Free The Girl in the Park by Mariah Fredericks Page A

to see.”
    It was in ninth grade, during that not-great time when my two friends, Layla and Sophie, had left. I would walk/run through the halls, praying no one would speak to me. It had been years since kids deliberately said hello just so they could make fun of whatever I said back. But why risk it?
    So why did I risk it with Nico Phelps? Maybe because he was new to the school. A year older than me, he’d never made fun of me. Probably because he had no idea who I was—but still. I knew who he was, of course. Everyone knew Nico Phelps, the moody blond guy whose worn cashmere sweaters stretched tight across the elbows and shoulders.
    I’d noticed those sweaters. They were expensive, but not new. Hand-me-downs? Not something you saw at Alcott every day.
    I think that’s why, when he said hello that afternoon on the stairwell, I felt … excited. Happy. I was on my way to chorus practice. We were alone on the stairs, one of the smaller, windowless stairwells that leads down to the basement. They’re old-fashioned, cramped. I remember thinking, Yeah, he wouldwant to wait till no one was around. He is breaking the rules by talking to me.
    Which is why I said “Hi” back.
    “Rain, right?”
    He knows my name, I trilled to myself. He cares who I am.
    “Right. And you’re Nico.”
    He smiled,
Um-hm
. Then said, “I want to see the hole.”
    I didn’t get it right away. His voice was still friendly, his shoulders relaxed. I felt no threat; it just didn’t make sense.
    I must have shaken my head, because he continued, “They say you’ve got a hole in your mouth. That’s why you talk like a retard.”
    Even then, I accepted it. He wasn’t being mean, just explaining. It was what people said about me. I had a hole in my mouth, I talked like a retard. It was the way it was. How could I be hurt by that?
    Maybe, I thought, the hole is like his sweaters. The way they don’t fit right.
    “Come on,” he coaxed. “I want to see.”
    And so I did it. I opened my mouth. I even tipped my head back to give him a better view. That’s how much I wanted to believe this was about connection. Not humiliation.
    Nico leaned down—he was taller than I was. For a moment, his curiosity felt real, as if he were looking at a scar left by a car wreck. His gaze made me feel ugly—but powerful. I thought of saying, “When I was born, I didn’t have a roof to my mouth. There was just this little ridge of tissue. So they puullled a little from one side, puullled a little from the other, and kind of tied it all together. But there wasn’t enough. And that’s why the hole. There’s a space where it doesn’t connect.”
    When he stood up, the little smile was back. Lifting his hand, he pointed a finger, then stuck it in my mouth. He wiggled it roughly, the knuckle knocking against my teeth, the nail scratching. A taste—blood or the salt of his skin? A fingertip, blunt and rough, worked its way into the shallow indentation, pressed hard. Harder. A brief terrible moment of no air.
    Panicked, I twisted away, batted uselessly at his arm. He pulled the finger out.
    For a moment we just stood there. Jumbled, upset, I thought, Will he apologize? Kiss me? What?
    He said, “Aw,” in a long sneer that felt like a snake slithering heavily across my body. Then he continued down the stairs.
    I thought of crying. But who would listen? In the end I just went home.
    Turning on 110th Street, I imagine the park at night. Tree branches waving against a dark sky. Buildings towering over you, windows blank and indifferent. Streetlights to brighten the path—but not the shadow areas among the trees and bushes.
    How long were you without air, Wendy? I wonder. Did you scream? Could you scream? In the darkness with those hands around your throat? Did you pray someone would hear? Pray they would come running and help you?
    After a while, there probably was no air. And no sound.
    Just the silence as he finished.
    My phone buzzes. Taking it out, I see