so you’re not admitting it to anyone?

  Sasha’s clever; she’s not giving me an easy opening. If I want my answers, I’ll have to push—only not so hard that I start a fight. How does Sasha see me? What will she accept from me? She thinks I’m nice, clueless about certain things.

  She expects you to be on her side, I realize. Not to go against her. Because no one does.

  Wide-eyed and innocent, I say, “I can’t believe Nico would go to the Wendy thing.”

  Sasha looks up. I strain to keep my voice friendly. “I mean, she made things kind of weird for you guys.”

  Sasha rolls her eyes. “Her crush on Nico? Please. She was just a little louder about it than the rest.”

  “You and Nico sound serious.”

  She shrugs. “What’s ‘serious’?”

  I pretend to think. “I don’t know. Like, going on vacation serious or giving someone your E pin serious.”

  Obvious, I think, clumsy, stupid, and obvious.

  But all I can do now is put it out there: “I heard that, actually. That you gave Nico one of your E pins.”

  A flash of something—surprise, anxiety, confusion—across Sasha’s face. Quickly replaced by a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, and tomorrow I’m trying out for cheerleading,” she says sarcastically. “Give me a break.”

  In my normal voice, I say, “So, you didn’t give him an E pin?”

  Sasha narrows her eyes. “Be real. What are you saying?”

  The request for real hits me; it’s something I’ve always liked about Sasha, she doesn’t do fake.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “What happened that night at the party?”

  “What happens at every party. Stupidity.”

  “Sasha …”

  “What?”

  “What happened with Nico and Wendy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “And you care … why?”

  “Because Wendy was my friend.”

  No more pretending whose side I’m on. For a moment, Sasha and I stare at each other. I swear, everything I think about Nico, she knows.

  Putting her hands on her hips, Sasha says, “Your friend. Let me tell you something about your friend.” She gives the word friend a twist, making it ugly. “She was pathetic. She was a liar. She had no life, so she tried to steal other people’s. And now, even when she’s dead, she’s still screwing up people’s lives.” She starts to pace. “Ever since it happened, the cops have been calling my house. My dad told them, Yeah, get a subpoena. Then they show up here.” Her voice rises. “Yesterday. Do you believe this? That they can do that?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was like, Fine, let’s get it over with. Yeah, she made noise about my boyfriend. No, nothing happened at the party.”

  “You know for a fact Nico didn’t leave the party?” I say it as quietly as possible.

  “He didn’t leave.” She tosses it off.

  “… for a fact, Sasha?”

  She hesitates, enough of a person to think about it. “I’m not a wife. I don’t monitor every move.”

  There’s a silence as we both absorb what she’s just told me. I put my hands in my coat pockets. Sasha goes back to her sculpture. Checking. Smoothing. Perfecting.

  I start walking out of the Sculpture Circle.

  Behind me I hear: “Just so you know. I’ve already told the police Nico went home with me that night.”

  Clattering down the stairs, I head straight for a bathroom. I pull out a handful of paper towel, run it under cold water, and scrub my face with it. I am furious with myself for blowing this conversation—not to mention whatever tiny scrap of a friendship existed between me and Sasha.

  She did admit Nico left the party. I got that much. But then she said he went home with her.

  No, Rain, she said she told the police he went home with her.

  Sighing, I throw the wet paper in the garbage, stare at my reddened face in the mirror.

  Sasha, how much do you love this guy? Enough to lie for him? Enough to give him that second E pin?

  I go downstairs to the lobby, thinking I’ll just go home, sleep on the whole thing, and in the morning, wake up and realize I’ve been an idiot. Taylor is probably right. Probably on some level, I am angry at all these people. They hurt me, so I want to hurt them back. This might have nothing to do with Wendy whatsoever.…

  In the lobby, I see Rima sitting on one of the long benches outside the administrative office. Her legs are crossed, her hands flat on the blue silk of her skirt; she looks like an elegant doll. She’s humming, but I can’t quite make out the tune.

  I say, “Hey, Rima.”

  Breaking off her song, she says, “Rain, hi. God, how are you?”

  Surprised by her eagerness, I say, “Good. What are you …?” I gesture around the lobby.

  “Oh.” Annoyed, she glances at the office door. “Meeting with college advisor. Avec parents. Apparently I’m not working up to my potential.” She rolls her eyes, then says brightly, “But I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  Er, you might not say that if you knew I just royally pissed off your best friend, I think. But Rima pats the seat and I sit down.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry I was such a horror the other day.” The edge of her dark hair cuts across her cheek as she looks down. “What I said—the whole ding dong thing—not cool.”

  “I understood.”

