She Said/She Saw

by Norah McClintock

  she said/she saw

  Norah McClintock

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2011 Norah McClintock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McClintock, Norah

  She said/she saw [electronic resource] Norah McClintock.

  Electronic monograph in PDF format.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469336-8

  I. Title.

  PS8575.C62S54 2011A JC813’.54 C2010-908040-8

  First published in the United States, 2011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010942099

  Summary: When Tegan witnesses the murder of two friends, she must struggle with people thinking she knows more than she is saying.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Typesetting by Nadja Penaluna

  Cover photo by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  ONE Kelly

  TWO Kelly

  THREE Tegan

  FOUR Kelly

  FIVE Kelly

  SIX Tegan

  SEVEN Kelly

  EIGHT Tegan

  NINE Kelly

  TEN Tegan

  ELEVEN Kelly

  TWELVE Tegan

  THIRTEEN Kelly

  FOURTEEN Tegan

  FIFTEEN Kelly

  SIXTEEN Tegan

  SEVENTEEN Kelly

  EIGHTEEN Tegan

  NINETEEN Kelly

  TWENTY Tegan

  TWENTY-ONE Kelly

  TWENTY-TWO Tegan

  TWENTY-THREE Kelly

  TWENTY-FOUR Tegan

  TWENTY-FIVE Kelly

  ONE

  Kelly

  Two things I know:

  One, everybody has a story to tell, and everybody tells their story in a different way. Me, I’m cinematic. I see life—my life, everyone’s life—like a movie or a TV drama, or, sometimes, a comedy. My sister Tegan, on the other hand, sees her life like one of those big, fat, old-fashioned novels with herself as the tragic (or triumphant) heroine at the center of it all.

  Two, nobody sees the whole story. Nobody can. There are always things in other people’s heads that you can’t know, not for sure, not even when other people tell you what they’re thinking, because, let’s face it, not everyone tells the truth. Sure, you can guess and maybe even get pretty close to the truth sometimes. But just as often, even more often, you’re wrong. And I can guarantee you that almost all of the time there are pieces missing—the things that people are thinking to themselves that they would never say out loud, the things people don’t even want to admit to themselves.

  So, if you want to get the whole story (or as close to the whole story as is possible) about my sister Tegan— Did she see or didn’t she?—you need to pull the pieces together and then take a good hard look at them and decide for yourself what’s true and what isn’t. That’s what I had to do.

  Here are the pieces.

  TWO

  Kelly

  INT.—KELLY’S BEDROOM—DAY

  KELLY TYRELL [that’s me], 17, paces in a tight circle on the throw rug in her cluttered bedroom. The walls of the room are plastered with movie posters. The shelves are stuffed with videocassettes, dvds and books, most of them about movies and writing screenplays. She is talking into a cell phone.

  KELLY

  What am I—my sister’s keeper?

  She turns to the camera as she listens to whatever the person on the other end is saying.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  (to the camera)

  Jeez, am I ever getting tired of the same questions over and over.

  (into the phone)

  I already told you—I don’t know. I wasn’t there. (pause) Right. Fine. Great talking to you too.

  She snaps the phone shut.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  (muttering)

  Asshole.

  She flings the cell phone onto the double bed that dominates the room and faces the camera again.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  (to the camera)

  What’s wrong with people? Why do they think I’m supposed to know every detail of my sister’s life just because we’re “practically twins.” (making air quotes)

  What does that even mean? You can’t be practically twins any more than you can be almost unique. Twinning is absolute, not relative. Well, you know what I mean. You either are a twin or you’re not. Tegan and I are not twins. We were born in the same year, which, if you ask me, was bad planning on someone’s part—Mom, are you listening? But we weren’t born on the same day. We don’t have that special bond that twins are supposed to have. We don’t spend all of our time together. We don’t have a special twin language. Most of the time, we don’t even talk to each other. I’m not being bitchy or self-serving when I say that that’s mostly Tegan’s fault. She’s the problem in our so-called relationship. She’s always pulling the big-sister routine on me, like a ten-month lead makes her smarter or wiser or better than me. That’s bull. I was potty-trained before her, for God’s sake. Okay, so she gets better grades than me, most of the time without even trying.

  She picks up a brush and starts to brush her hair in front of the mirror on her dresser.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  She’s prettier than me too. She looks a lot like Mom, whereas I take after our dad, who was one of those super-nice guys that everyone liked, especially the ladies, even though he was kind of plain and vertically challenged, not to mention follically challenged. But so what?

