The Girl in the Park

by Mariah Fredericks

  “So, you found a bigger freak and humiliated her? No, I don’t know.”

  He looks up. “One day, I overheard some chick saying how you had this weird thing where you were born with a hole in your mouth and didn’t talk right. She said she felt sorry for you. It pissed me off.” He ducks his head, embarrassed.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I was like, Yeah, her they feel sorry for. Me—no way. ’Cause I’m a guy and …” He gestures around the room, reminding me of its smallness and cheapness. “Something could be wrong with you and it was okay. I watched you, the way you scurried around, like you were always about to burst into tears. I thought you felt sorry for yourself. Wanted me to feel sorry for you. And it just made me mad.”

  It’s almost funny, Nico feeling oppressed by me. I think of telling him about retard and deaf girl, about Rain, Rain, go away. About being terrified to speak to the people standing right next to you. About feeling alone.

  But I think Nico knows what that’s like.

  “It wasn’t okay,” I tell him. “Not for a long time. You know who made it better?” He looks up, knowing what I’m about to say. “Wendy.”

  “She was cool,” he says.

  “That she was.” I take a step toward the door. I’ve said all the things that matter to Nico; he’s said all the things that matter to me.

  Except one. I turn, ask, “Seriously. No way Sasha did it?”

  “No way.”

  But he doesn’t look at me as he says it.

  That night, there is a full-hour special on the case on TV. I know some kids from school are in it. The crews have been filming around the building, but Dorland wouldn’t let them inside, of course. My mom is out performing, so I can watch it without sighs and eye rolls.

  They start with the playground where Wendy was found. Show little kids shrieking as they go down the slide, flying high on the swings. Then a big low chord, cut to the green space with yellow tape all around it. Then the shots of Nico being arrested.

  “Wendy Geller,” the narrator intones solemnly as a big picture of Wendy comes up. “Nico Phelps.” A picture of Nico scowling in his pseudomodel pose comes up beside it. “A date with death!”

  “Wendy Geller and Nico Phelps. Two privileged members of an exclusive New York club of the young and wealthy. They went to the right clubs”—a shot of Wendy at some bar—“knew the right people”—a shot of Sasha and Nico getting off a private plane. “But on the night of November eighth, something went terribly wrong.”

  A swirl of images. Baby Wendy, little girl Wendy, Wendy on a swing in her backyard in Long Island. Baby Nico. Nico in a Halloween costume as Batman, Nico on the beach with Wendy.

  “Who was Wendy Geller? Who was Nico Phelps?” They freeze on the beach image, close in on Nico’s face. A cheesy X-ray effect. “Tonight, we reveal the monster behind the mask.”

  Cut to Kirsty Pennington, who tells them how Nico threw a drink in her face. An interview with the cop who arrested him in the Hamptons. A priest who tells us that Nico’s father has never been part of his life.

  Then it’s Wendy’s turn. Karina fills the screen as she says, “Let me tell you, Wendy Geller was not some innocent little girl.”

  And there it is, the Get You video, as they’re calling it now. Wendy crooning to the screen, “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.”

  I watch this carefully, thinking of my conversation with Nico. Thinking about that person Wendy was going to meet. Now I realize the video feels fake. It’s Wendy playing a part, the slutty girl in some TV show, the one everyone loves to hate.

  Now they have a guy they call a “noted forensic expert” talking about the skin they found under Wendy’s fingernails. He says, “It’s actually quite easy to leave bits of our DNA around. Saliva on a cup, sweat on a steering wheel, bits of skin rubbed off on the handle of a murder weapon. We can detect DNA on a remarkably small fragment of skin, provided the sample isn’t degraded.”

  The reporter says, “And they found Nico Phelps’s DNA on the skin under Wendy Geller’s fingernails.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But if it’s so easy, wouldn’t the DNA of other people be present as well?”

  The expert smiles condescendingly. “Yes, but those people are not accused of murder.”

  Images all over the screen: Wendy screaming with laughter with a drink in her hand. Nico lounging on the steps of the school, looking snotty. Wendy dancing, Nico smoking. Wendy, Nico, Wendy, Nico, Wendy, Nico.