  “I totally thought I was past it, but then when …” She shudders, then shakes it off. “Anyway, I’m sorry she’s dead and I’m really sorry I took my crap out on you.”

  “I’m really okay with it,” I say. And I am. If anyone has a reason to be mad at Wendy, it’s Rima.

  All of a sudden, I remember Wendy in the hallway. How I told her she was making a mistake going after the top girls; she had to start with their friends, the second-level girls or even third-.

  Maybe I should take my own advice.

  “I was just talking to Sasha upstairs,” I say, praying Rima doesn’t ask what we were talking about.

  “Working on her piece?” I nod. “She’s such an obsessive.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Sasha doesn’t do halfway.”

  �
�No,” says Rima. My imagination, or does she sound a little sad?

  Tentative, I ask, “Are she …?” I shake my head. “Actually, none of my business.”

  Rima looks curious. “No—ask.”

  “Are she and Nico serious?”

  “She is, anyway,” says Rima. “Unfortunately.”

  “You don’t think he’s so great.”

  “I think he’s scum,” she says harshly. “A total user.”

  I feel tingling at the back of my neck. “Why?”

  “He’s just into her for what he can get. Clothes, connections. The whole status thing. He even—”

  She breaks off.

  Guessing, I say, “Did he ask for her E pin?”

  Rima stares. “How’d you know?”

  “I saw him wearing it,” I lie.

  “Oh, God, Sash’ll freak. She made him promise not to wear it at school.”

  “Why’d she give it to him?”

  “He said he wanted it for college interviews. He thinks he’s getting into Brown, can you believe that? I told Sasha, any decent college is going to check. But she said if it gave him some extra confidence, why not? She was like, ‘It’s all ridiculous anyway.’ ” Rima shakes her head. “She’s got this whole Genet beautiful criminal thing going with him. Like somehow because he’s not rich, he’s more ‘real.’ I keep telling her he’s bad news, but she says I don’t understand. Like, yeah, I don’t understand when he gets violent and high. I don’t understand when he cheats on you. I mean, look at this insanity with Wendy Geller. What she’s going through because—”

  She breaks off, crossing her arms. “God, sorry, I didn’t mean to dump. Sasha says I’m still not over the Seth thing. That I’m ‘bitter and suspicious.’ Maybe so,” she says softly.

  This reminds me of what Taylor said to me after Wendy’s funeral. “Maybe you just know things Sasha hasn’t learned yet.”

  Rima makes a sad face, then frowns. I look where she’s looking, see her parents coming down the hall. Getting up, I say, “Thanks, Rima.”

  “For what?”

  “Being real.”

  I don’t speak. That’s what I think as I walk home. It’s what people like about me. They can talk—about anything—and I’ll just listen, nod, say little things like I understand and Of course. I don’t say things like Are you crazy? Or You did a terrible thing. And I never tell anyone else what I’ve heard.

  Never.

  But now I have to.

  DAY SIX

  It all happens much faster than I thought it would. At four o’clock the next day, I am waiting in Mr. Farrell’s office to speak with the police. I didn’t really want to wait that long—but I wanted to be sure no one was around when I talked to them. I still can’t quite believe I’m doing this.

  Now I look up at Mr. Farrell, who’s standing behind my chair, and ask, “Do you think they’ll believe me?”

  “Yes.” He looks down, squeezes my shoulder.

  “Is it weird if I hope they don’t?”

  “Not at all.”

  I can’t feel my legs. I wiggle my feet to get the feeling back. They tingle, itch—but the sense that I’m about to float away doesn’t ease. I can’t breathe and my whole body feels buoyant with unreleased air. It is not a nice feeling.

  To orient myself, I look at the plain white walls of Mr. Farrell’s classroom. At all the empty chairs. At the clock, which says 4:02.

  “They’re late.”

  “Only two minutes.”

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “You can,” he says. “You can.”

  If I say No, I can’t, again, Mr. Farrell will listen to me. He will let me go. He will let me not do this. But only for today. Tomorrow, the next day, he will find me and he will ask, Have you thought about what you told me?

  First thing this morning I told him that they found an E pin near Wendy. That Nico had one. That he left the party close to the same time as Wendy.

  His finger curled in front of his mouth, Mr. Farrell admitted, “I knew about the E pin. The police asked us about it.”

  “So you knew it was someone from school,” I said. “When I came to talk to you?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I felt so strongly that you should talk to the police. I knew you were right, even though I couldn’t tell you. The police were anxious to keep the discovery of the pin a secret. They felt there was a real risk Nico would run if he knew they had solid evidence.” He hesitated, then added dryly, “And of course, Mr. Dorland was anxious to keep the fact that the murderer went to Alcott a secret for as long as possible.”

