“Well, there was the whole Facebook thing,” I say softly. “Wendy did say she liked Nico.”
“Okay, she put it out there. You know why? Because Sasha was a bitch to her,” Ellis says sharply. “Wendy liked annoying her. Her so-called passion for Nico was a total scam. Pretty funny, really. When you think about it.”
He trails off, and I wonder if he knows how desperate he sounds. Then he bursts out with “You know, people at this school are seriously effed up. Like they decide who you are—based on nothing—and who you should be with, and if you break their rules, the punishment is …”
The emotion is too much. It wells up in his eyes, and in his throat, choking off his words. I take a step toward him, wanting to say, “Yeah, I get it, I know exactly what you mean.” But then I see Lindsey running up the path.
“Hey, hey, hey …” Taking Ellis by the arm, she says firmly, “Breathe. You are not breathing.”
“I’m okay,” he says.
“Uh-huh. Come on.” She starts leading him away.
At first, Ellis doesn’t say anything, just stumbles down the path beside her. Then all of a sudden, he calls over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, Rain.”
I shake my head, even as I wonder, What is he apologizing for now?
Behind me, I hear Taylor say, “I leave you alone with a man for ten minutes and you turn him into a basket case. What is your secret?”
“We were talking about Wendy,” I say, watching Ellis disappear. “He thought they were getting back together.”
Taylor sighs. “Love is blind.”
As we continue through the park, I keep watching Ellis and Lindsey. I ask Taylor, “Speaking of which, is Lindsey hot for Ellis, does she have a big-sister complex—what?”
She shrugs. “They’ve been friends since they were six.”
“Does Lindsey even do the guy thing?”
Taylor thinks. “Never seen her do the girl thing. It’s always been Lindsey and Ellis.”
Which is true. In fact, Ellis’s name used to come up whenever people did the “gay or no” game at parties, because any guy who’s smart and good-looking and has a girl as a best friend—gay, of course. Kids used to call them the Amazing Ambiguous Duo.
Then he started dating Wendy and that stopped.
“Swings,” says Taylor. Jolted out of my thoughts about Ellis, I shake my head. “All, most, or few?”
Our assignment. The thing we’re supposed to be thinking about. Right.
“Ah—all. Anybody can use the swings.”
“There’s a weight limit,” says Taylor smugly. “No fat kids. No grown-ups.”
“Most,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“Really?” Taylor looks over at the swing set. “I see six kids on the swings. How many kids do you think want to be on those swings?”
I look at the crowd hanging around the fence, even on this grisly day. “So, you wait your turn. You share.”
“People don’t always wait their turn. Sometimes it’s hard to share.”
Taylor’s saying something else here. I look at her.
Shrugging, she says, “You were Wendy’s friend, you should know.”
Social studies is the last class of the day. It’s growing dark as Ms. Wilentz dismisses us. A group leaves with her to return to school, Lindsey and Ellis among them. Ellis will have chess, Lindsey volleyball. Friends leave with friends. Other kids wander off on their own.
Taylor and I walk to Central Park West. Taylor says, “Hey, I need major help on an English paper. I am not getting the Romantics. At. All. I start reading and just … gag.”
English. The Romantics. Mr. Farrell, I think dreamily. God, I’d love to be in that class—although I’d just swoon the whole time.
“I think I can help you,” I say solemnly.
“Excellent. Tomorrow? Coffee date? We’ll discuss—gak—poetry?” I nod. “Awesome.” She kisses me on the cheek. “And now I am late for a newspaper meeting. Bye.”
She runs off, leaving me alone by the park wall. Wondering, Did Ellis kill Wendy?
My gut says no. But my gut also says he’s lying about something.
In the chill air, I hear clear and sharp, “Hey.”
I turn, see Lindsey charging toward me.
I have always liked Lindsey. Or, rather, the idea of Lindsey; I don’t know her that well. She’s smart, tough, allergic to crap. So it’s a little disturbing to see her headed in my direction, fists clenched and looking fierce.
“What the hell?” she barks, stopping right in front of me.