  She glowers at the mirror and throws down the brush.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  Tegan hangs out with a different crowd too, mostly kids a year ahead of us in school, and mostly, if you ask me, because she’d rather die than find herself in the same social circle as me. That’s fine with me. Do you think I want to be around my snobby, bitchy big sister every hour of every day? It’s bad enough being in so many of the same classes with her. Do you think I care if she wants to act all I’m-way-cooler-than-you and get off hanging out with guys like Clark Carson and Thomas Skelton, guys with too much money and even more attitude? Well, I don’t. Besides, I have my own thing going. I swim. I’m good at it too. I have a wall of medals to prove it. I’d rather be in the pool where it’s all real, where you make it based on what you can do, not on who your parents are and whether you can score booze and weed for your parties while your parents are out of town for the weekend.

  A VOICE

  (in the distance, muffled by the door)

  Kel-ly! Time to set the table!

  KELLY opens the door and sticks her head out.

  KELLY

  (shouting)

  It’s Tegan’s turn!

  T
HE VOICE

  She isn’t feeling well, so I told her she could lie down and we’d call her when supper was ready.

  KELLY

  (rolling her eyes and muttering to herself ) Of course.

  She looks at the camera again.

  KELLY (CONT’D)

  For those of you who don’t know my sister, congratulations are in order. But since you’re going to meet her, there’s something you should know. She’s a drama queen, a real diva-type personality. You know, one of those the-earth-revolves-around-me types. Everything that happens to her is therefore, by definition, phenomenally important. History in the making, right up there with presidential assassinations, superstar overdoses or the latest on the Obama kids. She records it all in her All About Me file on her computer, a running documentary on her oh-so-fascinating life that she inputs every night, and sometimes more often, depending on what earthshattering event she happens to be at the center of.

  I used to ask her, “Why do you bother?”

  DISSOLVE TO FLASHBACK:

  INT.—TEGAN’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

  TEGAN TYRELL, 17, is sitting at her desk, typing on her computer. One end of the room is filled with shelves that are stuffed with books. Instead of posters, there are framed reproductions of classic paintings on her wall. KELLY is in the open doorway, watching her sister.

  KELLY

  Who do you think is going to read all that crap?

  TEGAN

  (without looking up)

  Samuel Pepys, Anaïs Nin…

  KELLY

  They’re dead.

  TEGAN

  Susannah Moodie, Catherine Parr Traill.

  KELLY

  Also dead.

  TEGAN

  They’re all regular people who kept diaries that are still being read decades, even centuries, later.

  KELLY

  Oh, so now you’re a regular person?

  TEGAN

  People will be interested. Just you wait and see.

  CUT BACK TO:

  INT.—KELLY’S BEDROOM—DAY

  A VOICE

  Kelly! Everything’s ready! Come on!

  KELLY sighs as she steps out of her room. She looks into the camera as it precedes her down the stairs.

  KELLY

  I hate to admit it—you have no idea how much I hate it—but Tegan turned out to be right. For a while, there were people who would have loved to get their hands on that diary of hers—if they knew it existed. A lot of people who wanted to know the whole story, who wanted the answer to the million-dollar question: Did she see or didn’t she?

  THREE

  Tegan

  Just back from the police station. I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of it. And the cops—they give me the creeps.

  This is what happened.

  “I need to get everything clear in my mind, Tegan,” Detective Zorbas said. He’s an old man, in his mid-forties, stocky, with a good-sized paunch on him that makes you think it must be true what they say about cops. They really must have a special weakness for donuts. “I’d like you to tell me one more time what you saw.”

  One more time. One more time. It was always one more time. What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he listen the first time?

  “I already told you everything I know.” If Kelly had been there, she would have given me that disapproving look of hers and accused me of using that tone of voice, the one she says makes her want to slap me because I sound like I have a pickle up my butt. But Detective Zorbas just nodded.

  “I know,” he said—as in, I know that’s what you said, but…Why didn’t he man up and tell me exactly what he was thinking: But I don’t believe you.

  But he didn’t say that. Instead he said, “I know this is difficult, Tegan.” He kept using my name, the way car salesmen do when they’re working hard to build some kind of connection so they can sell people cars with accessories and extras they don’t really want or aren’t really interested in. “But you want us to catch whoever did this, don’t you?”

  See what I mean? Why would he ask that unless he thought I was holding out on him? Unless he thought I was hiding something or protecting someone? Unless he thought I wasn’t being straight with him?

  “Try to relax,” he said.

  Right. Like that was ever going to happen.

