The Girl in the Park (19 page)

“Did Wendy know he was gay? Was that why she ended it?”

“She didn’t say so, but come on. I give her credit,” says Lindsey. “After they broke up, she could have been stupid, gone around whispering and giggling. ‘Oooh, he’s gay.’ But she never made it about him. I didn’t expect that.”

“Wendy knew about judging. She wouldn’t do that to someone she cared about.”

But it’s a surprise to me, too. Wendy, it turns out, was better at keeping secrets than I realized.

So, there’s one lie explained. But I still want to know where Ellis was the night Wendy died.

“Were you at Karina’s party that night?” I ask Lindsey.

“Not my crowd.” She smiles tightly. “Ellis likes them, thinks they’re funny.”

“But he didn’t go either.”

“Nope. We did the movie and dinner thing. Wendy had made
it clear that she was going to try and get with Nico. He didn’t want to see that mess.”

The picture’s getting clearer and clearer. Still, I have to ask, “Does Ellis have cuff links?”

“Cuff links?” Lindsey looks startled. “Who wears cuff links?”

“I found one in the hallway the other day,” I lie. “Had an
E
on it. Or maybe it’s a ring, I couldn’t tell. I thought maybe Ellis’s parents got them?”

She shakes her head. “Ellis isn’t his name. It’s Roshan. He came up with Ellis, thinks it makes him sound more prep.”

My turn to be startled. “Are you serious?”

“Totally. If I want to piss him off, I call him Roshan.” She grins. “Someday, I swear: Roshan Patel will get it that he is supremely cool the way he is.”

I think of Wendy, how I waited for her to understand that she was a cool person without all the guy drama—and when she didn’t, I pulled away. “You’re a good friend, Lindsey.”

Surprised, she smiles. “Thanks. Can I ask?”

“What?”

“Why so curious about all this?”

“Just trying to be a good friend too,” I tell her.

The next day, I’m supposed to have my Romantics meeting with Taylor after school. That afternoon, she texts me: In Garden. Meet @ 4?

The Garden, I wonder. What’s Taylor doing in the Garden? Then I remember: The student art show.

The student art show has been hung in a space called the Garden, a huge, airy atrium that stands between the front lobby and the administrative offices. Only, this week, instead of plants and flowers, there’s art. Paintings suspended from the ceiling, delicate pottery poised on pedestals. And sculpture, of course.

As I walk through the lobby, I look at the pictures of graduating classes from the past. I slow down as I pass 1995, Mr. Farrell’s year. I find his name among the many—T. H. Farrell—then search the rows of tiny faces for his.

“Not you, too.”

I turn, embarrassed. Taylor is standing behind me, eyebrow raised.

“What?” I say.

Taylor rolls her eyes, coos, “ ‘Oh, Mr. Farrell—could you explain Tennyson to me?’ ‘Oh, Mr. Farrell, I simply adore Goethe.’ Every chick I know lusts after that guy.”

Her casual scorn hits me hard. I am burning with anger and humiliation; I can’t even look at Taylor. I have never told her about my crush on Mr. Farrell. She’s so harsh with romantic issues, it never felt safe. Now I’m glad.

With the one thin thread of rationality I have right now, I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised that lots of girls like Mr. Farrell. He’s gorgeous.

Trying to sound casual, I say, “He’s cute in that teacher way.”

Taylor shakes her head. “I so don’t see it. I can’t stand the way people drool over him.”

“He can’t help that,” I point out, not sure if I’m defending him or myself.

“I don’t know.” Taylor frowns. “I …”

But she stops. Then says abruptly, “I have to review the student art show. Then we can talk.”

Relieved by the switch in subject, I follow her into the Garden. Stopping by a clay pot, she gets out her notebook. “I hate art. Nobody gives anything a real name, because if they told you what it was supposed to be, you’d say, Oh, that’s crap. So it’s all Mood Number Six. Memory Number One Thirty-Nine. Or whatever.” She points at the pot with her pencil. “I mean, what do I say about this?”

“Um—delicate? Nice colors?”

Taylor nods approvingly, writes it down. “Sorry, I’ll make a few notes, then we can go.”

“I can wait,” I tell her.

While I do, I look at the rest of the work. And yes, I am drawn to Sasha’s piece. Partly because it’s far and away the best thing in the room and partly because …

*   *   *

Well, just because.