  When he asked if I wanted him to contact the police for me, I said Yes. And Yes again when he asked if I wanted him there when I talked to them.

  “What about your mother?” he asked.

  I thought of my mom, smiling, reassuring, protective; somehow I didn’t want that now.

  “I’ll be okay,” I told him. “I can do this.”

  And now here we are. And I seriously think I’m going to throw up.

  “I think—” But that’s as far as I get. The door opens and Detective Vasquez comes in, followed by an actual policeman in uniform. At the sight of the policeman, my stomach twists. I’m breathing, gulping. Mr. Farrell puts both hands on my shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Rain.”

  Detective Vasquez sits down, says, “Hello, Rain.” I want to ask him to lower his voice when he says my name. Not everyone has gone home, and nobody can hear that I’m doing this. “It’s nice to see you again.” He glances at Mr. Farrell. “I understand from Mr. Farrell that you have something more you wanted to share with us.”

  Share. Do I want to share it? I want him to have it. And once I do give it to him, it’s his. I never have to think about it again.

  “I …” I don’t know how to start. Why didn’t I plan that, what to say? Because somehow I hoped I wouldn’t have to.

  I look up at Mr. Farrell, who nods.

  I mumble, “I don’t know what you’re thinking these days about who did it.…” I check the detective’s face for a sign he might say, but it’s blank. “I know you talked to Sasha about Nico …?”

  “Sasha Meloni,” supplies Mr. Farrell. “Nico Phelps.” The detective nods.

  Twisting my hands, I say, “So—you know …” The detective waits. I drop my hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m doing this really badly.”

  “You’re doing fine, Rain,” says Detective Vasquez.

  I’m not, I want to tell him. I may talk like an idiot, but I know what sounds right and what doesn’t.

  Mr. Farrell comes to my rescue. “Detective, you told me about an item you found at the crime scene. Something with an E.”

  “That’s right,” says the detective.

  “At the time, all I could do was confirm that the school gives out E pins and give you a list of the students who have received them. But Rain has learned something that changes the story somewhat.”

  They’re waiting. The pressure to speak gathers on my chest like a weight. I feel like the curtains have parted, the spotlight’s hit, and I’m blinking and stupid in the glare.

  I’m looking at the floor. Police like it when you look them in the eye. Otherwise they think you’re lying. I raise my head.

  “You know, right, that Sasha has two E pins?” It’s not as bad if they already know it, I think. I’m not really telling them anything. “And you know she’s dating Nico?”

  “We understand that to be the case.”

  “Well, sometimes …” I duck my head, let my fingers pull at one another. “People who are dating, if they’re serious, they give their boyfriend or girlfriend their E pin. Not everybody, but …”

  On the verge of the first real thing I have to say, I fall silent.

  “Take your time,” says the detective.

  But I don’t want to take my time. I want to have this over with. In a rush, I announce, “Sasha gave Nico one of her pins. He wanted it for college intervie
ws. It was about a month ago. Her best friend told me.…”

  My teeth seize on my tongue. Why? Why did I say that about best friend?

  Detective Vasquez gets out his notebook. “What’s this best friend’s name?”

  Panicked, I look at Mr. Farrell. “Do I have to say?”

  Mr. Farrell hesitates. “I’m afraid so, Rain.”

  “Rima Nolan,” I say miserably. Now Rima will hate me. Even if she thinks Nico’s guilty, she won’t want to be the one who gave the police the crucial piece of evidence. Sasha will hate her.

  No, I realize, Sasha will hate me. Because I’m the one who went to the police. Rima and Sasha both. My life is about to become a living hell.

  Detective Vasquez must sense my panic, because he says, “This is very helpful, Rain. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “I know Nico left the party to be with Wendy.” In my head, I hear Taylor say, “Uh-uh …” and change it to “I mean, he left the party right after her. That’s why kids told you she left alone.”

  The detective is checking his notebook. “But you can’t tell us if he actually did meet her.”

  I hesitate. “No, I don’t know that.”

  The detective nods like that’s not a problem. “That’s fine,” he says.

  “You believe me, right?”

  He looks surprised. “I have no reason not to. I sincerely appreciate your coming forward.”

  “This was not easy for her,” says Mr. Farrell.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.” Detective Vasquez stands up.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say just yet. We will certainly be contacting some of the people you mentioned.” My stomach tightens. “And we will probably need to contact you again. If you could give us your information one more time.”

  I do, feeling strangely vulnerable as I write down my name, address, and phone number.

  When I’m done, I say, “Can you …” I’m about to ask him not to tell people about me. But Rima will know. The second they ask about the E pin.