The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

  Dread takes hold of me like cold hands: maybe what they found wasn’t an E pin.

  “What does the E look like?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I mean, is it an earring, a—”

  I hear a phone ring. Stella says, “Hold on, Rain.…”

  A click. A moment later, she’s back. “I gotta go, kiddo. Hey, listen. Be happy—they got the guy who hurt Wendy.” The line goes dead.

  But, I think. But. But. But …

  Maybe they didn’t get the guy.

  Frantic, I assemble all the evidence against Nico: Wendy’s obsession, the scratches, the surveillance camera. He left after she did. He’s a liar. He hurts people.

  And I am not the only one who thinks he killed her, I think wildly. Mr. Farrell thinks so. Rima thinks he’s evil. Jenny doesn’t like him.

  But not liking him is not the same as thinking he’s a murderer, I remind myself. And until the DNA tests come back, the only thing that links Nico to the crime is the E pin.

  That you told the police was his.

  But if what they found at the scene was silver, then it can’t be the E pin Sasha gave to Nico.

  Which means I lied to the police. The realization knocks the breath out of me. Whether or not I meant to, I put an untrue thing out in the world. Other people do it all the time—She’s retarded. He sells his mom’s Xanax. She fools around with her brother. His parents paid to get him into the school. I’ve always hated that, the ugly things we say and think about each other not caring if they’re true or not.

  I did care, I think desperately. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I did all this because I cared about Wendy.

  Only, that doesn’t make it right.

  DAY TEN

  “Mr. Farrell?”

  He looks up from the library table. “Rain. It’s very early.…”

  I fiddle with my bag strap. “I know you’re working on your book, but could we talk? I was going to call you last night, but it was late, and I didn’t want to … It is actually important, I promise.”

  Immediately, he starts gathering his things. “Of course. Let’s go to my room.”

  As we walk into his classroom, Mr. Farrell closes the door and says, “You should know that the school decided that Sasha would take a two-week leave of absence.”

  I wince.

  Mr. Farrell misunderstands, saying, “I’m sure after two weeks, enough will have come out about the case that she’ll realize that …” He trails off. “… she made a mistake.”

  “She didn’t,” I say, sitting down.

  “How do you mean?” He sits too.

  “Sasha didn’t make a mistake. She was absolutely right to be furious with me. Mr. Farrell—what I told the police? It wasn’t true. I thought it was, but …” I dig my fingers into the table edge. “I’ve done something really wrong and I have to make it right.”

  “Rain, slow down. Start at the beginning.”

  “So, this reporter? Who told me about the E pin?” He nods. “Last night she called me again, wanting more dirt on the case. I didn’t give her any, but just before she hung up, she said the E pin was silver.”

  Mr. Farrell just looks puzzled. I explain, “They’re not silver, they’re gold. Black and gold, right?”

  He nods slowly. “The school colors.”

  “If it’s silver, it’s not Sasha’s E pin. Which means the police don’t have anything to tie Nico to the scene of the crime. Which is kind of a big deal, right? I have to tell them.”

  Now Mr. Farrell will tell me what an idiot I am, that we have to go to the police right now and I’ll be lucky if they don’t charge me.

  But instead, he sits back, says, “Let’s think.” He sighs as he does so. Then says, “Well, for one thing, this woman is a tabloid writer.”

  “So?”

  “How reliable is she? Can you really trust her to remember a detail like gold or silver?”

  For a moment, I’m stumped. I had expected Mr. Farrell to agree right away.

  I say, “She’s the one who told me about the E pin to begin with. She obviously knows things.”

  “But if what you’re saying is true, then it’s not even an E pin. Why would you trust the person who gave you the wrong information?”

  “Because …” I struggle. Then think of something. “Did the police show you what they found?”

  He shakes his head. “They described it, asked if we had any idea what it might be. I said I couldn’t possibly be certain, but the school did give out pins with E’s on them for achievement. We gave them a list of current students who had received one. We did ask them not to mention the pin unless it was absolutely necessary. We didn’t want to start a rumor flood.”