  “Just take a deep breath and start from the beginning. Tell me everything you can remember, even if it doesn’t seem important. Okay?”

  I looked at my mother, who was sitting beside me and holding my hand. She stared back at me, her eyes more serious than I had ever seen them, like she was trying to tell me something: Do the right thing. Say the right thing.

  There was no window in the cramped little interview room we were in. There was no air either. I had changed into some clothes my mother had brought from home, and I’d washed off as best I could after they let me. But even though it wasn’t there anymore, I could still feel the blood that had splattered against my face, warm when it first hit me and then, later, cold, sticky, congealing. I felt other stuff too, stuff I’d reached up and touched, first wondering what it was and then screaming—or maybe just screaming louder—when I realized where it had come from.

  Tell me one more time.

  “Clark and Martin and I went to Thomas’s place around nine,” I said, as if I were reading out loud lines I’d had to write over and over on the blackboard as some kind of punishment. I wasn’t telling Zorbas anything that he didn’t already know or anything that I hadn’t said a couple of times already—to the cops who arrived on the scene first, to Zorbas and his partner at the scene, to Zorbas and some other detective after they brought me to the police station to wait for my mother. “There were maybe ten other people there—you have all their names, you can check with them. Everybody was having a good time. And, yes, there was some drinking.” That was one of the first things they had asked me about, only they hadn’t really asked. It was more like they accused me, and I was so rattled, I blurted out the truth. I did it because— I would never admit this to anyone—I was afraid I was going to get into trouble for it, like it even mattered. “But Clark didn’t drink anything except soda because he was driving,” I said. Clark liked to party, but not when he was going to drive, not after what happened to his brother Scott, who hadn’t been so smart and who was in a wheelchair now for the rest of his life.

  “What about Martin?”

  I looked him in the eye. “I think he had a couple of beers,” I said. I’d said it at least three times already. “Everyone was mellow. Nobody got into a fight. Nobody argued. We were just playing computer games and listening to music—you know, celebrating the end of midterms.”

  Thomas had texted us all the first day of midterm exams: Mark your calendars. Thomas believed in working hard—he was going to get a scholarship to an Ivy League college if it killed him. But he also believed in rewarding all that work.

  “We stayed until a little after midnight. The party was still going on, but Martin had practice the next day.” Martin was the star of the school basketball team. He was so good that the coach kept after him about getting an athletic scholarship, but Martin wasn’t interested. He said he wouldn’t have time for competitive athletics after high school. He was going for pre-med. Martin wanted to be a doctor—but not some rich, fat specialist who lived the high life. No way. Martin wanted to practice in Africa, in countries where there were never enough doctors, never enough drugs, never enough hospitals; places where there wasn’t enough peace either, where people were existing, not really living, in refugee camps.

  Just thinking about him made me want to cry. Tears started to trickle down my cheeks. I didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

  “You okay, Tegan?” Zorbas said. “You want me to get you some more water? A Coke?”

  Like that would change anything. I just wanted to get this over with, go home and take a hot shower— maybe a couple of hot showers.

  “Clark’s car, his suv”—brand new, a Chris
tmas present from his parents—“was parked about a block from Thomas’s condo,” I said. “The three of us walked to it together. I don’t remember seeing anyone on the street, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone.” I was walking between Clark and Martin. Martin was smiling and talking about a concert that was coming up. Besides basketball and medicine, he was big-time into music. I was waiting for him to ask me to go to the concert with him when he tripped on something. I grabbed him to stop him from falling, and he slipped an arm around my waist. He didn’t let go even after he had regained his footing. I was sure now that Clark had just been teasing me earlier. He’d acted all weird, whispering in my ear whenever he caught me looking at Martin. Forbidden fruit, he’d said. Forbidden fruit. But would he tell me what that meant? No way. He’d just flash me a sly smile and say, You’ll find out soon enough. Well, in case he hadn’t noticed, Martin and I had been pretty tight all night—as tight as his arm was around my waist at that moment— and Martin hadn’t acted like forbidden fruit. Instead, by the way he looked at me, I knew he wanted to ask me something, and I was pretty sure I knew what it was. I’d been waiting forever.

  “Afraid you’re going to slip and fall again?” I’d said, laughing, enjoying every second of physical contact with him.

  “Okay, sure,” he said with a goofy smile. “I guess that’s as good an excuse as any to hold a drop-dead gorgeous babe.”

  I laughed, pretending he was just kidding around, but inside I felt warm and happy. I wished we’d never get to Clark’s car because then maybe Martin’s arm would be around my waist forever.