The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

“I think Ms. Donovan would appreciate if her name could be kept out of it,” explains Mr. Farrell. “I’m sure you understand.”

  The amazing thing about Mr. Farrell, I think, is that he does listen. Even when you don’t speak, he hears you.

  “Absolutely,” says the detective. “And thank you again, Rain.”

  When he’s gone, Mr. Farrell sits down next to me. I feel numb. Even his nearness means nothing. “How are you?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I feel …”

  He reaches out, takes my hand. “What, Rain?”

  “I feel like I did something really bad.” My voice twists, and I bite my lip as if that will stop the tears.

  “Why?” he asks. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just … all this stuff is going to happen because of what I said. I wish I hadn’t told them anything, I wish they’d just figured it out.”

  “But they weren’t going to,” he says gently. “I think they were suspicious of Nico. But they didn’t have him at the scene until you told them about the E pin.”

  This is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Talking to people, finding things out about Nico, reporting them—it all feels weak, somehow.

  I remember when I saw him in the park. Just standing there. As if what he’d done could never touch him. He could take life, but nothing could be taken from him. I remember how I wanted to scream at him, to shriek. Shatter his security.

  “I wish I’d confronted him,” I say, only half aware I’m talking out loud. “Like, I’m terrified he’ll find out I talked to the police, but at the same time? I want him to know …”

  That I did something back, I think. I got him back.

  I sit up. This isn’t about me, it’s about Wendy.

  Farrell says, “When things get tough? I want you to remember that you have done a very good thing for your friend.”

  I look at our hands intertwined.

  “Okay.”

  DAY SEVEN

  The next day is Saturday. It is impossible not to remember that last Saturday, I was wondering what would happen at Karina’s party. What would Wendy do? How crazy would she be?

  My mom has a matinee. I think of staying indoors, then decide, No, out. I don’t want to be near the things that will tell me if Nico’s been arrested: the phone, the computer, the TV. I want to be away from all of it.

  I haven’t hung out with Taylor since Wendy’s funeral. Dialing quickly, I say, “Hey.”

  “Oh, hi.” She sounds not pissed off. I’m relieved.

  “Idea,” I say.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Movie? Lunch?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hesitate. “No Wendy talk?”

  She laughs. “Even better.”

  We pick a serious movie, something political, playing at the art house that’s underground near Lincoln Center. As we wait to go in, I think, This is a movie Wendy would never see.

  I try to focus on the movie, but it’s hard. At one point, I feel my phone buzz. I take my hand off my bag. Try to pretend it didn’t happen.

  Leaving the theater, we pass a newsstand. I’m afraid to look, but I feel my eyes drawn to the headlines. I have a split second of terror that I’ll see my own face, huge and grainy with the word SNITCH! over it. But instead, it’s just something about the mayor.

  I catch Taylor looking at me and say, “I think coffee.”

  “Definitely coffee,” agrees Taylor. We head over to the Bow Wow, which is a coffee bar for dog lovers. There are pictures of all kinds of dogs on the wall. The cups have paw prints on them. The owner’s elderly basset hound snoozes behind the counter. It’s a little too cute for Taylor, but today, I want to be around life-forms that aren’t human.

  As we sit down, my phone buzzes again. Steeling myself, I take it out, see the name Rima Nolan flashing. I go cold.

  It’s starting. Right now. They’ve talked to Rima. It’s happening.

  “What?” says Taylor.

  “Nothing,” I say, dropping my phone back in my bag.

  We order large coffees. I have a slice of mud cake, try to concentrate as Taylor talks about starting to look for colleges.

  “We’re juniors,” I tell her. “We have eons—don’t we?”

  She laughs sharply. “Not according to my parents. Not that there’s any reason to actually do a search. They just assume I’m going to Columbia, because hey, my brother goes to Columbia, and it has the best journalism school in the country and—” She breaks off moodily.

  “And?” I prompt.