  “But they must have seen it,” I say. “Talking to people. They have to know—”

  Then I remember Sasha dropping her rings into the cup. The little bump under Lorelei’s shirt. The clean strap of Peter’s bag. Taylor telling me she didn’t have her bag when she talked to the police. All those people I talked to, I didn’t see the pin once. The police would have had to ask to see it. Which Mr. Dorland basically asked them not to do.

  “You should know: Nico is out on bail,” says Mr. Farrell abruptly. “As of late last night.”

  Nico free—possibly knowing I accused him. I fight the feeling of panic.

  “Do you really think Nico Phelps is innocent?” Mr. Farrell asks gently.

  Nico standing at the playground, no expression on his face. His finger in my mouth, twisting, hurting.

  “No. But I still need to tell the police. I have to make my part of it right.”

  “Rain, your part of it is right already.” Mr. Farrell leans forward. “It’s understandable that you’re having doubts, especially after what happened yesterday with Sasha. But Nico has lawyers, very good ones. If there’s a flaw in the case, they’ll catch it. Do me a favor. Think about this. The trial isn’t happening tomorrow.”

  But it’s happening every day in the papers, I think. This morning on my way to school I saw a headline: CLASSROOM KILLER. HOW NICO PHELPS WENT FROM MONEY TO MURDER.

  Also: IT’S A MATCH! SKIN FOUND UNDER WENDY GELLER’S FINGERNAILS MATCHES NICO PHELPS’S DNA!

  Which means he probably did kill her, I think, feeling suddenly exhausted. Mr. Farrell is right: I don’t know what I know anymore.

  “Just sit and think,” says Mr. Farrell. “Is there anyone else who could have murdered Wendy? Really think. And if you can think of someone and you want to go to the police, I will go with you.”

  From his expression, I can tell, Mr. Farrell doesn’t believe I’ll come up with anyone else who could possibly have killed Wendy.

  Now is probably not the time to tell him I already have come up with someone. Because the thought of it makes me ill.

  Last night, after I hung up with Stella, I thought long and hard. If they didn’t find a school pin, what does the E they did find stand for? Probably a name—but whose?

  I thought of Nico’s name in the yearbook. Nicholas Andrew Phelps. Not a single E anywhere. So, who of Wendy’s friends had an E initial?

  When it came to me, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. It seemed so obvious. But I didn’t see it because I didn’t want to. I was too hung up on Nico.

  I opened Wendy’s Facebook page. Searching for the E’s in her life, I found Elodie, a friend from Long Island, who weighs maybe ninety pounds, and a cousin Etan, who lives in California.

  And Ellis, of course. Everybody’s guy. Who’s been just a little off since this happened.

  Yes, Rain, maybe because a girl he loved was murdered.

  Or maybe something else.

  Ellis and Wendy started dating in September. But when I opened Wendy’s page, I saw that they were flirting at the end of last year. In May, Ellis posted Ellis likes this about one of Wendy’s pictures. In June, Wendy complained about having to work in Amagansett and he answered, “Aw, poor Wens! Try the summer with your mom and aunties in Ahmedabad.” They back-and-forth about the ending
of a movie, “Awesome!” “Sucked!” and compete to see who loves True Blood more.

  Then in September, Wendy wrote:

  Everybody sit down or you may faint from shock. I have a boyfriend! No, really. And he’s an official Nice Guy. (I know, what’s he doing with me, right?) Check him out.

  Pictures of Wendy and Ellis snuggling in the rec room—or wreck room, ha ha—at school. In Bendel’s, wearing silly hats. A nice one of Ellis sitting at Wendy’s kitchen counter.

  The friends approved, chorusing, Love this! OMG—you’re doing single guys now? I gotta sit down. Jealous! Hate you, bitch. Nah, just kidding …

  For a few weeks, it’s all Ellis. He’s her “sweetie,” “the best.” They do everything together. Wendy moans about her mom complaining about the text bills.

  Then,

  Feeling low. Turns out nice guys are not for me. Hope I wasn’t a bitch about it.

  One friend writes, “I’m sure you were!” Another, “Knew it! I win the poll!” But mostly, it’s “Oh, no!s” and “Big hugs!”

