The Girl in the Park (4 page)

Up close was a different story. Up close, you saw her great smile. Up close, you felt her energy. Wendy was fun. Her friends loved it when she squirted ketchup packets in her hair as a joke.
Look, dye job!
Or pretended to have a fainting spell in H&M so someone else could snatch a few bracelets. A lot of people still didn’t like her, but they paid attention to her.

But Wendy wasn’t feeling fun that night. Maybe it was the way that dangling foot twisted like it was trying to find the floor. Or the way her fist sat pressed to her stomach. Or the way she breathed short little breaths like she was trying to get a grip on herself. She didn’t want to be alone. Only, the one person she wanted to be with wasn’t here.

Was
she really going to do it?

The plastic cup was mostly ice by now, and she drained it. I said, “Hey, weren’t you, like …”

Right away, she got the game. Do I Know You? We used to play it on people in the street. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me.”

“I saw you in that …”

“I heard your …”

“You were so great.”

“You were, like, amazing.”

We laughed. “Hey there.” She got off the sill, gave me a hug. Wendy gave good hugs, long and strong.

“Hey,” I said back.

“Seriously,” she said. “How
are
you?”

“I’m cool, I’m good.…” I hesitated. “How are you?”

“I don’t know, let me check with my multiple personalities. ‘Good?’ ‘Yeah, all good, chief.’ ‘Good?’ ‘Just swell.…’ ”

She waved her hands. “No, good, I’m good.”

I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” She looked confused.

“Wendy.”

Wendy wandered over to the counter where people were dumping whatever bottles they had managed to steal from their parents or get someone to buy for them.

Pouring vodka into her cup, she said abruptly, “Have you ever been in love with completely the wrong person? I don’t mean like he’s shorter than you or doesn’t have money or doesn’t call …”

“Normal guy wrong.”

“Right. I mean, like people could get hurt wrong.” She started to pick up the cup, then put it down again. “What would you say to someone who was in love with someone like that?”

Love. This was new. Of course, I knew who we were talking about: Nico Phelps. Wendy’s obsession with Nico was all over school. This year, her Facebook page was practically devoted to him. His body, his eyes, his clothes. Supposedly they’d gotten together a few times over the summer. But it didn’t last. Nico dated up.

Wendy had sworn to make another play for him tonight. The fact that he had a girlfriend—and that girlfriend was Sasha Meloni—probably just added to the kick.

Most kids thought:
Wendy strikes again
. To me, the whole thing felt a little … frantic. Now I saw why. She was seriously hooked on this guy.

A memory of Nico flashed in my head. My stomach churned.

“I’d say, Stay away. Don’t do it.”

“What if you tried? What if it didn’t work?”

“Try again? Wendy—”

I wanted to say, Please, stop this game. Stop before you get hurt. Or hurt someone else. Again.

The words were in my head. But they never reached the air. Before I could say them out loud, there was a group scream and the entire party seemed to surge toward the front door. The beautiful couple had arrived: Nico Phelps and Sasha Meloni.

Everyone wondered how Sasha would handle tonight. Would she even come to the party? Would she let Nico come? Anyone who thought she would bail didn’t know Sasha. Sasha’s mother is a ballet dancer. Her father something with money. Swanlike Sasha with her long body, cascade of auburn hair, and passion for art. She’s not pool cleaner—and she’s no doormat, either. A lot of people were hoping that Wendy was finally going to get
what was coming to her. She’d messed with the wrong girlfriend this time.

In some ways, Sasha and Nico were an odd couple: Sasha so classy, Nico so bad boy. But I’d noticed that strange couples often paired up senior year. It was a last chance to try something new, experiment with a future self.

All eyes were on Sasha, Nico, and Wendy. As Sasha accepted fiercely loyal hugs from her friends in the hallway, I thought I saw her glance at Wendy through the entrance to the kitchen.

Wendy was watching Nico. Her energy was crackling, out of control.

Get her out of here, I told myself. Right now.

Wendy frowned, as if she had just remembered something. To me, she said, “Could you ’scoose me? Something I gotta do.”

But she didn’t leave right away. Instead she looked at me, mouth slightly open. About to tell me something—or hoping I would say something.

I opened my mouth.
Wendy, let’s just get coffee. Eat some raw cookie dough
.

I never said it. And a second later, Wendy left the kitchen to find Nico. A little while later I left the party. ’Cause at this party, I’d seen the Wendy I’d really liked, the girl I thought would be my best friend till we were ancient.

But then she went racing after Nico Phelps and I didn’t want to see what happened next.

“Thank God,” my mom says, turning onto our street. “Home.” Home. Our building is called the Britannia, and it feels very
English; my mother says it’s like living at Oxford. As I go into the building, I wave to the two gargoyles above the door, who I think of as Lola and Hubie. The first time Wendy saw them, she said they creeped her out.

It’s after seven. As we unlock the apartment door and start turning on lights, my mom says, “We’re ordering. You pick.” She crosses to the answering machine, says, “Ugh.” It’s flashing furiously. I can guess: two of them will be Taylor.

Both with pretty much the same message.
Oh my God, did you hear what Wendy did?

Also, I hope, one from Ms. Geller.
Good news, everything’s all right
.

I’ve had to pee for the last half hour, so I go to the bathroom. Then I go to my room and take my cell phone out of my bag. Time to call Taylor and hear the whole horror story.

