The Girl in the Park (13 page)

I stand staring at the taped-off area. Wendy lived near here; she and I came here once. It was after school, almost spring. She was smoking a cigarette, legs crossed. Every so often, one of the moms would give her a dirty look for smoking and she’d wag her leg at them.
Yeah, I wear short skirts, too! Total slut, that’s right!

She asked me if I wanted one and I said no. To excuse myself, I said, “It’s not like I have much of a singing voice, but …”

She frowned, inhaled. “You have a great voice. You’re lucky,
you have things,” she said. Stubbing the cigarette out on the gray stone, she said, “I got squat.” She tossed the butt on the cobblestones.

I remember not liking her then, the way she just threw her trash anywhere, felt so sorry for herself. We were already having a lot of bored silences by that time.
Uh, so what do you wanna do? What do
you
wanna do?
Because we didn’t want to do the same things anymore and it was obvious.

I sighed. “What do you want that you don’t have?”

“Something that’s mine,” she said fiercely. “Totally mine that I don’t have to share or wait for. Hey, Mom, can we? Not now, honey, gotta work. Hey, Dad, let’s … Meet my new girlfriend, sweetie. It’s like, Take what you get and be happy. Never mind if it’s not enough. Never mind if it
sucks
.”

She sighed. “Just for once, I want someone to want me more than anybody else. To put me first.”

I wanted to ask Wendy why, if that was what she wanted, she always picked guys who were taken. But that would sound like I was blaming her.

Angrily lighting another cigarette, she said, “My mom treats me like I’m this spoiled bitch who demands everything under the sun. And I’m like, Not everything, just what I need, okay?”

This made me uneasy. I did think Wendy asked for too much. You can’t have everything you want, I thought. By pushing all the time, you make it so people don’t want to give you anything. I wanted to tell her, If I went around demanding things the way you do? Forget it. Someone would slap me back so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.

But I said nothing to Wendy. I was too afraid of hurting her.

Chosen, I think, staring at the yellow tape. You wanted to be
chosen, Wendy. That’s why you always picked guys who were taken. It wasn’t enough to have someone like you, they had to reject someone else. Because that’s how it works, right? Someone wins, so someone has to lose. One person’s happiness is another person’s hurt. That’s how you know it’s real, when you can look at the girl who didn’t get the guy and think, Yeah, he chose
me
.

Someone chose Wendy that night. Someone saw a thin girl with high heels who couldn’t run. Maybe she was stumbling a little bit. Maybe she was crying. So lost in her own unhappiness, she wasn’t paying attention to anything else.

That’s what everyone else thinks.

Here’s what I think. Nico and Wendy go to the park. For a gag, they climb the fence. “Hey, let’s do it on the slide!” Maybe Nico gets high. Maybe they both do. Wendy gets silly, makes one of her jokes …

Or no. Not a joke. Wendy demands that Nico break up with Sasha, be only with her. Nico gets angry …

And the next morning a jogger finds a dead girl in the park.

Staring up at the buildings on Fifth Avenue, I wonder, Why didn’t anyone hear? Why didn’t anyone notice? I turn around, face the playground gate, which they always keep closed. And that’s when I see him. A man standing in a navy blue duffle coat, his hands in his pockets. Only, men don’t wear duffle coats. Boys do. Beautiful blond boys who look like they attend English boarding schools and ride on the weekends, stealing a nip of brandy from a flask when no one’s looking. Boys named Hugh or Rupert who date girls named Sarah and Fenella …

But this boy used to live in Queens. With his mom, who’s a nurse. His name is Nico Phelps.

He’s standing at the gate. Blond hair whipping in the wind.
Staring at the place where Wendy died, as if it’s a scene in a movie he’s watching.

Why are you here? I wonder. Are you looking for her?

Thinking of her? Remembering?

Remembering what you did?

Nico and I have never spoken since that afternoon on the stairwell. Now for a moment, our eyes meet.

You hurt her
, I think.
You hurt people, and this time, you don’t get away with it
.

I imagine screaming it out loud, so loud that all those people in all those buildings hear it, so loud that the people walking past this spot stop and remember. So loud that the fact that Nico Phelps killed Wendy Geller can never be not known.

Nico turns, starts walking away. In my head, I’m screaming.