  Then a week later,

  Advice, please, bitchettes. I’m not into do-overs. But recently, I saw someone I “knew” a few months back—I’ll call him The Hot One. There was a definite connection, but he said the little woman wouldn’t understand, blah, blah. I was kind of pissed, as you may remember. Today he gave me that look. Should I? He is sex on a stick. Of course, there is a wifey.

  The Hot One is Nico. Wifey must be Sasha. So Wendy’s flirtation with Nico probably started before she dumped Ellis. But she didn’t want to say so in case Ellis was still reading.

  Things moved pretty fast from there.

  Met up with The Hot One outside school. I have the feeling he’s tired of what he’s getting at home.

  Five-star day! Saw The Hot One.

  No-star day. Hot One sticking with wifey. Didn’t stop him getting some in the park.

  I thought, If I am Ellis reading this, I am not having fun.

  Her friends weighed in. “Been there, done that. Move on, babe.” “Dump the loser.” “Hey, here’s a wild idea! Try someone without a girlfriend.”

  Wendy wrote back, Yeah, can’t do that. This is kind of real.

  Then a week later, Wendy posted COMMITMENT! with a link to a video. I clicked on the link, saw Wendy in Jenny’s room. They’re rolling around on the floor, holding the phone up, laughing hysterically.

  Wendy gasps, “Okay, I’m making it official. I want Nico Phelps! Nico, you hear? I want you!”

  “Girlfriend alert,” giggles Jenny.

  Wendy fake frowns. “Oh, yeah, gee. Oh, wait, I don’t give a crap. Sorry, Sashy. Nico’s mine. And I don’t mean in that bathroom quickie way, I mean for real. Because you don’t get him, and I do. So he should be mine. Step aside, girlfriend.”

  It occurred to me: I hate this voice, her Wild Wendy persona. It’s sort of her—but more what everyone decided she was. It’s like she’s playing a part on some gross reality show. How did that happen, Wendy? I wondered. Why did you let them make you into that?

  I looked to see if Ellis responded to any of this, but he was silent.

  After that, it’s all little updates on Nico. Saw N in hallway. N talked to me in cafeteria. Caught N checking out my, er, fine new top.

  It’s not enough for the friends. They tease her. We want action! You’re losing your touch, girlfriend. Promises, promises. Turn up the heat!

  And then the video made two days before she died, the one that is now Wendy to most of the world: “This is a message from Wendy Geller to Nico Phelps. Nico, you best be listening. Because two days from now at Karina Burroughs’s party, I am going to get you. I am going to get you and you are going to love every moment.”

  Leaving Mr. Farrell’s classroom, I wonder, Could what I’m thinking about Ellis be true? In a flash, I remember what Jenny said: “I guess the great Ellis felt she was pitying him, ’cause he got really pissed off.”

  Pity. I think of how Ellis’s black hair is always just so. His black-and-white-checked sneakers, his styling geek cardigans. The way he always makes a joke if people are paying attention to someone other than him.

  He wouldn’t be into pity. At all.

  And I have history class with him this afternoon.

  If you ever read the Alcott brochure, you will learn that one of the things that distinguishes Alcott is its belief in “experiential learning” and “exploration of the rich cultural environs of the city.”

  Which, loosely translated, means “field trip.” Art class, you go to MoMA. History, the Metropolitan. Science, the natural history museum and the Rose Center (where a few kids always manage to sneak off to the space show and get high).

  So, today in social studies, we’re going to Central Park. To study public space and what it means to a community.

  Some of the parents complained, saying this was a bad idea. But our teacher, Ms. Wilentz, told them we wouldn’t be anywhere near the area affected by “recent tragic events.” She’s not one to change her mind.

  In the park, Taylor and I walk toward the back of the group as Ms. Wilentz talks about how Frederick Law Olmsted saw the park as a place where everyone who lived in the city could gather, rich and poor. Not too many people are gathered today; it’s a gray, chilly afternoon. We see a few brave joggers, determined dog walkers with batches of four-legged clients, the occasional park worker in green, tiredly picking up trash.

  I tell myself I should be listening to Ms. Wilentz, who’s an amazing teacher. Or thinking about Frederick Law Olmsted.