  I pick up the remote, turn off the TV.

  An hour later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Taylor.

  You said you’d make it up to me. Breakfast tomorrow?

  DAY TWELVE—THE LAST DAY

  We’re sitting in the diner near school in a small booth right by the kitchen. It’s the breakfast rush. Plates and pans crash and bang. Cooks and waiters shout orders back and forth. It’s noisy, and I worry I won’t be able to hear what Taylor has to say.

  That is, if she ever speaks. Taylor is pulling her napkin apart, focused on it, like she has to get the size of the shredded pieces just right. It’s strange to see her nervous. Nervous is for people who are afraid they’ll do the wrong thing.

  I’m nervous too. I’m supposed to be helping her with a paper, but we’ve been here for fifteen minutes and Taylor hasn’t mentioned the Romantics yet. I get the feeling this breakfast isn’t about Mr. Farrell’s class, it’s about Mr. Farrell.

  In a rush Taylor says, “Look, this is weird, so I’m just going to say it. I know you’re twisted up about Wendy.”

  I nod.

  “And I feel like I haven’t really been there for you.”

  “You have, Tay, more than anybody.…”

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t. And we both know why. I didn’t like her.”

  “She wasn’t your kind of person.”

  “No. I actually disliked her. If there’d been a person there to hate—I would have.”

  It’s automatic now, wondering who hated Wendy, why, and how much. How would Wendy have hurt Taylor?

  “Anyway,” she says. “You know my class with Farrell?”

  I say, “The one we’re supposed to be talking about now?”

  “Remember I complained about those girls who were all like, Oooh, Mr. Farrell, come look at my poetry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did I mention Wendy was also in the class?”

  This is a little thing, a small thing. Wendy was in the class. There are no bombs in that sentence. But my body is jolted long before my brain gets it.

  I smile. “Don’t tell me. She gave Farrell the Wendy treatment.”

  But Taylor’s not going to let me joke. “Oh, yeah.” Her voice is dead, flat.

  “And what? Say what you need to say.” My voice is not quite steady.

  Now it’s Taylor’s turn to hesitate. “I don’t have proof.”

  “What, Taylor? Proof of what?”

  She can’t meet my eye. “It was just a sense. Based on what I saw.”

  “What did you see?”

  She looks hard to one side, as if she’s staring into the past. “Little closed-door conversations after class.”

  Come on in …

  I set my teeth on my tongue, make my mind go blank. No words from me until Taylor’s finished. I have to hear it all.

  Taylor says, “There were … little pats on the arm from him. I saw her rubbing his shoulders once. He looked embarrassed about that. And then one day, she was yakking away in class. Farrell says, Miss Geller. And she was like, Yes, Mr. Farrell? And he said—”

  She pauses, trying to remember exactly. “He said, ‘Be silent.’ Or something like that. And they gave each other these little smiles, and I just thought, Yeah, it’s going on.”

  Going on. My mind shows me what that means.
Wendy and Mr. Farrell smiling. Then kissing. The shoulder rub ending as she slides onto his lap. I see his hand on her leg, see her skirt rise.

  “Then a month ago, she was all sulky and acting up to get his attention. I thought, Oh, must be over.”

  Wendy. The girl who told everyone everything—what would she keep secret?

  An affair with a married teacher. Yep, even Wendy would keep that one a secret. As much as she could. And anyone who noticed when she slipped? People like Taylor or even Karina? She’d keep them guessing by running after another guy. Someone outrageous. Someone taken. So that we’d all keep yakking about Wendy and Nico and Sasha.

  And we’d totally miss what was really going on.

  I’m not aware I’m standing up until Taylor says, “Rain?”

  “I think I need to be somewhere else,” I say with complete seriousness.

  “Okay,” says Taylor, gathering her bag. “Then I need to be there with you.”

  One thing I do know about where I’m going: Taylor can’t be there. I’m about to say, No, no, please don’t. But then I have a better idea. I push the check toward her. “Could you do this? I have no money.”