In real life, I utter a small, timid, “Hey …”

Nico doesn’t hear. No one does.

Walking home, I think about couples and E pins. People do give them to boyfriends or girlfriends they’re serious about. But it’s not really a cool thing to do. Nice, boring kids do it. Other kids consider it a little … tacky.

One thing Sasha’s not? Tacky.

But she must have given Nico her pin. It’s the only explanation.

Only two people would know for sure. And I certainly can’t ask Nico.

Which means I have to ask Sasha.

The Alcott School built the Darklis Perry Art Center three years ago. The school added a new floor to the building, a beautiful glass dome with curtains that come down to protect the art from the sun. The equipment is all so fabulous, it makes you yearn to have artistic talent just so you can touch it. State-of-the-art potters’ wheels, easels that stand as gracefully poised as dancers, the finest oils, the most delicate brushes, the best drawing pencils. And of course, a huge space dedicated just to sculpture and installation. Generously donated by Sergio Meloni, Sasha’s dad.

This might explain why, when after-school time in the studio is a hard-won privilege for most, Sasha can always be found there, working away on her latest creation. It could also be her talent, because Sasha is talented. Or her will. What Sasha wants, she tends to get.

Do I dare do this? I wonder. Confront the gorgeous dragon that is Sasha?

Well, you’re going to have to, I tell myself, if you want to help Wendy.

Earlier today, I talked to Lorelei in English class. We chatted about African elephants; saving them is her big passion. It felt
ridiculous to be checking out an animal-loving girl in a wheelchair for murder, but I told myself it was possible Lorelei had lost her ring. But no, there it was, hidden under her blouse on a chain. I couldn’t see the whole thing, but from the shape and shadow, it was clearly her E pin.

There’s no one in the art studio as I come in. The curtains are half down to keep out the glare. The tables are cleared, the wheels still. All the “wets”—paint, clay, ink—are put away or covered. There’s a prayerful feeling, the calm before creation.

And in the back, a scraping sound.

The Sculpture Circle is set off from the rest of the studio, in a private space farthest from the door so you’re not disturbed by people coming and going. As I approach, I see various pieces, some covered, some not. Some nearly finished, some just started. Some, I can’t tell, to be honest.

Sasha is standing by a vast window, holding a piece of wire in her hands. She grips the ends in her fists, twisting it, pulling it taut. In front of her, a mass of clay, nearly her own height. It’s an endless coil—ropes, muscle, wave, I’m not sure—all tangled and fighting. She fixes the edge of the wire to one particularly thick curve and pulls. Strong, hard, determined. Clay peels off, falls to the ground.

I wait till she’s done, then say, “Wow.”

She knew I was here all along. Stepping back, she says, “Wow good or wow crap?” Her voice is matter-of-fact. She’d rather know if something is crap.

“It’s good, Sasha.”

She shoots me an amused smile.
Like you would know
. Then she sets the wire aside, wipes her hands with a rag. She’s wearing an old black T-shirt and jeans. Her head’s wrapped with a
piece of cloth, the ponytail high and wild. As she gets ready to work the clay with her fingers, she takes off her rings, drops them into a coffee mug for safekeeping. I watch as they fall in. Some worked silver bands. A pink opal, cloudy and mysterious. The E pin, black and gold.

Say, Sash? How many of those do you have? Two? Don’t suppose you’d tell me where you keep the other one. Oh, you gave it to Nico? That’s sweet
.

Inspecting the piece, she says, “ ’Sup? I thought you were about vocal arts.”

This, I had planned. “A friend of my mom’s wants to send her kid here. Art, very big thing for her. I’ve, uh, been sent to scope.”

“Well, it’s the best.” Sasha takes a drink from a clay-smeared cup, hiding her mouth, lowering her eyes.

There’s a pause. I feel I’m losing Sasha to her work. Needing her attention, I blunder, “Wendy liked art.”

It’s not how I meant to begin. I meant to talk about art and E pins and how many Sasha has and what she’s done with them. My mistake gets a chill blast from Sasha, and no wonder. Wendy liking what Sasha likes—I couldn’t have gone more wrong.

“She was more into fashion design,” I say lamely.

Sasha shrugs.
I couldn’t care less what she was into
.

Then, trying to be polite, Sasha asks, “Did you go to the service?”

“Yeah. Did you or Nico—?” I can’t quite get the
Nico
out there.