I try to keep my voice steady. “What the hell what, Lindsey?”
“What the hell were you doing? Like, it isn’t a crappy enough day for Ellis, coming here? What’s with the ambush? Why’d you have to talk about her?”
There’s an edge of crazy in Lindsey’s voice.
“He didn’t seem to mind talking about Wendy.”
“Of course not,” says Lindsey. “He never fricking stops talking about her.”
“Well, I guess he loved her,” I say quietly.
That seems to douse the anger. Lindsey sighs, “I guess so.”
She stares at the buildings across the street. Her eyes are full of tears. This isn’t a battle anymore.
In a soft voice, she says, “I never liked her. But what happened was evil.” She breathes harshly. “That violent scumbag.”
This is not acting. Lindsey absolutely believes Nico killed Wendy.
Wanting her take on Wendy and Ellis’s relationship, I say, “I know you didn’t love Wendy—and I totally get why. But I liked her with Ellis. I was sorry they broke up.” As casually as possible, I add, “Ellis said they were maybe getting back together.”
“Yeah,” says Lindsey slowly. “He’s always been one for fantasy.”
“Wouldn’t Ellis know?” I ask.
“Let’s just say he has reasons for wanting to believe that.”
She doesn’t look at me while she speaks, preoccupied by whatever it is she’s not telling me. I press, “What reasons?”
Startled, she stammers, “It’s hard to let go.”
“But they only dated for a little while,” I say.
She blows a stray curl out of her eyes. “She was his first girlfriend, okay?”
“So?”
Impatient, she says, “So, there are things he doesn’t know. Things he doesn’t want to know,” she adds quietly.
“About Wendy?”
“About himself. Things that Wendy helped him ignore. Things he wants to ignore because his mom and dad will totally freak if he can’t.”
She widens her eyes at me: Want me to spell it out?
I remember Ellis’s ranting. All these stupid rules of how people should be and who loves who. I flash back on times I saw Ellis and Wendy together. How sweet they were, how fun. They were always laughing, and I thought, That’s good for her. Someone who can be a friend.
There’s my answer. What Ellis was lying about. Why he insisted, in spite of all the evidence, that he and Wendy were getting back together.
“Things like being gay,” I say.
Lindsey nods. “Wendy was already pretty far out as far as his parents were concerned. They’re sweet, smart people, but they come from a very conservative part of India. Gay is not going to work for them. And making Mom and Dad happy is priority number one for Ellis.”
“Did Wendy know he was gay? Was that why she ended it?”
“She didn’t say so, but come on. I give her credit,” says Lindsey. “After they broke up, she could have been stupid, gone around whispering and giggling. ‘Oooh, he’s gay.’ But she never made it about him. I didn’t expect that.”
“Wendy knew about judging. She wouldn’t do that to someone she cared about.”
But it’s a surprise to me, too. Wendy, it turns out, was better at keeping secrets than I realized.
So, there’s one lie explained. But I still want to know where Ellis was the night Wendy died.
“Were you at Karina�
�s party that night?” I ask Lindsey.
“Not my crowd.” She smiles tightly. “Ellis likes them, thinks they’re funny.”
“But he didn’t go either.”
“Nope. We did the movie and dinner thing. Wendy had made it clear that she was going to try and get with Nico. He didn’t want to see that mess.”
The picture’s getting clearer and clearer. Still, I have to ask, “Does Ellis have cuff links?”
“Cuff links?” Lindsey looks startled. “Who wears cuff links?”
“I found one in the hallway the other day,” I lie. “Had an E on it. Or maybe it’s a ring, I couldn’t tell. I thought maybe Ellis’s parents got them?”
She shakes her head. “Ellis isn’t his name. It’s Roshan. He came up with Ellis, thinks it makes him sound more prep.”
My turn to be startled. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. If I want to piss him off, I call him Roshan.” She grins. “Someday, I swear: Roshan Patel will get it that he is supremely cool the way he is.”
I think of Wendy, how I waited for her to understand that she was a cool person without all the guy drama—and when she didn’t, I pulled away. “You’re a good friend, Lindsey.”
