The Girl in the Park (11 page)

Taylor, I think, oh my God. They’re quoting Taylor. That reporter in the diner yesterday—she must have overheard our conversation.

Who says Wendy took drugs? I wonder furiously. Nobody, nobody said that.

I can’t believe it. All anyone can talk about is Wendy—as if she somehow did this to herself. I look at the name on the article. Stella Walcott. Digging in my book bag, I find that card.

Stella Walcott.

Speak for her, speak for Wendy.

Yeah, I think, maybe I should.

Sitting on the stone wall by Central Park, I dial Stella Walcott’s number. As the phone starts to ring, a voice whispers, You’re leaving yourself wide open. She’s smarter than you. Crueler. You think you’re defending Wendy, but she’ll turn it into something ugly.

Help Wendy, I tell myself firmly.

“Stella Walcott.”

I’m startled by Stella’s actual voice. She sounds normal, friendly, and for a moment, I feel my anger melt. Then I see two girls walk by. They’re laughing, heads together. In a flash, I remember Gillian Lasker, the flushing sound. Everyone judging Wendy, deciding who she was.

“Party girl,” I say harshly.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t say that. I would never call Wendy a party girl. Or any cutesy nickname.”

There’s a little pause. Then: “Who is this?”

“How about Diner Girl?”

“The one with the attitude or the one with the chopsticks?”

“Chopsticks.”

“Well, hello. I thought you had something to say.” Her voice is warmer now. You may hate me, but I’m liking you a lot.

It makes me feel disgusting. Like getting groped by some pervert on the street.

“Did you go to the service? What was it like?”

Ignoring her questions, I tell her, “Yeah, here’s what I have to say. You suck. Oh, and also, get your facts right.”

“Tell me where I got it wrong.”

Her tone tells me I can do this. I can set the story straight. She will listen to me.

This is a trap, my fear whispers.

“Drugs,” I say. “We never said she did drugs.”

“I got that from another source.”

“Who?”

“Would you want me to tell people where I got ‘trashed’ from?”

No, I think. I feel defeated. Let’s face it. Wendy was trashed. Wendy probably did do drugs. Wendy was a party girl.

I struggle to pull Wendy out of the tangle of gossip and headlines, to remember what it felt like to be with her.

“What’d I get wrong?” Stella presses. “What’d I leave out?”

The dough rocks raw, am I right?

Speak up, girl!

I hear Wendy’s laugh, the hoarseness of her voice as she said “Uuuggghhh” whenever there was something she didn’t want to do, the way she made you feel like you were the most amazing person she’d ever known.

“Wendy,” I say flatly. “You left Wendy out. You got her way, way wrong. She cared about people. I’m not saying she was some saint. But she wasn’t all about herself.” I think of Jenny sobbing in the hallway. “She was a good friend.” I think of Ellis. “People loved her. Her mom loved her. And she loved them back. Sometimes too much, and she got hurt. And now
someone’s”—I can’t say it—“and you’re acting like she’s some idiot who was in the park to score drugs and got what she deserved.”

There’s a long pause. Then Stella says, “You really care about this girl.”

Not enough, I think, when it mattered. “Everybody screws up, you know?”

“Yeah, I do know,” says Stella. “We all have our crazy years. Lord knows I had mine.”

Her voice is wistful. In the quiet, I like her.

Then she asks, “Seriously. Can you tell me what Wendy was doing in the park?”

“I can’t. I wish I knew.”

There’s another pause. “I have another question for you, but I need to know you can keep a secret. Can you?”

My heart leaps. They know who killed Wendy. Stella’s going to tell me. “Sure.”

“Does
E
mean anything to you?”

“
E
,” I repeat, confused.
E
is not a name.
E
is not …

Then in a flash, I see Sasha’s hand as she brushes her hair, the
E
, gold and black, on her finger.

Answer a question with a question. “Why?”

I hear a sigh. Not giving up, deciding. “Look. I’m going to let you in on something the rest of the city isn’t going to know for a few days. That’s a big deal in my world.”

“Mine too,” I say. “I’m in high school.”

