I laughed. “There’s a messy situation.”
She sighed. “Human connection—very messy. Unpredictable.” Then she went all operatic: “Entirely too dangerous!”
Connections. Wendy to Nico. Wendy to Mr. Farrell. Mr. Farrell to me. Me to Wendy. Nico to Sasha. Ellis, Lindsey. All this emotion, all this hurt and want. So much that somebody died.
Now, waiting in the wings, I see Mr. Dorland sitting in the front row. This is his final senior class. He’ll be retiring at the end of the year. Ms. Johnson will fill in when she comes back from maternity leave. I hope they give her the job permanently. Alcott needs to make some changes.
They call Taylor’s name, and she goes up to be greeted by Bradley Tournival, her coeditor on the paper. This gets a huge roar of approval from the crowd. Part of the fun of this ceremony is seeing who is matched with who; since Taylor is taking over from Bradley and they’re friends, this is a good match. Seniors can request, or the school puts pairs together. I can see that even Taylor is struggling to keep it together as Bradley gives her a kiss. I swear I see her wipe away a tear.
Cantor, Christie, Danilowicz … finally they call my name. Rain Donovan. As I start to walk down the aisle, I wonder who I’ll get. Kids like me usually get the light from one of the official “nice kids,” school officers who understand it’s part of their job to make sure everyone has a match.
But when Sasha walks out onto the stage, my face burns and tears come to my eyes. Surprise, happiness, humility, guilt … I feel it all at the same mind-blowing instant. Sasha has been out much of this semester; when she’s been in school, she’s kept to herself. We have not talked, and I suspect that’s because neither of us has known what the hell to say.
Now she stands there calmly as I approach, candle held in both hands. The applause is tentative at first; people aren’t sure what to think. Everyone remembers that Sasha dated Nico, that I was the one who proved Nico wasn’t guilty—and that Sasha clobbered me in the hall that time. But slowly, the applause starts to grow louder.
I manage a goofy grin as Sasha touches her light to mine, but there are tears rolling down my face. Sasha kisses me on both cheeks. First cheek, she whispers, “I’m sorry.” The second, “Thank you.”
The rest of the names go by in a blur. As Queenie Richardson lights Jenny Zalgat’s candle and leaves the stage, the rest of us turn to face the school as the new senior class. I am standing in the first row. Jenny comes to stand near me. Between us is an empty seat. On it is an unlit candle. And a photograph of Wendy.
Together we say, “In memory of our friend, Wendy Geller.”
A month ago, a group of us got together to talk about how we wanted to remember Wendy at the ceremony. At the time, we weren’t sure whether to light the candle or not. I thought not was more honest. Wendy doesn’t get to carry her flame forward. Mr. Farrell put it out.
That’s how it was going to be until Jenny spoke up suddenly. “Yeah, but, okay, so she isn’t here, like her ‘light’ is not here, whatever, but I feel like she kind of gave it to us, you know? She definitely had an effect on my life. She was the first person to tell me I wasn’t an idiot.” She ducked her head. “She said I had a genius heart.” She smiled.
Ellis smiled. “She said I had way cool fashion sense. Geek chic.”
Daniel Ettinger said, “She said zits were a sign of high testosterone and masculinity.”
Everyone cracked up. In the laughter, a thousand Wendys flashed through my mind.
Speak up, girl!
Do I know you?
The dough rocks raw.
She should know to say hi.
Hey there!
There is no one Wendy, I realized. Her mom’s sweet, funny little baby; the chick who boasted about getting trashed on Facebook. The girl who was such a good friend to people, the bitch who trampled others’ feelings because she was blinded by her own hurt. All those things are true, but no one thing is the whole truth.
I saw Jenny looking at me. What was my vote? Does Wendy have a light or no?
I said, “Let’s go for it, tigress.”
Jenny smiled. “Cool—but only if you sing. Wendy always said you had a kick-ass voice.”
Now as I walk to the front of the stage, I feel my heart beating so hard, I can’t catch my breath. To calm down, I think of something else—anything but the hundreds of eyes on me right now, the ears all listening.
Wendy, I realize. I should think of Wendy.
For a moment, Mr. Farrell creeps into my head. A twist in my stomach, sour in my throat. I still have nightmares, in which I am the girl being strangled because I asked for too much. In these dreams, I scream, my throat muscles strain, but there is no sound. Just Mr. Farrell’s hands and the crushing weight.
Some nights when I wake up, I think, I wish I’d never gone through that door. That first day of school after Wendy was killed. I wish I’d never talked to him. Because I still feel guilty. Wendy wasn’t the only person blinded by her own hurt. Who was unkind to others out of that hurt. Am I smarter now?
But if I had not gone through that door, Nico Phelps would probably be in jail and Mr. Farrell would not be. And I would still think you can get through life safe and sound and pure—and actually have a life. I wouldn’t know the only way not to make a mistake is never to do anything at all.
In which case, says Wendy’s voice, you might as well be in a box like me. Now, can you please sing, already? I’ve been waiting a long time.
We had a lot of discussion about which song would be right for Wendy. Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” is beautiful, but a lot of people do it. I thought “Into the West” from Lord of the Rings, because it’s tender and sad, about journeys’ ends. But it was too proper for Wendy somehow. And I’m not Annie Lennox.
Finally, my mom, of all people, came up with “Yesterday’s Child” by Patti Scialfa. The second I heard the lines “And I still have my imaginings/Where there’s no struggling/Or suffering/Just cigarettes and wine,” I knew it was the right song for Wendy.
Singing in the chorus, I have always wondered what it would be like to stand alone, to have only your voice heard. How terrifying it would be to know it was all up to you. And how you’d have to keep going, even if you screwed up big-time.
But what I could not imagine was the incredible rush when you connect. When you feel the audience. All they want to hear is your voice, because it lets them feel what they need to.
My voice does crack a few times, where the feelings get too big. But it doesn’t matter. I sing the last verse, reminding myself that Wendy would want this to be joyous, defiant.
SO LET’S RAISE THE GLASS
TO A SYMPHONY OF MILES
AND SAY OUR LAST FAREWELL
TO YESTERDAY’S CHILD.
As I finish and the applause starts, I don’t want to say farewell to Wendy. But I have to. She’s gone. And with her, a scared little girl who never said what she thought or felt. I’ll miss that girl, too. Even though I’m glad not to be her anymore.
Who knows? Maybe in some alternate universe, she and Wendy are sitting and eating cookie dough. And laughing.
The Girl in the Park Page 19