Taylor’s number is ringing when there’s a knock at the door. With a weird sense of déjà vu, I say, “Yeah?”

My mom opens the door. “Honey, I need to talk to you.”

I’m listening for Taylor, show my mom the phone. In my ear, Taylor says, “Hey! Oh my God …”

My mom comes in, takes the phone from me. “Taylor? Hi, sweetheart. Can Rain call you back? Thank you, lovey.”

“Mom!” I say as she hangs up.

She doesn’t answer. Just sits on the bed, puts her hands on my shoulders. “This is going to be hard. And I want you to know I’m right here and I always will be. Are you listening? Did you hear that?”

“Yes, you’re three inches away from me.”

“Honey. Rain. They found her. In the park.”

Why is my mom telling me this? I wonder. Who is
her
?

Oh, Wendy. Right. God, you spend a whole day thinking about someone …

Found her. They found her in the park. Playground. Swings. Kids. Good. So they found her in a nice place, not a motel, which was kind of what I was expecting.

Except … they? Not her mom?

They found her. I shake my head, because there’s something weird about
found
. You find sweaters in the park. Or lost dogs.
Found
is like Wendy’s not a person. Not a living …

My mom is crying. That tells me what
found
means. Why Wendy isn’t a person anymore. That Wendy is dead.

Don’t watch, my mom says. You don’t need to see this.

But I do. I really do. I sit in front of the TV, watching people with microphones talk about Wendy. Or, not Wendy. The girl in Central Park.

On the TV, a reporter is standing outside the park walls. “There have been several attacks in the park in recent months. Cutbacks in housing and mental health services mean more mentally disturbed and drug-addicted people out on the streets. While police will not speculate, one wonders if this is just the latest tragedy in a larger trend of violent crime.…”

Why didn’t I say something? I should have said something, I think numbly. Asked her to go somewhere. She wanted me to. That’s why she hesitated.

“God,” says my mom. “I hope her mother’s not seeing this. They make you a thing.”

I look up. “Should I call her?”

“Not now, baby.” My mom sits down, hugs me for about the millionth time.

“I want to do something for her,” I say. “I feel like I totally …”

I shake my head. My mom says, “What, honey? What?”

“I should have talked to her.”

My mom looks puzzled.

“Wendy. I should have talked to her. I should have told her …” I take a deep breath. “I should have gotten her out of there. Only I
didn’t
. And now …”

I throw my hand at the TV. My mom snaps it off with the remote.

Lifting my face, she says, “There was nothing you could do. I don’t know how to say that so you’ll believe it, but there was nothing you could do.”

“I could have said—”

“What? Don’t drink? Don’t go to Central Park? Don’t run into some creep who will hurt you? Honey …”

“Do you think that’s what it was? Some crazy guy?” It’s ridiculous but I can’t stand the thought of Wendy being attacked by a stranger. I think of evil, hurting hands reaching out of nowhere. Wendy grabbed, the terror she must have felt.

“I don’t know, honey, I have no idea. I don’t think the park in the middle of the night is a good place for a young girl who’s not thinking clearly.”

She takes my hands in hers. “I do know: Wendy wasn’t listening to anybody last night except Wendy.”

But I was listening to Wendy, I think. I knew she wasn’t okay. And I just left her.

The school sends out an email.

We will be marking the tragic loss of Wendy Geller with a special assembly tomorrow afternoon. Regular classes will be held as scheduled
.
But we understand that students may wish to mourn in private. No student who wishes to stay home will be considered absent
.

I can’t sleep. Lying in the dark, staring up at the blankness of the ceiling, all I can think of is what it means not to be. The ceiling becomes a coffin lid, the sound of traffic outside a world I’ll never rejoin. Am I breathing? Can I move? Panicked, I turn over, clutch at the blanket.

Once, when I was very little, my mom taught me a bedtime prayer. “If I should die before I wake …” I didn’t want to say it. I imagined the universe saying,
Ah, she said it! Time’s up! It’s okay to take her
.

Take her. An unknown hand grabs you, and your life is over. How does that happen?

Rolling over, I try to feel what it means that Wendy is gone. That she’s not at home, on the phone or watching TV. She’s not at her dad’s, or on the street, or … anywhere. I try to fix an image of Wendy in my head. Try to hear her voice. But already I can’t. It feels like a second betrayal.

I get out of bed and turn on the computer. Three days ago, if you Googled Wendy Geller, you would have gotten maybe a few hundred hits, mostly Facebook stuff and Twitter. Now it’s almost 100,000. WENDY GELLER Wendy Geller Geller, Wendy Wendy Geller Wendy Geller all over the screen.

I try to focus, click on News About Wendy Geller. My mom would want me to read the
Times
article, so I click on that.

I sit back, wondering. The police want to know what happened after the party. Does that mean they think someone at the party killed Wendy?

No, Rain, it means Wendy was killed after she was seen at the party. That’s why they want to know what happened afterward.

I click on some of the other stories. The details are all the same. I find pictures, Alcott, Wendy’s house, Central Park. A recent picture of Wendy smiling. Captured, blown up. Screaming words crowded around her image.

Wendy Geller Wendy Geller Geller, Wendy Wendy Geller Wendy Geller. The image starts to blur, the name becomes a meaningless sound. The more I look, the more Wendy fades. I try to get a fix on her laugh, the way her eyes narrowed as she smiled when she was about to make a not-nice joke, the way she suddenly giggled at herself when she’d done something dumb.