I approach quietly, as if it’s Sasha herself. It’s a slender, winding coil—a ribbon spinning in air or … a body. Yep, I think, a female body spiraling gracefully, happy in her freedom. No face, no obvious clues. Just there. Undeniable.

There’s a little card on the pedestal. Usually they have the name of the student and whatever they want to tell you. A title or why they did it.

#14. Sasha Meloni. No title, of course.

Then I notice another line in the corner.

For my grandmother, Eleanora
.

Eleanora, I think, uneasily.

Then: So what? I love my grandmother, Sasha loves hers. Wowsie zowsie.

But that’s not it. Grandmothers give their things to their children and grandchildren. Things like pictures. Jewelry.

I feel Taylor behind me. She whispers, “Hey—no knocking over Sasha’s stuff.”

“Eleanora,” I say without meaning to.

“Ye-es?”

Sasha’s fingers in the clay, strong, shaping, digging, tearing.

She was pathetic. She was a liar. She had no life, so she tried to steal other people’s
.

Sasha kicking me. Hitting me. A Sasha I’d never seen before.

Of course, if the boyfriend you killed someone over looked like he was going to jail for a crime you committed—that could stress you out.

“Rain?”

“I totally forgot, I have something I need to do,” I tell Taylor. “I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

*   *   *

I should tell Mr. Farrell.

Or my mom.

Or Detective Vasquez.

I mean, someone should know I’m going to Nico Phelps’s house.

He was calm when I called. As if he expected this.

“I know something,” I told him.

“Oh, yeah?” Bored, no interest. Because hey, nothing I knew could be important.

“It could help.”

“Okay.”

“But I have questions. And you might not want to answer those questions in front of your lawyers.”

I said I wanted to meet in a coffee shop. He said he didn’t like to go out. For a moment, we were stuck.

Then he said sarcastically, “My mom is here, you don’t have to worry.”

Now I think, I could be setting up a date with a killer, but it’s okay because, hey, his mom will be there.

You have to take two buses to get to where Nico Phelps lives, way down in the Thirties, over on the East Side. I don’t know the neighborhood well. I’ve only been to movies here once or twice.

Nico’s building is modern, but not stylish modern. Red brick with little balconies on every floor. The doorman raises an eyebrow when I say Phelps.

When I ring the bell, it’s Mrs. Phelps who answers the door. She holds it only partly open. She is a small woman, with a sharp, tired face and short, ragged gray hair. One lock stands up, and
I have the feeling she pulls on it. She’s wearing sneakers and a faded dress that’s been put through the wash too many times.

She looks like the maid, I think, an exhausted, old woman.

She also looks suspicious. I guess I’m not the kind of girl Nico hangs out with.

“I don’t know you, do I?” she says. The voice is a lot stronger than her appearance. When she talks, she expects to be listened to.

“Hi, Mrs. Phelps. Rain Donovan. I go to Nico’s school?” She shakes her head; that doesn’t matter to her. “Is he not here?” I ask tentatively.

She glances down. The hand moves up the doorjamb; I can tell, she’s thinking of letting me in. “What is this about?”

“I need to talk to him. I … I think …”

I’m about to say I think I can help when Nico appears at the door and pulls it open. “Ma, it’s okay.” To me, he says, “Come in.”

The apartment he leads me into is small. A tiny, very clean kitchen is right off the entryway. Nico leads me through a living room with a thick rug on the carpet. Heavy, dark furniture, awkward and old-fashioned, crowds in on you. Everywhere you look, pictures of Nico. Fat baby Nico. Little boy Nico at the beach. Nico in a suit outside a church. I try to feel his father in the house. I can’t.

A short, narrow hallway takes us to Nico’s room. There is only one bedroom; his mom must sleep in the living room. I can feel her watching from the kitchen. “Remember what the lawyer said,” she calls just before Nico closes the door.

And I am alone in a room with Nico Phelps.

I look around, wondering where to sit. It’s a medium-sized
room, but there’s a ton of stuff crammed into it. Nico’s bureau is crowded with all kinds of product; there’s a strong smell of Marc Jacobs cologne. The blinds on the window are closed. The bed is not made. The door to the closet is open, and I can see Nico’s mass of designer clothes, his shirts and ties and pairs and pairs of shoes. In the corner, a TV is going without sound. I’m startled to see it’s the news. Nico’s laptop sits open on the bed. Peeking, I see he’s been reading an article about the case. He’s streaming a radio station. I hear “And the latest developments in—” before he switches off the sound. His eyes linger on the screen for a moment, drinking in the last details of the article before he snaps the laptop shut.

