The Girl in the Park (16 page)

Rima, I think, Rima must have told her we talked.

“Stupid! Blabbermouth! Gossiping! Bitch!” Every word,
another hit or kick. “Sticking up for your whore friend, right? Bzz, bzz, bzz, oh, she said this and he did that. Ooh, let’s tell the police, let’s feel all important. You don’t know
anything! Anything!
This is people’s lives!”

On
lives
, the bag swings into my face. Not a hard hit—Sasha’s so angry now her aim is off. Still, I curl up into the smallest thing possible. My eyes are pressed into my knees, my fingers grip the back of my head. Agony as Sasha stomps on my hair, shrieking, “What gives you the right? To screw with people’s lives? What gives you the right?”

Then I hear, “Okay, enough.” Sasha must lunge for me again, because again it’s said,
“Enough.”

Mr. Farrell. He tells everyone, “Clear out, now,” tells Sasha she needs to go home, he will make sure it’s okay.

Meanwhile, I hope to sink through the floor, through the carpet and wood, into some netherworld where no one can see me ever again.

What gives you the right? To screw with people’s lives? What gives you the right?

Wet on my face. Blood? I taste. No. Just tears and snot. I didn’t even know I was crying. My hair is loose, it hangs over my face like a raggedy curtain. I see one chopstick under the water fountain. The other, snapped in two.

“Rain?”

“Go away.”

“I’m not going away.”

A hand on my arm. “Please, I really just need to be by myself.”

“Well, you can’t be.” There’s something amused in his voice; this is not so serious. It gives me the courage to look up. He’s smiling.

“Not in the middle of the hall,” he says. “Come on. Up you get.”

He holds out his hand. I take it. Am lifted up.

Half an hour later, I think how strange it is that one of my biggest fantasies has come true. I am sitting alone with Mr. Farrell. Not in school, but in a restaurant. That he took me to. And I could not care less.

I ache all over. My scalp. My legs. My arms. But nothing hurts as much as understanding that Sasha could have done anything she wanted to me and there was nothing I could do to make her stop.

I’ve felt helpless before. But to have no power? When someone is destroying you and it’s for real, not names? I didn’t know what that was before.

A bowl of lentil soup slides in front of me. Then a chocolate-frosted donut. I don’t remember the last half hour. Did I order this? I look up.

Embarrassed, Mr. Farrell says, “I didn’t know what you’d want. You seem like a lentil soup kind of girl.”

“I love lentil soup.”

He smiles, relieved. “But, uh, donuts always make me feel better. So.” He busies himself with his own soup. Which is chicken noodle.

All those people watching.
Oh, man, Rain’s getting stomped. Let’s do nothing
. Do they all hate me, think I deserved to get stomped?

Isn’t anyone on Wendy’s side? Pointing out that, hey, Nico killed someone. He should be punished for that. But maybe some people don’t think so. Maybe it’s still, Come on, it’s just Nico. So he killed someone. It’s not like she was cool or anything.

I look at Mr. Farrell. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Take care of me. You must have classes.”

“Ms. Petrie’s subbing.” He dips his spoon into the soup. “And of course I have to take care of you, Rain. You were attacked. Do you want to talk about it?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“How you feel, maybe?”

“How I feel is it doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“Please don’t say that, of course it matters. You did the right thing, speaking up.”

Speak up. My whole life, people have been telling me to speak up—and what happens? I end up on the floor with someone’s foot in my face.

I look around the diner. It’s not the one Taylor and I go to, but it’s familiar. I’ve been here before.…

“I got dumped in this diner,” I tell Mr. Farrell, remembering.

“Oh, dear,” says Mr. Farrell. “Bad choice on my part.”

“Not your fault. It only lasted, like, a month.” I draw my feet up on the seat, lean against the wall. “The guy didn’t even have the guts to look at me. He was texting the whole time. Even when he said, ‘You know, it’s, like, not working out.’ ”

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you boys this age are … flawed.”

“Oh, girls this age are wonderful,” I say sarcastically.

“They’re better.” He raises his hands in comic self-defense. “
I
can say this. I’m a man. God, I remember myself …” He turns to a painting on the wall as if it’s a mirror that shows him his younger self. “Stupid doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

I smile. “Don’t tell me you dumped nice girls too.”

“Never got the chance.” He grins. “I ignored all the nice
girls who might have liked me. I’m pretty sure there weren’t that many,” he adds quickly.