Surprised, she smiles. “Thanks. Can I ask?”
“What?”
“Why so curious about all this?”
“Just trying to be a good friend too,” I tell her.
DAY ELEVEN
The next day, I’m supposed to have my Romantics meeting with Taylor after school. That afternoon, she texts me: In Garden. Meet @ 4?
The Garden, I wonder. What’s Taylor doing in the Garden? Then I remember: The student art show.
The student art show has been hung in a space called the Garden, a huge, airy atrium that stands between the front lobby and the administrative offices. Only, this week, instead of plants and flowers, there’s art. Paintings suspended from the ceiling, delicate pottery poised on pedestals. And sculpture, of course.
As I walk through the lobby, I look at the pictures of graduating classes from the past. I slow down as I pass 1995, Mr. Farrell’s year. I find his name among the many—T. H. Farrell—then search the rows of tiny faces for his.
“Not you, too.”
I turn, embarrassed. Taylor is standing behind me, eyebrow raised.
“What?” I say.
Taylor rolls her eyes, coos, “ ‘Oh, Mr. Farrell—could you explain Tennyson to me?’ ‘Oh, Mr. Farrell, I simply adore Goethe.’ Every chick I know lusts after that guy.”
Her casual scorn hits me hard. I am burning with anger and humiliation; I can’t even look at Taylor. I have never told her about my crush on Mr. Farrell. She’s so harsh with romantic issues, it never felt safe. Now I’m glad.
With the one thin thread of rationality I have right now, I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised that lots of girls like Mr. Farrell. He’s gorgeous.
Trying to sound casual, I say, “He’s cute in that teacher way.”
Taylor shakes her head. “I so don’t see it. I can’t stand the way people drool over him.”
“He can’t help that,” I point out, not sure if I’m defending him or myself.
“I don’t know.” Taylor frowns. “I …”
But she stops. Then says abruptly, “I have to review the student art show. Then we can talk.”
Relieved by the switch in subject, I follow her into the Garden. Stopping by a clay pot, she gets out her notebook. “I hate art. Nobody gives anything a real name, because if they told you what it was supposed to be, you’d say, Oh, that’s crap. So it’s all Mood Number Six. Memory Number One Thirty-Nine. Or whatever.” She points at the pot with her pencil. “I mean, what do I say about this?”
“Um—delicate? Nice colors?”
Taylor nods approvingly, writes it down. “Sorry, I’ll make a few notes, then we can go.”
“I can wait,” I tell her.
While I do, I look at the rest of the work. And yes, I am drawn to Sasha’s piece. Partly because it’s far and away the best thing in the room and partly because …
* * *
Well, just because.
I approach quietly, as if it’s Sasha herself. It’s a slender, winding coil—a ribbon spinning in air or … a body. Yep, I think, a female body spiraling gracefully, happy in her freedom. No face, no obvious clues. Just there. Undeniable.
There’s a little card on the pedestal. Usually they have the name of the student and whatever they want to tell you. A title or why they did it.
#14. Sasha Meloni. No title, of course.
Then I notice another line in the corner.
For my grandmother, Eleanora.
Eleanora, I think, uneasily.
Then: So what? I love my grandmother, Sasha loves hers. Wowsie zowsie.
But that’s not it. Grandmothers give their things to their children and grandchildren. Things like pictures. Jewelry.
I feel Taylor behind me. She whispers, “Hey—no knocking over Sasha’s stuff.”
“Eleanora,” I say without meaning to.
“Ye-es?”
Sasha’s fingers in the clay, strong, shaping, digging, tearing.
She was pathetic. She was a liar. She had no life, so she tried to steal other people’s.
Sasha kicking me. Hitting me. A Sasha I’d never seen before.
Of course, if the boyfriend you killed someone over looked like he was going to jail for a crime you committed—that could stress you out.
“Rain?”
“I totally forgot, I have something I need to do,” I tell Taylor. “I’ll make it up to you, promise.”
* * *
I should tell Mr. Farrell.
Or my mom.