  “And I kind of want to run off to California and go surfing.” I laugh. “You know? I mean, I love journalism, and Columbia would be awesome, but this is who I’ve been for, like, my whole life. Maybe I want to try something different. Not just be who I am in high school forever.”

  “I get you. I do like this you, though.”

  She grins. “Yeah, well, you’re probably stuck with it, so good thing.”

  My phone buzzes again. This time I don’t even look.

  Taylor says, “Someone you’re avoiding?”

  “My mom says it’s rude to answer a phone when you’re conversing with another person,” I say primly.

  “Go ahead.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”

  Taylor frowns. “Something you want to tell me?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  The phone buzzes two more times while we’re at the restaurant. Both times I pretend not to hear it, and both times, Taylor agrees to play along. But as we’re leaving, she asks, “How are you with the whole Wendy thing? We didn’t talk about that.”

  “We said no Wendy talk, remember?”

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of scary they haven’t caught the guy, you know?”

  There is a question here, but I pretend not to hear it. Instead I give Taylor a hug and say, “I think you’d make an awesome surfer chick.”

  Walking home, I watch the trees, all shadows now as they wave against the evening sky. I’m on the west side of the park. It’s windy out; you can feel the threat in the air.

  I’m almost home when my phone buzzes again. Steeling myself, I look, expecting to see Rima’s name. But it’s not Rima, it’s my mom. Vaguely, I remember some promise I made to food shop.

  Feeling guilty, I pick up. “Hi, Mom. I’m headed to the market right now. Can I possibly talk you into ginger ice cream?”

  There’s a pause.

  Then, “Honey, forget the food. Just come home.”

  Something in her voice, a warning. I heard it the day Wendy died. “Why?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No. What?”

  “Come home,” says my mother, and hangs up.

  “In a stunning turn of events, police arrested eighteen-year-old Nico Phelps today in the murder of Wendy Geller.…”

  I never thought it would be this fast. But there he is on my TV screen. Nico. Wearing a sweatshirt, the hood over his head. Blond hair flying out at the sides, hands cuffed behind his back. There are police all around him, pulling him from the squad car, pushing him into the precinct station. Nico keeps his head down. I can’t tell: Is he angry? Frightened?

  I did this, I think, feeling sick. This is happening because of me.

  “That’s the boy,” says my mom. “The one whose name I hadn’t heard before. You said there was a reason for that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The police are making a big show of this,” she says. “They want everyone in the city to know they got him.”

  Another image. Nico and Wendy on the beach. It must have been taken over the summer.

  The TV blares, “Police initially focused their attention on vagrants known to frequent the park at night. But then, sources tell us, they were made aware of Mr. Phelps’s relationship to the victim, first through her Facebook page, and then through reports from classmates.”

  Classmates, I think. Plural. Not just me. Other people talked to them.

  “These wit
nesses confirm that the two dated casually over the summer. They also stated that Nico Phelps attended the same party as Wendy Geller on the night of her murder. Video cameras inside the building where the party was held reveal Ms. Geller leaving the party at twelve-fifteen. Nico Phelps can be seen leaving just ten minutes after her, then returning forty-five minutes later.”

  So Sasha could have been telling the truth. Nico could have gone home with her that night.

  After he …

  “The police report finding scratches on Mr. Phelps’s hands and wrists. Tests are being conducted to see if his DNA matches material found under Ms. Geller’s fingernails.”

  Any second now, they’ll talk about the E pin. I just pray they don’t mention my name.

  “Police were further aided in their investigation when they found an item at the scene that indicated that someone connected to the prestigious Alcott School, attended by both Wendy Geller and Nico Phelps, was involved in the killing. Sources say there are some explosive revelations to come.…”

  If I don’t breathe, they won’t say my name.

  “Nico Phelps has been in trouble with the law before.…”

  I exhale. My mom clicks the TV off.

  “I was watching that,” I tell her.

  “I can’t stand any more.” She tosses the remote on the couch.