  And while she goes to the register to pay, I slip out of the diner.

  On the street, it becomes very clear: I need to find Farrell.

  I hurry down the street toward school. It’s freezing out, a biting winter cold, and I still have my fall jacket. The frigid air burns my lungs. My jaw hurts, my nails are deep in the flesh of my palms. I don’t know what I look like as I go into the lobby. A small clue: people back off right away. They see the angry girl, the girl who scowled into the camera for her freshman yearbook picture, the girl who talked to no one because she was sure everyone was out to get her.

  I pull open the door to the stairwell hard, wanting to slam it against the wall.

  “Oh, my.”

  Ms. Laredo. Clutching her manila files. The few she managed to hang on to, as most of them are all over the floor. She stares down at them, bewildered.

  “I’m really sorry, Ms. Laredo.” The tears start. Stupidly, I feel terrible for the files, as if they’re little kids I knocked over. I crouch down, sliding them around uselessly as I try to pick them up.

  Ms. Laredo puts her hand on my arm. “Dear?”

  “I’m just going to—”

  “Dear.” All of a sudden, Ms. Laredo’s voice is firm, strong. “Why don’t you come into my office?”

  A box of tissues. A cup of tea. Talk about Ms. Laredo’s plants—“I’ve had this one for seven years now”—and her corgi, Sophie, named for her dentist.

  I don’t feel better. But I feel … less crazy. The sharp agony of the knife on the bone has faded. I can sit here with a polite smile and talk about corgis.

  But then Ms. Laredo goes to sit behind her desk and says, “Now. Is this about Wendy or Nico? Or Wendy and Nico?”

  Actually, Ms. Laredo, it’s about Wendy and Mr. Farrell. And me and Mr. Farrell. By the way, did you know Mr. Farrell likes to screw around with students? You didn’t? Oh, well, it’s an interesting story.

  Ms. Laredo deserves some kind of answer. “I guess it got to me—just all of it.” Which is honest enough.

  She nods. “Are you talking to anyone about it?”

  I sigh. “Not really. I’m sick of it in some ways. I feel like it’s all I think about.”

  “Then why don’t you stop?” she says gently.

  “Because …” There is a reason not to stop, there is. Only I can’t remember it right now. All I can think of is, He liked her better than me. She was cuter than me, sexier than me. She had the guts to say what she wanted.

  When did it end? I wonder. Taylor said a month ago.…

  I can’t think about this in front of Ms. Laredo. “Because it’s everywhere,” I say stupidly. “You can’t get away from it.”

  Her eyes stay on me. She’s not buying it. Glancing down at the files, she says, “I am not a talker myself. I value privacy. But some things must be said, if people will be hurt by the silence.”

  I’m very comfortable with silence, I want to tell her.

  Instead, I point to the files. “Sorry I knocked these over. You want help straightening them out?”

  “Oh, no, dear.” She arranges them tidily on the desk. “They’re just ideas for the new E pin.”

  In music, there are notes that tell you to listen. All by themselves, they warn the ear: it’s coming, pay attention.

  And when Ms. Laredo says “new E pin,” I hear the first note of the question that’s been forming since I found out Farrell was Wendy’s secret.

  “They’re changing it?”

  “They change it every fifteen years, dear. That way, members of the same generation of Alcott students can recognize one another.” She opens a drawer in her desk, pulls out a ring. “Here’s mine, from 1957. Rose gold with quartz. Rather pretty, I think. Of course, the men objected. They made the design simpler after that.”

  I am surprised at the calm in my voice. “Oh, yeah? What else did they do?”

  “Jeweled, that was popular. A mix of metals, that was expensive. They tried wood one time, that was a disaster. After that we went back to gold and changed the enamels. A dark green one year. Maroon.”

  “But never silver?”

  “Oh, no, they did that, too. Not too long ago, in fact.”

  “When, Ms. Laredo?”

  Startled, she says, “Let me think now. Twenty years ago? I suppose that seems like a long time to you. Maybe it was fifteen.”

