The Girl in the Park (23 page)

“Not all of it.” I crack the door slightly. “There must be phone calls from Wendy to your house. Even if you got rid of her cell—there’ll be a record. Talks you won’t be able to explain away. Talks on the day she died.”

“Oh, yes,” he says calmly. “The police asked me about those. I explained that Wendy was having difficulties in my class, and I was trying to help her.”

I say, “There were probably scratches, but of course nobody looked.”

“No. No, they didn’t.”

An image in my head, Wendy’s fingers clawing at Farrell’s hands, the ones lying so casually on the table now.

To regain control, I focus on the facts, saying, “Even Wendy’s Facebook name for the guy she was dating. She called him The Hot One. T.H.—your initials. And, of course, everything they knew about the E pin—the one piece of physical evidence—they learned from you.” I cough. “One thing I don’t get?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t Dorland tell the police the pin wasn’t from this year? That it couldn’t possibly belong to a student now?”

“Oh.” Farrell frowns. “Mr. Dorland was unable to meet with the police. He just didn’t feel comfortable. And the bad publicity for the school has upset him very much. So I told him as acting head of school, I’d be happy to talk to the police, answer any questions they had.”

“Why did you even tell them the school gave out pins?”

“I thought it was better to admit it rather than have them discover it from talking to the students. Of course, I stressed to them the great need for discretion. It would be best for their case and best for the students if they could keep the existence of the pin quiet until there was an actual arrest.”

“But you had to know Nico didn’t have one.”

“Yes.” He looks at me. “That’s why when you came to me, told me about Sasha giving Nico the pin—well, I was grateful, to say the least.”

“I’m sure. But just so you know, I’ve told Nico it wasn’t Sasha’s pin they found in the park. I told him to ask for a picture just to make sure. Oh—and I talked to Ms. Laredo, too. About how they changed the color and style of the pins over the years. So it probably won’t be too long before the police figure out who the real owner of the E was.”

“You’ve talked to a lot of people,” he says slowly.

“Yes, I have.”

For a moment, I see it through his eyes. We were supposed to be allies, setting Nico up, causing misery for Sasha, directing everyone’s rage toward the rich, the beautiful, the entitled. I think of Mr. Farrell as a boy, wandering the halls of this school, watching, wanting, afraid to speak.

And hating.

“Do you understand?” His voice is weak, doubtful now.

I decide not to answer that, saying instead, “I think you know what I have to do.”

A deep, deep sigh. Nodding, he turns his head, his eyes looking far, far away now. Past me. Past the door. In a ragged voice, as if someone’s twisted a knife in his throat, leaving only the
shreds of sinew, he says, “Yes, that’s … you’re right. I’m sorry, Rain. I’m …”

I can’t stand to hear him say my name.

He’s crying now. His shoulders are slumped, his legs skewed. The hands that killed Wendy frozen in front of his face, as if he wants to hide but can’t bear to touch himself. The sobs are like blood, pumping out of a ruined heart.

Wendy is still dead. I hadn’t understood before: it really doesn’t bring them back. Somehow, you think, despite what you know, it will be a trade. Find the person who did the wrong thing and they will suffer instead of the one who was killed.

Instead, that person just suffers too.

But I suppose that’s the best we can do.

I twist the doorknob, open the door. I half whisper “Good-bye” and walk out the door.

I am back in the crowd. Surrounded by voices. Faces spin by in a blur. I see Ms. Laredo coming down the hall. Seeing me, she stops. “Rain?”

S
’s have always kicked my ass. Also
t
’s. That makes
Mister
a word I avoid. It comes out
Mithder
.

People are slowing down around me. Stopping. Staring. I open my mouth. Think: I can’t.

Go for it, tigress
.

And I say it.

“Mr. Farrell killed Wendy Geller.”

“Are you ready?”