  “But I want to see.”

  “Why? It’s awful, stupid, and ugly.”

  “Because.” I struggle. “I want to hear what they have to say.”

  “What can they say?”

  “I don’t know—why he did it?”

  “There is no why, darling. Nothing that’ll make sense.”

  “He had to have some reason.”

  “Yes,” says my mother harshly, “the same reason people shake their babies to death. He’s a stupid, angry person and she was smaller and weaker than he was. There is no why here.”

  But there has to be, I think. There has to be a reason I can understand. Otherwise, awful things just happen to people and there’s nothing you can do.

  I look back at the blank TV, think of that first night when I stared up at my ceiling and imagined a universe where people were just snatched out of life for no reason. I like to think that’s not true. That people have … weight. Ties. Connections that hold them in this life.

  But maybe I’ve been wrong about that.

  That night, I finally get up the nerve to look at my messages. Taylor called. “You were right and I suck. Call me.”

  Rima called three times. But she only left one message.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

  DAY EIGHT

  The next day, we drive to my grandmother’s house. Normally, I go every other weekend, but today, I’m glad to get out of the city.

  In the car, my mom says, “Let’s not talk about”—she looks at me—“in front of Grandma. She probably has no idea and I don’t think that’s so terrible.”

  “Cool.”

  But it does feel strange when my grandmother asks how school is and I say, Fine. I’m lying to her and I don’t like it.

  As we leave, she gives me another photograph. This time of three little girls in old-fashioned, frilly clothing. Pointing to the little one, wide-eyed and seated in front, she says, “Me.”

  I smile, but my throat catches as I remember seeing Mr. Farrell’s picture of his little boy and how I thought of all the pictures Ms. Geller has of Wendy as a baby. Why do babies have to grow up? I wonder stupidly.

  On the drive home, my mom says, “I’ll be perfectly okay if you want to skip school tomorrow. I doubt anything productive will happen anyway.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll go.”

  Even as I wonder, Do people know? Will they be angry? Think I did a great thing?

  Please let nobody know, I think to the universe.

  DAY NINE

  Monday morning. The media swarms the school again. Reporters are everywhere, grabbing kids, offering them microphones, cameras, the chance to be seen, to be heard. To be a part of it.

  Some kids run from them. They walk fast, holding their book bags in front of their faces. The reporters chase a little, but not much. Because there are other kids, lots of them, who are willing to talk. Eager, in fact. I look at James Phillips and Darcy Ziegler, both chatting like mad to someone they’ve never met before. They’re smiling, as if they’re talking about the happiest thing ever.

  No one knows it was you, I tell myself. Which of course is not strictly true because Sasha will remember me asking questions. And Rima knows I was curious about the E pin. From her call, she knows I went to the police. She could put it all together for Sasha, if she wanted to.

  I see Karina next to a slick guy with too much hair. He’s holding the mike out to her as if it were a lollipop.

  Angry, she says, “Personally, I just can’t believe this is happening. Nico’s a good guy. People shouldn’t decide things before they know all the facts.”

  Karina also knows I suspected Nico. She is someone to stay away from. Turning to circle around her, I hear, “Hi, just looking for some reaction to the arrest of Nico Phelps. Were you friends with Nico or Wendy?”

  I look around, expecting to see a person. Instead what I see is a massive eye, pitch-black and trained on me. A microphone hovers in front of my face. My stomach lurches. I feel near tears.

  “Any comment?”

  I race into the building. Inside, everyone’s in tight little groups; safety in numbers. Also, information. Everyone talking about what they heard, what they saw, what they think. Ms. Laredo wanders around trying to get people to class. “Let’s move along, people. Let’s all just …” No one listens.

  By my locker, I hear Daisy Loring say, “This is not a surprise. The guy’s a criminal. I don’t know why they didn’t lock him up before.”

  Ernie Wolfert, who is a friend of Nico’s, says, “You don’t know what happened. You weren’t there.” He stalks down the hall.