“I’m sure there were a few,” I say.

“I didn’t notice. I only had eyes for the ones I couldn’t get.” He picks up his coffee. “Don’t waste too much energy on high school boys, Rain. A man would have to be forty-five to match your maturity.”

Thirty-five would do just fine. I am so close to saying it, to put it all right out there and see what he does with it.

Go for it, tigress
.

But I don’t. Not for any moral reason. One of the things Mr. Farrell—likes, is into, whatever words you want to use—about me, is he thinks we’re the same. Dreamers. Not doers. Thinkers. Not talkers. Selfishly, I want to keep him thinking just that.

“I don’t know if I can go back to school,” I tell him.

“No, certainly not,” he says, gesturing for the check. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

It’s a funny weather day. Heavy clouds, but here and there, patches of blue sky edged with sunlight. As we walk uptown, the school neighborhood gives way to my home turf, which is a little funkier in ways both good and bad. I point out the deli where you get amazing olives; Mr. Farrell nods to the bookstore run by the crazy guy. I say I love that place too. I tell him about the old movie theater that went out of business, its big empty marquee still up.

A little farther is Columbia University, which feels like a medieval town to me, with its old buildings and big open squares. I have a drifty fantasy that someday I will go to school there. Mr. Farrell will go too, do some kind of graduate thing. A little apartment, eating Chinese takeout on the floor …

I know I should say I’m fine, he doesn’t have to do this. I know I should let him get back to school.

I ask, “Won’t Dorland be upset that you’re cutting?”

“I’m the acting head of the upper school,” he says dryly. “I’ll just tell him you were thinking of suing the school and I had to talk you out of it.”

Joining in the joke, I ask, “Should I sue? Maybe I’ll sue Sasha—she has more money than Alcott.”

“If you need a witness—”

“I’ll cut you in.”

“Thank you.”

He likes it when I say the wrong thing, I realize. It’s okay.

I ask, “What would you do? With a million billion dollars?”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “Quit my job. Finish my book. Move to the country.”

“What’s your book about?”

“Oh”—he sighs—“unhappy young man in love with a girl he can’t have.”

“Maybe he just needs to speak up.” I must be feeling better if I can joke about speaking up.

I look to see Mr. Farrell’s reaction and notice we’re in front of a newsstand. Wendy’s face, everywhere you look. But one cover stands out, the
Herald
, the paper that reporter Stella writes for. They don’t have the smiling picture from the yearbook. It’s an image from the Facebook video, the one where Wendy says to Nico,
I am going to get you
. She’s grinning, leaning forward. They’ve cropped the photo so your eyes are drawn to look down her shirt.

Screaming words: DEATH IN THE PARK! ROMANTIC TRYST TURNS DEADLY!

Then in smaller letters,
EXCLUSIVE: EXPLOSIVE NEW EVIDENCE THAT LINKS CLASSMATE NICO PHELPS TO THE CRIME!

The E pin. I reach for one of the newspapers. Mr. Farrell says, “God, please—leave it. It’s obscene.”

I mumble, “I know, it is.” But I can’t help myself. I take one of the papers, throw the guy a dollar. To Mr. Farrell, I say, “I just want to make sure I’m not being written about.”

He’s so horrified, I feel I can’t look now. Folding the paper, I put it in my bag. “I can’t believe what they’re doing to her.”

“She’s dead. She has no power,” he says in a numb voice. “They can do anything.”

As we walk, I think about how unfair it is that people can say anything about Wendy.

Then Mr. Farrell stops, says, “I believe this is your block.”

It is. “You know where I live?”

“At Alcott, you have to memorize the addresses of every student,” he says, deadpan.

“Come on.”

He smiles down at the ground, shrugs in his coat. “I looked it up. After that first time we talked. I remembered it because I happen to live ten blocks up that way.” He nods uptown.

Then he says, “Also, I wrote you a letter.”

“But you didn’t send it?”

He shakes his head.

“Not fair.”

“It was nothing important. Just … about Wendy.”

A letter. He wrote me a letter. That means he thought about me when I wasn’t there. He thinks about me, wants to tell me things.

Then he switches the subject. “I’ll inform Mr. Dorland of
what happened. I imagine we’ll arrange some kind of leave for Sasha. She’s going through a terrible time.”

