Read Online The Girl in the Park by Mariah Fredericks - Free Book Online
Authors: Mariah Fredericks
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ripple in the crowd, an energy wave of agreement. From some parts of the room, sniffing, a sob.
Then Mr. Dorland says, “Ms. Geller was relatively new to our school, and while I knew her, of course, and admired her wonderful spirit—”
Fake, I think without wanting to. Wonderful spirit—it’s something a teacher says about someone they didn’t know. Or didn’t like.
Mr. Dorland starts talking about loss. He quotes a poem. But none of it feels like Wendy. Which I guess he realizes because he finally says, “I wonder if now is the time for those who knew Ms. Geller to come forth and say a few words.”
Now the wave has a different energy. Anxiety. Awkwardness. Mr. Dorland’s been so uptight and formal, no one wants to follow him.
Taylor nudges me, but I shake my head. I do not do public speaking. When I was ten, my mom dug up these old home videos and got them transferred to disc. I was all excited. Ooh, I get to see myself as a little kid.
Then I saw this three-year-old running around, yelling, “–i, Mom. ’Ook a me.”
My mom was getting all misty, saying things like “You were so cute!” And all I could think was Why didn’t I know I soundedretarded? Why didn’t anybody tell me? How could she put me out in the world sounding like that?
But someone has to speak for Wendy. Jenny’s gone home. Ellis looks too broken up to say anything. I think of all the girls who thought Wendy was so “hilarious,” the boys who thought she was “hot.” Why won’t they speak for her?
Well, why won’t you, Rain? Wendy was the one person who said your cleft palate didn’t matter, so why are you letting that stop you? Raise your hand
.
But I can’t. My pronunciation is much better than when I was little. But when I imagine myself talking, all I can hear is
Wendy wash a ’ood fend
.
Raise your hand, Rain, I order myself. I chant this over and over in my head. But my hand doesn’t move.
Mr. Dorland is looking around the room. The longer the silence goes on, the weirder it gets. Now even someone who might have wanted to say something feels strange.
Then I hear, “I’d like to say something, Mr. Dorland.”
A man’s voice, not a kid’s. Light, precise, intelligent. I don’t even have to look to know. It’s Mr. Farrell.
“Go for it, tigress.”
All of a sudden, Wendy’s in my head, vivid, real, laughing. Only it’s two years ago and we’re standing in the hallway outside history when Mr. Farrell comes out of his classroom. He’s rushing down the hall, but stops to nod to us. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
And when he’s gone, I say, “Now,
he’s
hot.”
I don’t actually want the word
hot
, though. I want the word
beautiful
. I want
tall
, want
lean
. I want to say, I didn’t know how to want until the universe showed me T. H. Farrell.
Wendy would laugh if I told her that. Which is why I say “hot.”
But Wendy gives me a long, strange look. As if my choice reveals just how little I know about men and sex. As if I had said, “I want to date Luke Skywalker.”
Embarrassed, I mumble, “I’m just saying … if I had to pick someone at school.”
Wendy snaps out of her stare and smiles. “No, no, I get it. Not my type, but he’s sort of …” She pauses as she looks again.
Then she does laugh. “Hey—why not? Go for it, tigress.”
“Yeah, he’s a teacher. Not to mention married.”
“Oh, like that matters.”
I miss you, Wendy, I think as Mr. Farrell replaces Mr. Dorland at the podium. Right now, if you were here, you’d be whispering, “Sit up, lady. Show yourself.” And I’d tell you, Quit it, but I’d love that you were trying to make me try.
I look up at Mr. Farrell. Dark hair, huge gray eyes. A face that’s somehow Irish and Native American both. He’s a little nervous to be speaking in front of this big a crowd, you can tell. Maybe because he went to Alcott when he was a kid, sometimes he seems a little more one of us than a teacher. Kids like him, which is
Then Mr. Dorland says, “Ms. Geller was relatively new to our school, and while I knew her, of course, and admired her wonderful spirit—”
Fake, I think without wanting to. Wonderful spirit—it’s something a teacher says about someone they didn’t know. Or didn’t like.
Mr. Dorland starts talking about loss. He quotes a poem. But none of it feels like Wendy. Which I guess he realizes because he finally says, “I wonder if now is the time for those who knew Ms. Geller to come forth and say a few words.”
Now the wave has a different energy. Anxiety. Awkwardness. Mr. Dorland’s been so uptight and formal, no one wants to follow him.
Taylor nudges me, but I shake my head. I do not do public speaking. When I was ten, my mom dug up these old home videos and got them transferred to disc. I was all excited. Ooh, I get to see myself as a little kid.
Then I saw this three-year-old running around, yelling, “–i, Mom. ’Ook a me.”
My mom was getting all misty, saying things like “You were so cute!” And all I could think was Why didn’t I know I soundedretarded? Why didn’t anybody tell me? How could she put me out in the world sounding like that?
But someone has to speak for Wendy. Jenny’s gone home. Ellis looks too broken up to say anything. I think of all the girls who thought Wendy was so “hilarious,” the boys who thought she was “hot.” Why won’t they speak for her?
Well, why won’t you, Rain? Wendy was the one person who said your cleft palate didn’t matter, so why are you letting that stop you? Raise your hand
.
But I can’t. My pronunciation is much better than when I was little. But when I imagine myself talking, all I can hear is
Wendy wash a ’ood fend
.
Raise your hand, Rain, I order myself. I chant this over and over in my head. But my hand doesn’t move.
Mr. Dorland is looking around the room. The longer the silence goes on, the weirder it gets. Now even someone who might have wanted to say something feels strange.
Then I hear, “I’d like to say something, Mr. Dorland.”
A man’s voice, not a kid’s. Light, precise, intelligent. I don’t even have to look to know. It’s Mr. Farrell.
“Go for it, tigress.”
All of a sudden, Wendy’s in my head, vivid, real, laughing. Only it’s two years ago and we’re standing in the hallway outside history when Mr. Farrell comes out of his classroom. He’s rushing down the hall, but stops to nod to us. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
And when he’s gone, I say, “Now,
he’s
hot.”
I don’t actually want the word
hot
, though. I want the word
beautiful
. I want
tall
, want
lean
. I want to say, I didn’t know how to want until the universe showed me T. H. Farrell.
Wendy would laugh if I told her that. Which is why I say “hot.”
But Wendy gives me a long, strange look. As if my choice reveals just how little I know about men and sex. As if I had said, “I want to date Luke Skywalker.”
Embarrassed, I mumble, “I’m just saying … if I had to pick someone at school.”
Wendy snaps out of her stare and smiles. “No, no, I get it. Not my type, but he’s sort of …” She pauses as she looks again.
Then she does laugh. “Hey—why not? Go for it, tigress.”
“Yeah, he’s a teacher. Not to mention married.”
“Oh, like that matters.”
I miss you, Wendy, I think as Mr. Farrell replaces Mr. Dorland at the podium. Right now, if you were here, you’d be whispering, “Sit up, lady. Show yourself.” And I’d tell you, Quit it, but I’d love that you were trying to make me try.
I look up at Mr. Farrell. Dark hair, huge gray eyes. A face that’s somehow Irish and Native American both. He’s a little nervous to be speaking in front of this big a crowd, you can tell. Maybe because he went to Alcott when he was a kid, sometimes he seems a little more one of us than a teacher. Kids like him, which is
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