  And that is not the only argument I hear. People swap stories of this awful thing Nico did or weird thing he said. But often, there is someone to defend him—or to point out that Wendy “pushed him pretty hard,” or “we don’t know what Wendy did to make him lose it.”

  I duck into the nearest bathroom. Throwing water on my face, I remember how I thought it would be better once everyone knew the truth.

  A toilet flushes, and I jump. I wait for the door to open, but it stays closed.

  I call, “Hey there. You okay?”

  No answer. I tap on the door and it swings open. Inside is Jenny Zalgat.

  “I’m hiding,” she says, “as you can probably tell.”

  “Too insane?”

  “Totally. I still don’t get it. I mean, what? They snuck out of the party and he killed her in the park? Why?”

  “That’s what I keep wondering,” I say.

  “You don’t think she was pregnant, do you? It always seems like someone gets pregnant in these things. Like on TV.”

  “Not TV.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately.” She pulls at the toilet paper, letting it slide onto the floor. “I mean, did you think he could do it?” She takes my silence as a no. “Not that I was a huge fan. Nico always treated me like I was some brain-dead nobody. I never said it to Wendy, though, and I feel awful about it. Like I was this big cheerleader for her. ‘Yay, get Nico, yay!’ I wish I’d said what I really thought.”

  “Me too.” I try to think of something good that might come out of this horror. “Anyway, it’ll make people feel better to know they caught the guy. Wendy’s family.” Remembering the family, I think of the funeral. Ellis, pretending he and Wendy were still together. Now he’ll have to face the fact that Wendy really did sneak out with Nico.

  “Not so fun for Ellis,” I say.

  Jenny makes the tiniest face. “Yeah, no doubt.”

  Feeling the tug of something hidden, I say, “He was really into Wendy. I thought they were nice together.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, Wendy told
me there was zero spark.” Jenny’s voice is harsh, and I must look surprised, because she says, “Sorry, I don’t mean to be mean. But he’s such a drama-holic. I can’t stand how he’s been pretending they were all in love when she died. Of course he knew it was over.”

  “Right,” I say, keeping it neutral.

  Jenny’s talking fast now, maybe babbling through the stress. “You know, the week of the party, he was like, ‘Oh, are you going to Karina’s party Saturday? And do you want to go together?’ Wendy said, ‘Um, not such a great idea.’ She tried to be nice about it, ’cause she knew he still liked her. But I guess the great Ellis felt she was pitying him, ’cause he got really pissed off.”

  I think. “I don’t remember him at the party.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t even come after all that. Guess he didn’t want to see the truth slapping him in the face.”

  Then where was Ellis that night? I wonder. But before anything comes clear, the bell rings. Time for first period.

  Jenny goes to a sink, throws water on her face. “I’m thinking of asking my parents for a transfer.”

  I say, “Oh, anyplace else would be so boring.”

  “Perfect.”

  We leave the bathroom, step out into the hallway. And then it happens. I am smashed. Full-force, right up against my side—arm, shoulder, head. I fall so fast I’m barely aware of falling. Until I hit the floor.

  Struggling up on one elbow, I see Sasha, standing over me. She’s holding her bag by the strap. Instinctively, I raise my arm in front of my face, feeling the pain of the blow before the bag clobbers the top of my head.

  “Bitch!” More blows—the buckles on the bag strike my face, the hard points of her boots slam into my back. Helpless, I kick back, feet flailing, not to hurt, just to get her away from me. As I do, I’m aware of other people, standing, watching.

  Rima, I think, Rima must have told her we talked.

  “Stupid! Blabbermouth! Gossiping! Bitch!” Every word, another hit or kick. “Sticking up for your whore friend, right? Bzz, bzz, bzz, oh, she said this and he did that. Ooh, let’s tell the police, let’s feel all important. You don’t know anything! Anything! This is people’s lives!”