if Nico ever …”
“No.” I see where Taylor’s going and I don’t want to give her any ammunition.
“But people like him—the Karinas of this world—they can be …”
“Evil,” I say simply.
Taylor nods reluctantly. “So, I don’t blame you for hating them. At all. But I’m not going to make the jump to murder, either. Because what I saw is Wendy leaving alone.” She hesitates. “And I swear I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
That throws me. But then I say, “He did it and came back.”
“The guy really didn’t look like he killed somebody,” says Taylor. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Look, if you’re right, I’m sure the police are on it.”
But how can the police be on it when Nico’s friends are protecting him? Who’s going to say he left the party? Not Karina. Not Sasha. I even protected him, I realize. I didn’t tell them half the things I could have.
Then Taylor says, “But just so you know, I did tell the cops I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
“What else did they want to know?”
She rolls her eyes. “Was I at the party? Did I know Wendy? What’d I think about how she seemed that night?”
“What’d you tell them?”
“What I told you. That she seemed crazed and she didn’t have a habit of making the best choices. I’m sorry, that’s what I saw.”
“It’s okay,” I say, numb and automatic.
“We good?” Her voice is uncertain.
I don’t want to fight with Taylor, so I say, “Yeah, sure.”
There’s an awkward silence. Trying to ease it, Taylor says, “Cops are so obvious, the way they try and put you at ease. They were like, ‘Oh, we hear you’re the coeditor of the school newspaper. Big achiever. Got an
E
pin.’ ”
Puzzled, I say, “How’d they know? They saw it on your bag?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have it with me. Who knows? They’re goons.” She gives me a hug. “I’m really sorry, Rain,” she whispers. “You don’t deserve this pain.”
Then she nods toward the crosstown bus stop. “I’m going to get this. See you tomorrow.”
I nod.
As I walk home, the heels hurt my feet and I don’t care because I’m so angry. Skank, bitch, slut—everyone talks about Wendy like she was some trashy whore who made yet another mistake. While Nico’s just fine. People are excusing him, covering for him, just like they always have.
Do you really think he killed Wendy? a voice whispers.
I don’t know, I answer. But I want to know why he left the party right after her.
That’s not proof of anything, the voice insists.
And that, I have to admit, is true. Still, I wonder, do the police know Nico left the party?
Should I tell them?
On the corner, I’m stopped short by the sight of Wendy’s face.Smiling, pretty, but grainy, out of focus. Because it’s printed on cheap paper, the kind you toss away when you’re done. Wendy’s on the front page of the
Herald
. Above her face, crowding it, the words …
WHO WAS WENDY GELLER?
Life of a Party Girl Ends in Violence
Snatching up the paper, I put a dollar on the counter and don’t wait for change. I fold the newspaper under my arm and head to the nearest Starbucks. It’s packed with Columbia kids, but I find a stool in the corner and start to read.
Wendy Geller’s young life came to a tragic end early Sunday morning. Her body was found beaten and strangled in Central Park. How did a wealthy, popular girl, who attended one of the city’s finest schools, end up dead and thrown away like so much trash? The answer may lie with today’s hard-partying teens—kids with too much money and not enough guidance from permissive moms and dads who want to be their kids’ friends instead of their parents.
Seventeen-year-old Wendy was pretty, outgoing, and popular. The stylish teenager had many friends at the prestigious Alcott School in Manhattan. But she also made enemies.
“She’d get in fights with other girls,” said one Alcott student. “Over stupid stuff. Like they
“No.” I see where Taylor’s going and I don’t want to give her any ammunition.
“But people like him—the Karinas of this world—they can be …”
“Evil,” I say simply.
Taylor nods reluctantly. “So, I don’t blame you for hating them. At all. But I’m not going to make the jump to murder, either. Because what I saw is Wendy leaving alone.” She hesitates. “And I swear I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
That throws me. But then I say, “He did it and came back.”
“The guy really didn’t look like he killed somebody,” says Taylor. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Look, if you’re right, I’m sure the police are on it.”
But how can the police be on it when Nico’s friends are protecting him? Who’s going to say he left the party? Not Karina. Not Sasha. I even protected him, I realize. I didn’t tell them half the things I could have.
Then Taylor says, “But just so you know, I did tell the cops I saw Nico at the party when I left.”
“What else did they want to know?”
She rolls her eyes. “Was I at the party? Did I know Wendy? What’d I think about how she seemed that night?”
“What’d you tell them?”
“What I told you. That she seemed crazed and she didn’t have a habit of making the best choices. I’m sorry, that’s what I saw.”
“It’s okay,” I say, numb and automatic.
“We good?” Her voice is uncertain.
I don’t want to fight with Taylor, so I say, “Yeah, sure.”
There’s an awkward silence. Trying to ease it, Taylor says, “Cops are so obvious, the way they try and put you at ease. They were like, ‘Oh, we hear you’re the coeditor of the school newspaper. Big achiever. Got an
E
pin.’ ”
Puzzled, I say, “How’d they know? They saw it on your bag?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have it with me. Who knows? They’re goons.” She gives me a hug. “I’m really sorry, Rain,” she whispers. “You don’t deserve this pain.”
Then she nods toward the crosstown bus stop. “I’m going to get this. See you tomorrow.”
I nod.
As I walk home, the heels hurt my feet and I don’t care because I’m so angry. Skank, bitch, slut—everyone talks about Wendy like she was some trashy whore who made yet another mistake. While Nico’s just fine. People are excusing him, covering for him, just like they always have.
Do you really think he killed Wendy? a voice whispers.
I don’t know, I answer. But I want to know why he left the party right after her.
That’s not proof of anything, the voice insists.
And that, I have to admit, is true. Still, I wonder, do the police know Nico left the party?
Should I tell them?
On the corner, I’m stopped short by the sight of Wendy’s face.Smiling, pretty, but grainy, out of focus. Because it’s printed on cheap paper, the kind you toss away when you’re done. Wendy’s on the front page of the
Herald
. Above her face, crowding it, the words …
WHO WAS WENDY GELLER?
Life of a Party Girl Ends in Violence
Snatching up the paper, I put a dollar on the counter and don’t wait for change. I fold the newspaper under my arm and head to the nearest Starbucks. It’s packed with Columbia kids, but I find a stool in the corner and start to read.
Wendy Geller’s young life came to a tragic end early Sunday morning. Her body was found beaten and strangled in Central Park. How did a wealthy, popular girl, who attended one of the city’s finest schools, end up dead and thrown away like so much trash? The answer may lie with today’s hard-partying teens—kids with too much money and not enough guidance from permissive moms and dads who want to be their kids’ friends instead of their parents.
Seventeen-year-old Wendy was pretty, outgoing, and popular. The stylish teenager had many friends at the prestigious Alcott School in Manhattan. But she also made enemies.
“She’d get in fights with other girls,” said one Alcott student. “Over stupid stuff. Like they
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