This is good news, but I barely care. I’m about to remind him of that letter when I hear, “What on earth are you doing here?”

My mother’s voice. It is a famous voice; many people know it. I know it best of all.

“God, Mom …”

She is standing in what she calls her purple poof, a down coat that covers her from neck to foot. She is carrying her black leather bag, filled with opera scores.

Now she is smiling—but not—at Mr. Farrell. Her eyes are a warning.
Explanation necessary
.

“Mom, this is Mr. Farrell. He teaches at my school.”

“Have we met?” Mom is doing sweet and confused, but she knows the answer.

“No, we haven’t,” says Mr. Farrell, offering his hand. “I don’t have Rain in a class, but there was an incident at school today and—”

“He stopped Sasha Meloni from kicking the crap out of me,” I say cheerfully, knowing my mom can have no argument with Mr. Farrell now.

“What?” Immediately, my mom starts patting, squeezing me here and there. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“The school checked me out, Mom.”

“Meaning they took your temperature and gave you an aspirin.” She starts fishing in her bag. She’s going for the cell phone.

“Mom, I’m
fine
.”

“She really does seem fine, Ms. Donovan,” Mr. Farrell says. My mom shoots him a look and he finishes weakly, “I just wanted to make sure she got safely home.”

There is a pause. The phone slides quietly back into the bag. “All right,” says my mother. She still wants to yell, I can feel it. Instead she says, “Well, thank you, Mr. Farrell. I’m sorry I was … I overreacted.”

“Not at all.”

“Let’s go home,” she says to me. Voice bright, arm around me, means love. But also: no argument.

“Good-bye, Mr. Farrell,” she says.

Me, I just look back. See him watching me go. He’s looking at me, I think. He sees me.

“Rough day.”

My mom is making a pot of tea. A plate of cookies is on the table. I want to tell her I’m full up on lentil soup and donuts. But this is something she needs to give me, and if I don’t take it, there will be questions.

Now she asks, “Tell me what happened with Sasha.”

I reach for a cookie. “I don’t know if you know, but she and that guy Nico were dating.” My mom turns, shocked. “So—she’s a little freaked right now.”

“I can imagine. But why take it out on you?”

I turn the cookie plate with one finger, avoiding my mom’s eyes. I don’t know how to tell her I talked to the police without her. That somehow it was something I had to do on my own. And she would freak if she knew I had talked to Stella the reporter.

“Well, I have been thinking that maybe Nico might have done it.”

“You didn’t tell the detective that,” she says, surprised.

“I wasn’t sure then. And it seemed like they weren’t interested in Nico. But I talked to Sasha about what happened that
night and”—I shrug—“I guess I made it a little obvious that I thought he was guilty.”

“I’m calling her parents.”

“No, Mom, don’t,” I beg. “Mr. Farrell said they’re going to suspend Sasha. I won’t have to deal with her.”

I can feel my mom watching me. She knows there’s something missing. The kettle whistles and she turns back to the stove. Pouring water into the teapot, she says casually, “Tell me about Mr. Farrell.”

Wary, I say, “He’s a teacher. A nice guy.”

My mom wraps a towel around the pot while the tea steeps. She comes to the table, sits down. “He likes you.”

I say, “He was being kind. It was a hideous day.”

“Okay. He was being kind. And he likes you. And you …?” I’m silent. “You like him, too.”

“In that … totally harmless teacher crush way.” I start rolling a napkin with my fingers, see how tight I can get it.

“Don’t be around him.”

I look up, expecting my mom to be smiling. She’s not. “Mom—”

“I’m very serious about this. He’s married, I saw the ring.”

“Yeah, with a little kid. Who he happens to adore, so I don’t think …”

She shakes her head. “The one has nothing to do with the other. Nothing. A man can be married and …”

And then she has to stop. Because, of course, my dad was married when she fell in love with him. Still is. And had kids he probably adores. And one he doesn’t know—me.

“Nothing’s going on, I promise.” My mom isn’t satisfied, I can feel that. “I wouldn’t do that, Mom, come on.”

But I shock myself by realizing I’ve just told my mother a lie.
I didn’t mean to. But what I said is not true. I would absolutely do it if Mr. Farrell gave me a chance.

Then I think, No, no, no. Wait a minute. This is not me. Fun to think about? Yes. Fantasize, dream over, absolutely. But it would never happen because …