On the last day of school, Alcott says farewell to its seniors and welcome to its new senior class. Each senior and junior carries a candle. The seniors’ candles are lit; ours are not. When your name is called, you walk onstage and a senior lights your candle from hers. Then the seniors leave the stage and the new senior class is presented to the school. Being a senior at Alcott, Mr. Dorland tells us, means something. We represent the sum of an Alcott education; the high values and intellectual achievement Alcott imparts to its graduates. Or, as Taylor says, what $35,000 a year buys.

But I can’t feel cynical today. For one thing, I’ve learned I’m not as cynical as I thought I was. I am going to miss a lot of these people. Ellis, who’s headed to Cornell. Lindsey, who’s off to Stanford. Rima, who is going to Carleton. And while I won’t miss Nico Phelps, I’ll certainly never forget him.

Nico is not here today. After Mr. Farrell pled guilty to murdering Wendy, the school let Nico quietly finish out the year, mostly working from home. He and Sasha broke up. I heard he did apply to Brown but didn’t get in. He’s probably not that disappointed; he has a book contract for half a million to write
about the Wendy Geller murder. The book will be called
Falsely Accused
.

I have seen him, of course—along with the rest of the country—when he did that interview on CNN. They asked me if I wanted to be on the show. I said no thanks. Which is what I’ve said to everyone who’s wanted my “side of the story.” I have told exactly two people everything that happened: my mother and Taylor.

It was hard, telling my mother. Because I told her the whole story about Mr. Farrell, how I felt about him, all of it. We sat on the couch, me wrapped up in her arms, my face pressed against her body, and we cried. For Wendy, for me, for two girls who weren’t such “very different girls” after all.

Then my mom said, almost as a joke, “Hey, maybe someday we should have a talk about your father.”

I laughed. “There’s a messy situation.”

She sighed. “Human connection—very messy. Unpredictable.” Then she went all operatic: “Entirely too dangerous!”

Connections. Wendy to Nico. Wendy to Mr. Farrell. Mr. Farrell to me. Me to Wendy. Nico to Sasha. Ellis, Lindsey. All this emotion, all this hurt and want. So much that somebody died.

Now, waiting in the wings, I see Mr. Dorland sitting in the front row. This is his final senior class. He’ll be retiring at the end of the year. Ms. Johnson will fill in when she comes back from maternity leave. I hope they give her the job permanently. Alcott needs to make some changes.

They call Taylor’s name, and she goes up to be greeted by Bradley Tournival, her coeditor on the paper. This gets a huge roar of approval from the crowd. Part of the fun of this ceremony is seeing who is matched with who; since Taylor is taking over
from Bradley and they’re friends, this is a good match. Seniors can request, or the school puts pairs together. I can see that even Taylor is struggling to keep it together as Bradley gives her a kiss. I swear I see her wipe away a tear.

Cantor, Christie, Danilowicz … finally they call my name. Rain Donovan. As I start to walk down the aisle, I wonder who I’ll get. Kids like me usually get the light from one of the official “nice kids,” school officers who understand it’s part of their job to make sure everyone has a match.

But when Sasha walks out onto the stage, my face burns and tears come to my eyes. Surprise, happiness, humility, guilt … I feel it all at the same mind-blowing instant. Sasha has been out much of this semester; when she’s been in school, she’s kept to herself. We have not talked, and I suspect that’s because neither of us has known what the hell to say.

Now she stands there calmly as I approach, candle held in both hands. The applause is tentative at first; people aren’t sure what to think. Everyone remembers that Sasha dated Nico, that I was the one who proved Nico wasn’t guilty—and that Sasha clobbered me in the hall that time. But slowly, the applause starts to grow louder.

I manage a goofy grin as Sasha touches her light to mine, but there are tears rolling down my face. Sasha kisses me on both cheeks. First cheek, she whispers, “I’m sorry.” The second, “Thank you.”

The rest of the names go by in a blur. As Queenie Richardson lights Jenny Zalgat’s candle and leaves the stage, the rest of us turn to face the school as the new senior class. I am standing in the first row. Jenny comes to stand near me. Between us is an empty seat. On it is an unlit candle. And a photograph of Wendy.