  But I’m watching Ellis. He’s walking toward the front of the group, Lindsey right beside him. I’d love to catch up with him, ease into a conversation. (Say, Ellis, why did you act like you and Wendy were still together at the funeral? Were you so upset because Wendy was dead? Or because you killed her?) But that won’t be possible with Lindsey around. She’s superprotective.

  Ms. Wilentz says, “Okay, everyone, let’s split into teams and get to work.”

  The assignment is to walk around the park and see how Olmsted’s vision is holding up. We have to grade things that we see as belonging to everyone, that belong to most people, and that belong to a few. Like Sheep Meadow—open, free, belongs to anyone. The carousel which costs money, but not that much, belongs to most people. Well, that’s what I say. Taylor, my partner, says no one on a budget would pay for a stupid merry-go-round ride, so it belongs to a few.

  “You don’t know what people will and won’t pay for,” I say, watching Ellis out of the corner of my eye.

  “It’s reasonable to draw conclusions based on economic circumstance,” she says sweetly, knowing she’ll win the argument, that we’ll put “a few” and get an A.

  “Fine,” I say absently, wondering, Ellis—how could you be so clueless about Wendy’s Nico obsession?

  Taylor is waving her hand in my face. “Hello? Bathrooms? All or most?”

  I see Ellis walking toward the bathrooms, for once free of Lindsey.

  “Well, right now, bathrooms are for me,” I say, handing Taylor my clipboard. “Be right back.”

  As I walk toward the bathrooms, I realize I have no idea how to start this conversation. Nico’s arrest. I’ll begin with that, see where it goes.

  I’m trying to decide if I should say “Hey, Ellis—wait up!” or just plain “Ellis!” when he turns suddenly and smiles.

  “Rain—” he says, and gives me a huge hug.

  I’ve been so wrapped up in my vision of Ellis the twisted killer, I’m thrown. Especially when he says, “I heard about Sasha attacking you. That’s crazy.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I stammer. “Well, guess it wasn’t the best day for her.”

  “No.” He nods sympathetically. “But still. Not your fault she was dating a murderer.”

  I scan his face, his voice. No hint of uncertainty. If Ellis doesn’t absolutely believe Nico’s the killer, he’s doing an amazing job of hiding it.

  I say, “Yeah, but I kind of let Sasha know I thought
Nico killed Wendy.”

  “So?”

  I look at the ground. “I let the police know it too. Please don’t spread that around.”

  “Okay. But I think it’s great.” He looks away. “I wish I’d ratted him out. But I didn’t know—” He shrugs.

  “You didn’t think he did it?”

  “No.” He looks at me. “I know I’m probably the only person in the world who thinks this. But in my gut, I never thought Wendy’d go through with the whole … Nico thing.” His voice sours with disgust.

  “Because you guys were back together?” I ask gently.

  He smiles crookedly, sighs. “Ye-ah, okay. I knew you picked up on that at the funeral. No, we weren’t actually back together. But I think we would have been? If—” He breaks off, then says, “I always felt like Wendy and me had something special. And that it ended way too soon.”

  I want him to keep talking, so I nod.

  Encouraged, he tells me, “Right before she died, me and Wendy were talking a lot. About life, you know? She was getting tired of the whole party scene. Wild Wendy—that wasn’t her anymore. We had something real, but she’d never had that before, and it was hard for her to trust it. I think she was scared I would dump her like all the other guys—so she dumped me first. I mean, that’s what I think.”

  Ellis does a long exhale. “So when her mom acted like we were still together, I didn’t think it was the best time to say, ‘Well, actually, she broke up with me.’ ”

  “Right,” I agree, even as I wonder how I can ask about the stuff Wendy put on her Facebook page.

  He must see the confusion on my face, because he says abruptly, “That whole Nico thing was a joke. She never meant any of it.”

  “Really.” I can’t even pretend to believe this.

  “No.” Irritated, he shakes his head. “Yeah, Wendy and Nico got together a few times over the summer. But that was it. ‘Don’t believe the hype’ was what she said. People just loved talking about it because it gave them a chance to bash her. I told the detective that, but I could see he didn’t believe me.”