Or Detective Vasquez.
I mean, someone should know I’m going to Nico Phelps’s house.
He was calm when I called. As if he expected this.
“I know something,” I told him.
“Oh, yeah?” Bored, no interest. Because hey, nothing I knew could be important.
“It could help.”
“Okay.”
“But I have questions. And you might not want to answer those questions in front of your lawyers.”
I said I wanted to meet in a coffee shop. He said he didn’t like to go out. For a moment, we were stuck.
Then he said sarcastically, “My mom is here, you don’t have to worry.”
Now I think, I could be setting up a date with a killer, but it’s okay because, hey, his mom will be there.
You have to take two buses to get to where Nico Phelps lives, way down in the Thirties, over on the East Side. I don’t know the neighborhood well. I’ve only been to movies here once or twice.
Nico’s building is modern, but not stylish modern. Red brick with little balconies on every floor. The doorman raises an eyebrow when I say Phelps.
When I ring the bell, it’s Mrs. Phelps who answers the door. She holds it only partly open. She is a small woman, with a sharp, tired face and short, ragged gray hair. One lock stands up, and I have the feeling she pulls on it. She’s wearing sneakers and a faded dress that’s been put through the wash too many times.
She looks like the maid, I think, an exhausted, old woman.
She also looks suspicious. I guess I’m not the kind of girl Nico hangs out with.
“I don’t know you, do I?” she says. The voice is a lot stronger than her appearance. When she talks, she expects to be listened to.
“Hi, Mrs. Phelps. Rain Donovan. I go to Nico’s school?” She shakes her head; that doesn’t matter to her. “Is he not here?” I ask tentatively.
She glances down. The hand moves up the doorjamb; I can tell, she’s thinking of letting me in. “What is this about?”
“I need to talk to him. I … I think …”
I’m about to say I think I can help when Nico appears at the door and pulls it open. “Ma, it’s okay.” To me, he says, “Come in.”
The apartment he leads me into is small. A tiny, very clean k
itchen is right off the entryway. Nico leads me through a living room with a thick rug on the carpet. Heavy, dark furniture, awkward and old-fashioned, crowds in on you. Everywhere you look, pictures of Nico. Fat baby Nico. Little boy Nico at the beach. Nico in a suit outside a church. I try to feel his father in the house. I can’t.
A short, narrow hallway takes us to Nico’s room. There is only one bedroom; his mom must sleep in the living room. I can feel her watching from the kitchen. “Remember what the lawyer said,” she calls just before Nico closes the door.
And I am alone in a room with Nico Phelps.
I look around, wondering where to sit. It’s a medium-sized room, but there’s a ton of stuff crammed into it. Nico’s bureau is crowded with all kinds of product; there’s a strong smell of Marc Jacobs cologne. The blinds on the window are closed. The bed is not made. The door to the closet is open, and I can see Nico’s mass of designer clothes, his shirts and ties and pairs and pairs of shoes. In the corner, a TV is going without sound. I’m startled to see it’s the news. Nico’s laptop sits open on the bed. Peeking, I see he’s been reading an article about the case. He’s streaming a radio station. I hear “And the latest developments in—” before he switches off the sound. His eyes linger on the screen for a moment, drinking in the last details of the article before he snaps the laptop shut.
“You’re following the news?” I ask. He nods. “Doesn’t it freak you out?”
He shrugs. “Gotta see what they’re saying, right?” He throws himself onto the bed and lounges. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. The fabric is tight through the shoulders and biceps; I’d forgotten how big he is. How strong. By the bed, there is a big picture of him and Sasha. They’re lying entwined on the grass. Sweet, I think automatically, most guys wouldn’t do that. Except I notice she’s staring off into the distance, wearing sunglasses. Nico’s looking the other way. Two beautiful profiles. It’s a Ralph Lauren ad.
“Take off your coat,” he says.
It’s not a request. I take it off.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” says Nico contemptuously.
No? I think. You probably don’t think you hurt me that time in the stairwell. You probably think it was no big thing.
Folding my arms, I sit on the edge of the desk chair.
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