Together we say, “In memory of our friend, Wendy Geller.”

A month ago, a group of us got together to talk about how we wanted to remember Wendy at the ceremony. At the time, we weren’t sure whether to light the candle or not. I thought not was more honest. Wendy doesn’t get to carry her flame forward. Mr. Farrell put it out.

That’s how it was going to be until Jenny spoke up suddenly. “Yeah, but, okay, so she isn’t here, like her ‘light’ is not here, whatever, but I feel like she kind of gave it to us, you know? She definitely had an effect on my life. She was the first person to tell me I wasn’t an idiot.” She ducked her head. “She said I had a genius heart.” She smiled.

Ellis smiled. “She said I had way cool fashion sense. Geek chic.”

Daniel Ettinger said, “She said zits were a sign of high testosterone and masculinity.”

Everyone cracked up. In the laughter, a thousand Wendys flashed through my mind.

Speak up, girl!

Do I know you?

The dough rocks raw
.

She should know to say hi
.

Hey there!

There is no one Wendy, I realized. Her mom’s sweet, funny little baby; the chick who boasted about getting trashed on Facebook. The girl who was such a good friend to people, the bitch who trampled others’ feelings because she was blinded by her own hurt. All those things are true, but no one thing is the whole truth.

I saw Jenny looking at me. What was my vote? Does Wendy have a light or no?

I said, “Let’s go for it, tigress.”

Jenny smiled. “Cool—but only if you sing. Wendy always said you had a kick-ass voice.”

Now as I walk to the front of the stage, I feel my heart beating so hard, I can’t catch my breath. To calm down, I think of something else—anything but the hundreds of eyes on me right now, the ears all listening.

Wendy, I realize. I should think of Wendy.

For a moment, Mr. Farrell creeps into my head. A twist in my stomach, sour in my throat. I still have nightmares, in which I am the girl being strangled because I asked for too much. In these dreams, I scream, my throat muscles strain, but there is no sound. Just Mr. Farrell’s hands and the crushing weight.

Some nights when I wake up, I think, I wish I’d never gone through that door. That first day of school after Wendy was killed. I wish I’d never talked to him. Because I still feel guilty. Wendy wasn’t the only person blinded by her own hurt. Who was unkind to others out of that hurt. Am I smarter now?

But if I had not gone through that door, Nico Phelps would probably be in jail and Mr. Farrell would not be. And I would still think you can get through life safe and sound and pure—and actually have a life. I wouldn’t know the only way not to make a mistake is never to do anything at all.

In which case, says Wendy’s voice, you might as well be in a box like me. Now, can you please sing, already? I’ve been waiting a long time.

We had a lot of discussion about which song would be right for Wendy. Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” is beautiful, but a lot of people do it. I thought “Into the West” from
Lord of the Rings
, because it’s tender and sad, about journeys’ ends.
But it was too proper for Wendy somehow. And I’m not Annie Lennox.

Finally, my mom, of all people, came up with “Yesterday’s Child” by Patti Scialfa. The second I heard the lines “And I still have my imaginings/Where there’s no struggling/Or suffering/Just cigarettes and wine,” I knew it was the right song for Wendy.

Singing in the chorus, I have always wondered what it would be like to stand alone, to have only your voice heard. How terrifying it would be to know it was all up to you. And how you’d have to keep going, even if you screwed up big-time.

But what I could not imagine was the incredible rush when you connect. When you feel the audience. All they want to hear is your voice, because it lets them feel what they need to.

My voice does crack a few times, where the feelings get too big. But it doesn’t matter. I sing the last verse, reminding myself that Wendy would want this to be joyous, defiant.

As I finish and the applause starts, I don’t want to say farewell to Wendy. But I have to. She’s gone. And with her, a scared little girl who never said what she thought or felt. I’ll miss that girl, too. Even though I’m glad not to be her anymore.

Who knows? Maybe in some alternate universe, she and Wendy are sitting and eating cookie dough. And laughing.