  Twenty, I think. Fifteen. Take someone who graduated at eighteen, add, oh, seventeen years. You get … thirty-five. Thirty-five works just fine.

  I say, “I think I’m okay now. Thank you, Ms. Laredo.”

  “Are you sure, dear? Should I call your mother?”

  “No.” I get up. “No, I … I should just get to class and …”

  “Stop thinking about it,” she says warmly.

  “And, really, thank you.”

  I don’t go to class. Instead, I go to the library. To that shelf way in the back where nobody goes. Where they keep the old yearbooks. Looking at the spines, I let my fingers travel back in time. 2005, 2000, 1995 …

  The first yearbook I look at doesn’t have it.

  But the second one does.

  This year’s recipients of the E pin

  Robert McCormack

  David Helpman

  Tina Daniels

  T. H. Farrell

  The halls are crowded just before first lunch period. Kids pour out of the classrooms, desperate to eat, to breathe, to talk to their friends. The school has a whole different life to it. Noisy, crazy, safe.

  I don’t talk to anyone as I make my way through the crowd. Someone bumps into me. Or I bump into them. We both mutter, Sorry. Then keep going.

  Some teachers go out to lunch. Some, like Mr. Farrell, eat at their desks.

  On my way to his office, I pass Ms. Englander’s room. Ms. Englander goes out to eat, and the room is empty. I step inside to gaze at her wall of images. I find the picture of Bluebeard’s wife and step closer. It’s all black, white, and rust tones, as if it were done in chalk and dried blood. The wife stands on the far left, behind the door she has opened. She wears a long white gown, her hair is a dark shadow down her back. She cannot yet see, but maybe suspects, what’s beyond the door. The bodies hanging. Each in a long white dress, feet dangling, arms limp. You do not see their faces, only their dark hair.

  I leave Ms. Englander’s class, walk down the hall, stop when I get to Mr. Farrell’s door.

  He’s in there. I can hear him. All I have to do is knock.

  Before I do, I fix another image in my mind: Not-Wendy, what they put into that box. The bruises people tried to hide with paint and scarves. Bruises sound like a kid thing, skinned knees. Put a Band-Aid on it, it’s fine. I think of the damage under the bruises. The crushed muscles, bleeding tissue. The twisted, choking pain.

  What happens when someone is strang
led? A few days ago, I looked it up.

  When someone is strangled by hand, the airway is blocked. Blood can’t flow. Fragile bones in the neck snap. There’s a bone under the tongue—that can break. The tongue gets caught between the teeth, gets bitten and bruised.

  Air hunger. The body gets so frantic for air, it almost goes into convulsions. Leaping and twisting to get those hands off. The brain can’t get air, and gradually, everything fades, goes dark. Unconsciousness comes before death. Which, I guess, is good. Maybe you still have some hope that it won’t happen. That this is not the end.

  But it is the end. The worst thing happens. You die.

  The larynx—your voice box—can be crushed. Which makes me wonder, could Wendy scream? Cry for help? Or did she have no voice at all at the end?

  Can I say something? Most people? Myself included? Talk way too much.

  I half smile at the memory. Then think, If Wendy could, she’d scream her killer’s name so the whole world heard her. She’d put it on Facebook, tell all her friends, spray-paint it in Times Square. She’d shriek till her voice was raw. But she can’t. Her killer took her voice away.

  So I have to use mine.

  My heart is jumping, my fingers are cold. I go long stretches without breathing, then gulp for air.

  I knock, hear, “Come in.”

  I open the door. Mr. Farrell looks startled. “Rain …”

  He is still beautiful, and for a moment, I think, No. Wrong. I’m just crazy. This whole thing has made me crazy. I see killers everywhere.

  Then I remember Mr. Farrell saying, “Nico worries me.”

  How, that very first day when I talked to him about the killing, he brought up Nico’s name, even though he claimed to have no idea Wendy was nuts about Nico. How he wanted me to tell him anything I heard about the case. How he insisted I go to the police. Even called them for me, stood by me the whole time, just to make sure I told them exactly what he wanted me to.

  And when I said I thought I might be wrong about Nico, he …