The Girl in the Park by Mariah Fredericks Read Free Book Online

does a quick head shake at me and I shut up.
    Too late. The woman turns on me. “I want to get the truth out there before they trash her. That’s all.”
    Trash her? Trash Wendy? Why? I’m frozen. I don’t want to tell this woman anything and I want her to tell me everything.
    I feel Taylor’s hand on my arm, but I resist, wanting one little name, one fact.
    “My card,” says the woman, tucking it into my book bag. “Call me. I can help you help your friend.”
    Taylor pulls me out. As we spill onto the street, I hear the woman call after us, “Wendy can’t speak for herself anymore. Speak for her! Speak for Wendy.”
    A block later Taylor lets go of my arm. Says, “Don’t even think about it.”
    “No.”
    “In fact, give me the card.”
    I put my hand over my bag.
    “Rain …”
    “I’m okay.”
    “Great, give me the card.”
    But I’m not going to. As scummy as that woman was, the last thing she said to me was “Speak for Wendy.” As if I have the power to do that. As if there’s still something I can say that would help her. And I won’t give up on that.
    “I won’t tell her anything,” I say.
    “You’ll tell her things without knowing it,” says Taylor.
    “How? I’m not even going to call her.”
    “So.”
    But before Taylor can demand the card again, we turn the corner and see … an army. I mean, that’s what it looks like. The Alcott School is a five-story limestone mansion—Taylor says it used to be a home for the rich and insane—nestled on a quiet stretch of Riverside Drive. Now it’s under siege. Trucks and satellite dishes and cable, and a hundred people in the street. Cameras everywhere you look. Reporters with microphones. And kids, talking to the reporters.
    “Oh my God,” says Taylor. “How are we supposed to get through this?”
    Wendy, I think as I walk through the halls. Where is Wendy?
    Like Taylor said, it’s so hard to get—really get—that Wendy isn’t here. That she isn’t anywhere anymore. Almost every spot, lockers, bathrooms, water fountain, is a space where Wendy used to be. Wendy groaning as she hoisted her backpack into her locker. Wendy dribbling water down her sweater, laughing, “I am
such
a total spaz.” Wendy crying, “Oh my God, how ARE you?” before a huge swaying hug. Now I look at all those places and I see emptiness.
    I want to talk about her, I think wildly. Right now. If she’s not here, then I need to make her be here with words. I turn toa girl standing nearby—Fiona Robinson—and say, “God, remember how Wendy …”
    Startled, Fiona steps back, says, “Sorry, what?”
    She couldn’t understand you
. That’s what crashes into my mind.
She heard, Ga, ’member how Wenny? and the poor girl’s totally confused
.
    I know I
didn’t
say that. The speech therapy worked. I don’t sound like that anymore. But the pause is long enough to make me feel stupid. Fiona wasn’t really one of Wendy’s friends. She might not know that Wendy and I were friends. She probably thinks I’m a creepy crisis junkie.
    “No, nothing,” I say, and do a little hi-bye wave as I hurry on.
    Taylor has to get to the newspaper. I drift through the halls. No one’s going to homeroom—and so far no one’s making them. People are gathered in groups. Many are crying. I pass by a girl who’s collapsing on her friend’s arm as they hurry down the hall. Teachers are wandering, talking to people.
    It’s like after an earthquake, I think. People in a destroyed world; they don’t have to run and hide, the immediate danger’s past. But no one knows what to do now.
    I walk past Wendy’s locker, where people are gathering. There’s a big ugly scar of police tape over it. On the floor, people have put bunches of flowers, stuffed animals. Someone’s left a Starbucks cup, because Wendy was a caffeine addict. I smile at that.
    I hear sniffling and turn to see a girl red-eyed and freaked. She can’t take her eyes off Wendy’s locker. She looks really