A short laugh. “So, you understand what I’m saying. Sometimes I go drinking with a guy who works as a guard in an evidence room. You know what that is?”

Remembering my mom’s
Law & Order
obsession, I say, “Where cops store the evidence in an investigation?”

“Right. And he happens to work the precinct that’s handling this particular case. They logged an item they found at the scene. But they’re not telling anyone about it.”

“Why not?”

“Who knows? A lot of the time, they hold back a piece of evidence to weed out fake suspects, people who might lie and say they killed Wendy just for kicks.”

“Was it a pin or—”

“No details. What I want to know is, did it belong to Wendy?”

No, I think. No, no, no. Wendy was not the kind of girl to get an E. Ever.

Which means …

It belongs to Wendy’s killer.

Stella presses. “Come on, Rain. If it’s not Wendy’s, whose is it? Who is E, Rain?”

Not who, I think, what. But I’m not telling Stella that.

Wendy’s killer is not some random crazy person. He’s someone I’ve passed in the halls. Someone I’ve spoken to.

I know Wendy’s killer.

The next morning, I get to school early. I walk through the quiet halls, passing through the strips of sunlight that beam in from the windows. It is very precise light. One step, sun, warmth. Next step, dark, chill.

Last night, I reminded myself that an E pin near Wendy doesn’t actually prove someone from school killed her. Some kid could have dropped it walking home. It could have been there for months.

Girlfriends and boyfriends give each other E pins. Ellis could have one. Maybe he gave it to Wendy and didn’t ask for it back. She was wearing it the night she was killed, and it got pulled off in the struggle.

Then I remembered that Mr. Dorland once said that there are fewer than five hundred E pins in the whole world. The school only gives out four a year. People take them seriously. They don’t tend to lose them. And even if Ellis did give her a pin, Wendy would have given it back the second she broke up with him. There’s no way she would have kept it.

Which means there aren’t a million reasons the pin could have been there. Not thousands of people who could have left it near Wendy’s body. There aren’t even a hundred.

There’s only one. The person who killed her.

But would Nico have had an E pin?

It seems highly unlikely. He’s been a slacker ever since he got to Alcott. But Oliver Travers was also a slacker; just his parents happened to donate an organic greenhouse to the school.

That’s why I have to find out for sure.

The library is one of my favorite places at school. It takes up two floors, with circular stairwells that lead to the second level. Other parts of the school have been modernized since my mom went here, but not the library. It still has the dark wood tables with green-shaded reading lights. Huge iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, stained-glass philosophers and saints beam colored sun spots all around the hall. There are computers, but they’re kept in a separate room. This is a cathedral for books. Stacks and stacks of books with knowledge dating back to the beginning of time.

Normally, I like to sit at a table right near the big picture window that looks out onto Riverside Park. But this morning, I head upstairs to an aisle far in the back where no one ever goes except to text or make out. This is where they keep the books that haven’t been touched in years, the kinds of things that went onto computers ages ago. Encyclopedias. Dictionaries.

And the yearbooks. One for every year, going back to 1924, when the school was founded.

The list of new E pin recipients is printed in the yearbook. No other announcement is ever made, and it’s understood that you’re not supposed to ask. The way you find out someone got one is if you read that page in the yearbook or you see them wearing it.
If
you see them wearing it. Generally you don’t know who has an E pin. Unless you make a point of finding out.

I sit down cross-legged, pull out the book from my freshman
year. Fascinated by the faces, I take my time. It’s only two years ago, and already, people look different. Finding the page with Ms. Epstein’s homeroom, I see Wendy, her arms wrapped around Jenny Zalgat. Heads together, like sisters. Karina’s in the back row with some friends—flashing teeth, arms out like showgirls. I hadn’t remembered she and Wendy were in the same homeroom that year.

I turn the page, find my homeroom, Ms. Phillipousis. When they took this picture, I was no longer friends with Wendy.

Steeling myself, I look closer. I am standing alone at the edge of the group. I am wrapped in my army jacket, hands in my pockets. My hair is long, parted down the middle. No chopsticks or combs. I am very serious about not looking trivial in any way. I am refusing to smile.