“You’re following the news?” I ask. He nods. “Doesn’t it freak you out?”

He shrugs. “Gotta see what they’re saying, right?” He throws himself onto the bed and lounges. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. The fabric is tight through the shoulders and biceps; I’d forgotten how big he is. How strong. By the bed, there is a big picture of him and Sasha. They’re lying entwined on the grass. Sweet, I think automatically, most guys wouldn’t do that. Except I notice she’s staring off into the distance, wearing sunglasses. Nico’s looking the other way. Two beautiful profiles. It’s a Ralph Lauren ad.

“Take off your coat,” he says.

It’s not a request. I take it off.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” says Nico contemptuously.

No? I think. You probably don’t think you hurt me that time in the stairwell. You probably think it was no big thing.

Folding my arms, I sit on the edge of the desk chair.

“You wanted to talk,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“All of a sudden, you like to talk.”

Sensing a trap, I shake my head.

“Like you talked to the cops.”

I feel a desperate need to apologize, to throw up a wall of I’m sorry before he lets loose with rage.

Then, suddenly I’m calm, almost chilly. I don’t have to apologize to Nico Phelps.

“I thought you killed her.”

“And now?”

“Not sure.”

He shifts slightly. I have made him uncomfortable. Good, I think.

“You said you knew something,” he says. “That could maybe help.”

I nod. “But I need to know something before I tell you.”

“Like what?”

Like did Sasha kill Wendy? Yeah, right. I’ll lose him entirely if I start that way.

Instead I say, “Like what really happened between you and Wendy that night.”

He rolls his eyes. This is a guy who seriously resents having to do things for other people. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because what I know is important.” I see him hesitate. “It would change things, I promise.”

“Oh, I guess you feel guilty,” he sneers.

“No. But Wendy was my friend.”

“And obviously I killed her,” he says sarcastically.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yeah, I
didn’t
.”

Nico’s been saying these words his whole life, I think. They’re the same words he gave the cops when they busted him for drugs over the summer. Same words he gave to teachers who accused him of cheating. Same words he probably gave to his mom when she asked if he stole twenty bucks from her wallet.

“Will you tell me the whole thing?” I ask. “Everything that happened that night?”

“Sure.” He shrugs again.
Who cares? Whatever
.

“Even things you just felt, but didn’t necessarily know?”

That surprises him. “Sure.” He pulls at a thread on the blanket. “One thing I felt? Thought, whatever? There was something going on with Wendy that night,” he says softly. “Something weird.”

He hesitates, then blurts out, “So you know the whole deal, how we got together a few times in summer?” I nod. “Then this year, I’m with Sasha and Wendy’s like, I’m not letting go. You’re mine. We’re trashy. We belong together. But she was funny about it, you know? No big deal. I kind of thought it was a game, almost.”

There’s something important there. I file the word
game
in my brain.

He sighs. “Then I start hearing about the Facebook thing. And like … that was a little much.”

“Did Sasha have a problem with it?” I ask.

“Not that she said, but all of a sudden I was getting a lot of static about other things. I’m sure it bugged her.”

That scans. I say, “So, that night …”

He crosses his arms, looks toward the TV. In a rush, he says, “That night I left the party to hook up with Wendy.” He gives me a You happy now? grimace.

“But you weren’t going to end it with Sasha?”

“Hell, no.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Like I said, Sasha’d been giving me a lot of grief. ‘You need to focus. Grow up, don’t drink.’ Stuff about my mom. Kind of like, ‘If you’re going to be one of us …’ ” He shrugs. “I liked Wendy. She was cute, sexy. She wasn’t going to get you anywhere special in life.…”

In other words, not connected. When you’re shooting for Brown, you want a girl who can lend you her E pin to wear on college interviews.

Then Nico says, “Anyway, I wanted a break.”

“And Wendy was the break.”

He nods. “So, we’re talking at the party, and I’m like, Yeah, cool, let’s do it. That’s when she starts with the demands. Starts pushing real hard for us to leave together—like that moment.”