hadn’t invited her to a party or said something behind her back. She’d get revenge by messing around with their boyfriends.”
Wendy reportedly kept a “hit list” in her diaries and later on her Facebook page. In the list, she kept a record of boys she was interested in. Generally, they were already dating other people.
“Nobody will say this,” said the student, “but there are some people here who aren’t too sad to see her go. Like, not that she deserved it. But—karma, you know?”
Sources say that Geller had attended a party the night she was murdered. Toxicology reports have not come back yet, but witnesses report that Geller was “trashed.”
“She had on her little happy high,” said one source.
Taylor, I think, oh my God. They’re quoting Taylor. That reporter in the diner yesterday—she must have overheard our conversation.
The city has seen many young women’s lives end in violence. Young women who court danger and find it. One wonders if their parents know—or care—what they’re doing.
“Sadly,” said a source close to the investigation, “there are instances when young women indulge in drugs and alcohol …”
Who says Wendy took drugs? I wonder furiously. Nobody, nobody said that.
“They’re walking around, not in the best state to make good decisions, and tragically, it ends like this.”
I can’t believe it. All anyone can talk about is Wendy—as if she somehow did this to herself. I look at the name on the article. Stella Walcott. Digging in my book bag, I find that card.
Stella Walcott.
Speak for her, speak for Wendy.
Yeah, I think, maybe I should.
Sitting on the stone wall by Central Park, I dial Stella Walcott’s number. As the phone starts to ring, a voice whispers, You’re leaving yourself wide open. She’s smarter than you. Crueler. You think you’re defending Wendy, but she’ll turn it into something ugly.
Help Wendy, I tell myself firmly.
“Stella Walcott.”
I’m startled by Stella’s actual voice. She sounds normal, friendly, and for a moment, I feel my anger melt. Then I see two girls walk by. They’re laughing, heads together. In a flash, I remember Gillian Lasker, the flushing sound. Everyone judging Wendy, deciding who she was.
“Party girl,” I say harshly.
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t say that. I would never call Wendy a party girl. Or any cutesy nickname.”
There’s a little pause. Then: “Who is this?”
“How about Diner Girl?”
“The one with the attitude or the one with the chopsticks?”
“Chopsticks.”
“Well, hello. I thought you had something to say.” Her voice is warmer now. You may hate me, but I’m liking you a lot.
It makes me feel disgusting. Like getting groped by some pervert on the street.
“Did you go to the service? What was it like?”
Ignoring her questions, I tell her, “Yeah, here’s what I have to say. You suck. Oh, and also, get your facts right.”
“Tell me where I got it wrong.”
Her tone tells me I can do this. I can set the story straight. She will listen to me.
This is a trap, my fear whispers.
“Drugs,” I say. “We never said she did drugs.”
“I got that from another source.”
“Who?”
“Would you want me to tell people where I got ‘trashed’ from?”
No, I think. I feel defeated. Let’s face it. Wendy was trashed. Wendy probably did do drugs. Wendy was a party girl.
I struggle to pull Wendy out of the tangle of gossip and headlines, to remember what it felt like to be with her.
“What’d I get wrong?” Stella presses. “What’d I leave out?”
The dough rocks raw, am I right?
Speak up, girl!
I hear Wendy’s laugh, the hoarseness of her voice as she said “Uuuggghhh” whenever there was something she didn’t want to do, the way she made you feel like you were the most amazing person she’d ever known.
“Wendy,” I say flatly. “You left Wendy out. You got her way, way wrong. She cared about people. I’m not saying she was some saint.
Wendy reportedly kept a “hit list” in her diaries and later on her Facebook page. In the list, she kept a record of boys she was interested in. Generally, they were already dating other people.
“Nobody will say this,” said the student, “but there are some people here who aren’t too sad to see her go. Like, not that she deserved it. But—karma, you know?”
Sources say that Geller had attended a party the night she was murdered. Toxicology reports have not come back yet, but witnesses report that Geller was “trashed.”
“She had on her little happy high,” said one source.
Taylor, I think, oh my God. They’re quoting Taylor. That reporter in the diner yesterday—she must have overheard our conversation.
The city has seen many young women’s lives end in violence. Young women who court danger and find it. One wonders if their parents know—or care—what they’re doing.
“Sadly,” said a source close to the investigation, “there are instances when young women indulge in drugs and alcohol …”
Who says Wendy took drugs? I wonder furiously. Nobody, nobody said that.
“They’re walking around, not in the best state to make good decisions, and tragically, it ends like this.”
I can’t believe it. All anyone can talk about is Wendy—as if she somehow did this to herself. I look at the name on the article. Stella Walcott. Digging in my book bag, I find that card.
Stella Walcott.
Speak for her, speak for Wendy.
Yeah, I think, maybe I should.
Sitting on the stone wall by Central Park, I dial Stella Walcott’s number. As the phone starts to ring, a voice whispers, You’re leaving yourself wide open. She’s smarter than you. Crueler. You think you’re defending Wendy, but she’ll turn it into something ugly.
Help Wendy, I tell myself firmly.
“Stella Walcott.”
I’m startled by Stella’s actual voice. She sounds normal, friendly, and for a moment, I feel my anger melt. Then I see two girls walk by. They’re laughing, heads together. In a flash, I remember Gillian Lasker, the flushing sound. Everyone judging Wendy, deciding who she was.
“Party girl,” I say harshly.
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t say that. I would never call Wendy a party girl. Or any cutesy nickname.”
There’s a little pause. Then: “Who is this?”
“How about Diner Girl?”
“The one with the attitude or the one with the chopsticks?”
“Chopsticks.”
“Well, hello. I thought you had something to say.” Her voice is warmer now. You may hate me, but I’m liking you a lot.
It makes me feel disgusting. Like getting groped by some pervert on the street.
“Did you go to the service? What was it like?”
Ignoring her questions, I tell her, “Yeah, here’s what I have to say. You suck. Oh, and also, get your facts right.”
“Tell me where I got it wrong.”
Her tone tells me I can do this. I can set the story straight. She will listen to me.
This is a trap, my fear whispers.
“Drugs,” I say. “We never said she did drugs.”
“I got that from another source.”
“Who?”
“Would you want me to tell people where I got ‘trashed’ from?”
No, I think. I feel defeated. Let’s face it. Wendy was trashed. Wendy probably did do drugs. Wendy was a party girl.
I struggle to pull Wendy out of the tangle of gossip and headlines, to remember what it felt like to be with her.
“What’d I get wrong?” Stella presses. “What’d I leave out?”
The dough rocks raw, am I right?
Speak up, girl!
I hear Wendy’s laugh, the hoarseness of her voice as she said “Uuuggghhh” whenever there was something she didn’t want to do, the way she made you feel like you were the most amazing person she’d ever known.
“Wendy,” I say flatly. “You left Wendy out. You got her way, way wrong. She cared about people. I’m not saying she was some saint.
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