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

probably why Mr. Dorland made him acting head of the upper school when Ms. Johnson went on maternity leave. I’ve never had him for class. Taylor has him this year. I try not to be in total agony that he will fall madly in love with her.
    He starts off by saying, “Wendy Geller was not my best student. In fact, I think the first thing I ever said to her was ‘If you have something to share, Ms. Geller, please share it with all of us.’ ”
    People laugh. Part of the problem has been Dorland talking about Wendy as if she were some nice white-bread girl, justbecause she’s dead. It feels good to remember how ditzy she could be.
    Now Mr. Farrell says, “Wendy was a person who had a lot to share.” He pauses. “Even if she didn’t always pick the best times.”
    Or the best people, I think.
    “She had laughter, she had warmth, she had a … genuine caring. I often felt bad that she didn’t seem to realize how rare those qualities are, how special.”
    I find myself nodding. Mr. Farrell sees me, smiles a little. I smile back.
    Then Mr. Farrell drops his head as if what he’s feeling is too private to show. “I don’t want to talk about how we lost Wendy, about … anger and … rage and … stupidity. I would rather be grateful that Wendy did share her laughter and her love with so many of us. And feel sad that she will not be able to share them with the rest of the world.”
    I’m crying. Taylor’s staring into the distance, trying not to cry. And we’re not the only ones. Someone’s finally said:
Hey, this girl wasn’t perfect, but I liked her. I’m really mad that she’s gone
. All around, I can feel the energy’s opened up. No more embarrassment or fakeness. Just sorrow. Loss. The things that really are. I look at the photograph on the table, the little light flickering in front of it. The big brown eyes and the friendly smile.
Hi there!
    Wendy.
    Later, as we file out of the hall, I notice there’s a table with flyers on it. Wendy’s picture in grainy black-and-white. If we know anything, we’re supposed to contact the police.
    Why? I wonder. If the killer was some random crazy guy, why ask us?
    *   *   *
    I’m standing outside Mr. Farrell’s room. The school is mostly empty. Most people cleared out after the assembly.
    I have never spoken to Mr. Farrell. My tongue is twisted up with nerves, and for a moment, I feel panicked that an ugly mess will come spitting out of my mouth.
Mithder Faruhl?
Not that he would be mean about it. If anything, he would be horribly kind.
    So what?
I hear Wendy say.
Take it from me, babes. You only live once
.
    Impulsively, I knock on the door. A weird moment of silence. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s gone home.
    Then I hear, “Come in.”
    Mr. Farrell’s is one of the smaller classrooms, with high windows on one side. Most teachers cover the walls in pictures and posters, but his are plain, just the white plaster and dark wood molding. To look, you don’t know; are you in a German class? Trig? Art history? Mr. Farrell teaches English, but there’s nothing in the room to tell you that.
    In the center is a big round table. Mr. Farrell is sitting near the window. There are papers on the table. But it doesn’t look like he’s touched any of them.
    I stay half in the hallway as I say, “Mr. Farrell? I don’t know if you know me, but …”
    He smiles. “Rain, of course I know you.” He gestures. “Come on in. You can shut the door.”
    How happy this makes me, that he lets me in, says close the door, as if we need privacy. You’re sad, I tell myself, really sad. But it doesn’t stop me from being happy.
    Of course, now I have to speak.
    “I, uh …” I had words. I rehearsed them on the way here. They were perfect, wise, mature … and now they’ve vanished. “I …”
    He pulls out a chair. “This has been a very hard day. Why don’t you sit?”
    I do. It’s both better and worse. Better because I’m near him. Worse because I’m