“Me, no. Nico, maybe.”

Her voice is casual. If Nico went, if he didn’t—she doesn’t care either way. Supposedly. But I notice she’s really attacking that clay.

“He can be into that,” she explains. “Doing the correct thing. His mother’s insane about it. It’s her reason for being.”

A lot of information here. Nico’s mine—I know what he’s into. I know his mom. We are together. Wendy touched us not at all.

How good a liar are you, Sasha? Do you really not know that Nico left the party right after Wendy? Or do you know, and also know what that might mean—only, you love him, so you’re not admitting it to anyone?

Sasha’s clever; she’s not giving me an easy opening. If I want my answers, I’ll have to push—only not so hard that I start a fight. How does Sasha see me? What will she accept from me? She thinks I’m nice, clueless about certain things.

She expects you to be on her side, I realize. Not to go against her. Because no one does.

Wide-eyed and innocent, I say, “I can’t believe Nico would go to the Wendy thing.”

Sasha looks up. I strain to keep my voice friendly. “I mean, she made things kind of weird for you guys.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Her crush on Nico? Please. She was just a little louder about it than the rest.”

“You and Nico sound serious.”

She shrugs. “What’s ‘serious’?”

I pretend to think. “I don’t know. Like, going on vacation serious or giving someone your E pin serious.”

Obvious, I think, clumsy, stupid, and obvious.

But all I can do now is put it out there: “I heard that, actually. That you gave Nico one of your E pins.”

A flash of something—surprise, anxiety, confusion—across Sasha’s face. Quickly replaced by a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, and
tomorrow I’m trying out for cheerleading,” she says sarcastically. “Give me a break.”

In my normal voice, I say, “So, you didn’t give him an E pin?”

Sasha narrows her eyes. “Be real. What are you saying?”

The request for
real
hits me; it’s something I’ve always liked about Sasha, she doesn’t do fake.

Taking a deep breath, I say, “What happened that night at the party?”

“What happens at every party. Stupidity.”

“Sasha …”

“What?”

“What happened with Nico and Wendy?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“And you care … why?”

“Because Wendy was my friend.”

No more pretending whose side I’m on. For a moment, Sasha and I stare at each other. I swear, everything I think about Nico, she knows.

Putting her hands on her hips, Sasha says, “Your friend. Let me tell you something about your friend.” She gives the word
friend
a twist, making it ugly. “
She
was pathetic.
She
was a liar.
She
had no life, so she tried to steal other people’s. And now, even when she’s dead, she’s still screwing up people’s lives.” She starts to pace. “Ever since it happened, the cops have been calling my house. My dad told them, Yeah, get a subpoena. Then they show up
here
.” Her voice rises. “Yesterday. Do you believe this? That they can do that?”

“What did you do?”

“I was like, Fine, let’s get it over with. Yeah, she made noise about my boyfriend. No, nothing happened at the party.”

“You know for a fact Nico didn’t leave the party?” I say it as quietly as possible.

“He didn’t leave.” She tosses it off.

“… for a
fact
, Sasha?”

She hesitates, enough of a person to think about it. “I’m not a wife. I don’t monitor every move.”

There’s a silence as we both absorb what she’s just told me. I put my hands in my coat pockets. Sasha goes back to her sculpture. Checking. Smoothing. Perfecting.

I start walking out of the Sculpture Circle.

Behind me I hear: “Just so you know. I’ve already told the police Nico went home with me that night.”

Clattering down the stairs, I head straight for a bathroom. I pull out a handful of paper towel, run it under cold water, and scrub my face with it. I am furious with myself for blowing this conversation—not to mention whatever tiny scrap of a friendship existed between me and Sasha.

She did admit Nico left the party. I got that much. But then she said he went home with her.

No, Rain, she said she told the police he went home with her.

Sighing, I throw the wet paper in the garbage, stare at my reddened face in the mirror.

Sasha, how much do you love this guy? Enough to lie for him? Enough to give him that second E pin?

I go downstairs to the lobby, thinking I’ll just go home, sleep on the whole thing, and in the morning, wake up and realize I’ve been an idiot. Taylor is probably right. Probably on some
level, I am angry at all these people. They hurt me, so I want to hurt them back. This might have nothing to do with Wendy whatsoever.…