Rain, Rain, go away …

I try to remember. Was I really that pissed off? I just remember feeling sad.

Next is Mr. Chen’s homeroom. Ellis, in full goofball mode, mugging for the camera. No Lindsey—she must have been in another class. I turn the page. Here she is. Short and stocky, but a very pretty face, with brown curls. She’s cut them since this picture was taken. She looks girly here. And prettier, I guess. But she looks better now.

And here’s Sasha, ravishing even in the tenth grade. Unlike a lot of girls, she strikes no pose. She doesn’t need to.

Turn the page. Nico’s homeroom. Nico—beautiful and pouting in the back row. A boring model wannabe. Obnoxious, but harmless. We choose how we list our names. Nico chose
Nicholas Andrew Phelps
, like he’s some WASP god.

This boy does not have an E pin, I think. No way.

But Sasha does, a voice whispers.

Which I know because I saw her wearing it. So—obviously she didn’t give it to Nico.

I look again at Nico’s picture. See arrogance, selfishness.

And anger.

Unnerved, I turn the page.

Ah, sigh, Mr. Farrell’s class. His first year here, standing straight and solemn beside his students. I smile, brush his image with my finger.

Okay, turn the page, Rain.

Our School! Candid shots. Lots of pictures of Nico; I wonder if he was dating someone on the yearbook staff. All the images have the same poseyness. He’s got the right clothes, the right hair. But to me, he looks out of place, as if secretly, he hates everybody’s guts.

I hit the senior section, kids long gone now from Alcott. Photos, quotes from songs, poetry, books, Einstein, Che, Dorothy Parker. Everyone trying to be cool or deep or smart. So weird, how we use someone else’s words to say who we are.

At the end of the senior pages, I find what I came for: the honors lists. I scan all the awards to the someone most promising at something. Turning the page, I see in small, gray type …

This year’s recipients of the E Pin

I read the names.

Henry Abelard

Peter Dorkey

Anya Kwiatkowski

Sasha Meloni

Henry and Anya have graduated. Henry is Taylor’s brother, and he wasn’t aware Wendy existed, as far as I know. Peter’s a sweetheart who, despite being a hundred pounds overweight, gets the lead in the school musical every year. He has no connection to Wendy that I can think of.

I reach for last year’s yearbook, go straight to the back of the book.

This year’s recipients of the E Pin

Oliver Travers

Lorelei Haneke

Sasha Meloni

Taylor Abelard

Oliver graduated. Lorelei uses a wheelchair. One E pin for Taylor. Two for Sasha.

But none for Ellis. Which means it couldn’t have been his E pin they found near Wendy. He didn’t have one to give her.

And as I thought, none for Nico.

But Sasha has two. Which means … what, exactly? Can she be that serious about Nico? That she would give him an E pin?

The names of the E pin recipients seem to lift off the page, floating before my eyes, making me dizzy.

“Hiding?” I look up, see—oh my God—Mr. Farrell.

Shutting the yearbook, I say, “Um, yes. Always.”

He smiles. Waits a moment.

Then he says, “I just came in early to do some research. I didn’t mean to interrupt.…”

I glance at the yearbook, then at Mr. Farrell. It’s like taking your first step into the murky, silty part of the pond where the
water’s muddy, the bottom’s slippery, and you don’t know what you’ll step on.

“Mr. Farrell?” I say it quickly before I have time to think.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk?”

This is wrong, I tell myself as we walk to Mr. Farrell’s room. But sometimes the wrong thing is the only thing you can do. A very Wendy thing to think, I realize. But Mr. Farrell really is the one person who might take me seriously—but not so seriously that he would tell me I have to go to the police.

He shuts the door after me, sits, and pulls out a chair next to his. I think: If he hated that I like him, he would not do these things.

I sit. Have no idea how to start.

Mr. Farrell, I think Nico Phelps might have killed Wendy
.

That’s very nice, Rain. Give me a sec, I need to call Mental Health Services
.

Then I hear Mr. Farrell ask, “Did you go to the service?”