I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I just couldn’t. Instead I stared at his knees and at the sharp crease in his trousers, and I waited.
“The only thing they do have, Tegan”—Here it comes, I thought—“is you.”
“Tegan has already told the police everything she knows,” my mother said.
“I understand that the police have interviewed her a couple of times.” Mr. Deacon reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a couple of pieces of paper that were as crisp as the pale-blue shirt he was wearing. He unfolded them. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Tegan. There are a few things that I don’t understand and a few questions I’d like to ask.”
I felt sick again. This was never going to stop. People were going to keep on asking me and asking me, and every time they did, I saw Martin again. I saw his head explode.
“Let’s start with the questions, why don’t we?” He didn’t seem to want an answer from me, or if he did, he didn’t wait for one. “Now, I understand that you and Clark and Martin left school together on the day in question.”
The day in question. He sounded like a cop or a lawyer. Come to think of it, he looked like a lawyer too, in his dark suit and silk tie.
“Is that right, Tegan?”
I nodded.
“But you didn’t arrive at Thomas Skelton’s condo until a little after nine pm. Is that right?”
I nodded again.
“What did the three of you do in the five and a half hours between the time you left school and the time you arrived at Thomas’s condo?”
“Nothing,” I said. I don’t know how he meant it, but it sounded like he was accusing me of something. “We didn’t do anything.”
“What I mean, Tegan,” Mr. Deacon said calmly, “is where did the three of you go?”
“To Martin’s house. We went to Martin’s house.”
“Was anyone else there?”
Why was he asking that? What was he trying to get at?
“No.”
“Just you and Clark and Martin?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do at Martin’s house?”
“Nothing. I mean, nothing special. We had something to eat. We watched some tv. We talked.” I’d stared at Martin practically the whole time. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. “Then we went to Thomas’s.”
“Did you do any drugs?”
“What?” My mother looked sharply at me. “Are you saying those boys took drugs?”
“No!” How dare he say that in front of my mother!
“Did you ever do drugs? I mean, did Martin or you ever do drugs?”
I looked at the papers in his hand. The cops had almost certainly done a postmortem by now. Had they run some kind of test for drugs? Is that how he knew?
I shook my head.
Mr. Deacon stared deep into my eyes. “That’s not true, is it, Tegan?” he said. “You were high at the party that night, weren’t you?”
I said nothing. Who did he think he was?
“You can lie to me, Tegan,” Mr. Deacon said. “But I guarantee the police are going to ask you the same question, and it’s a serious matter to lie to them.”
Why was he here? Why didn’t he go away?
“Tegan?” he said.
My mother’s head was turned toward me. I felt her stare.
“Is this true, Tegan?” she said, tense now, as if Mr. Deacon, a complete stranger, had presented her with evidence that I was some kind of drug addict.
“It was just a little weed,” I said to Mr. Deacon. I didn’t look at my mother. I couldn’t.
“You mean marijuana?” Mr. Deacon said.
“You took drugs?” My mother’s voice was shrill.
“There was a joint going around. I took a few puffs.”
“Tegan, how could you?” Her tone was one-half horror, one-half profound disappointment, as if I’d been caught mainlining heroin.
“What about Martin?” Mr. Deacon said.
“I don’t know.” It would have been better if I could have looked him in the eye when I answered, but I couldn’t. “I didn’t watch him all night.”
“Did Martin ever do drugs?”
It was one thing to confess for myself. But there was no way I was going to make Martin look bad. “I don’t know.”
“But he did drugs that night, didn’t he?”
“I already told you—I don’t know.”
“He did drugs that night, Tegan,” he said, telling me now, not asking me. “What about Clark? Did he ever do drugs? And I’d appreciate your honesty this time, Tegan. So would his parents.”
I stole a glance at my mother. I’d never seen her look so disappointed.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“As often as you and Martin?”
What was he driving at?
“No.” Clark preferred vodka to weed.
“Did Clark do any drugs recently that you know of?”
“No.” Clark had sworn off drugs because of the accident. “At least, not that I know of.”
“When you did drugs, where did you get them?” Mr. Deacon asked.
“It wasn’t drugs.” Jeez, he made it sound worse than it was. “It was weed.”
He stared at me for a moment. “You can call it whatever you want, Tegan. But you are aware that marijuana is a prohibited substance, aren’t you? You are aware that it’s illegal?”
I stared right back at him.
“Where did you get the drugs, Tegan?”
“Where did I get them?” Now he was making me out to look bad. “It wasn’t me. It was Martin—” I stopped. This man, this complete stranger, was accusing me of something. Now I was accusing Martin. Betraying him.
“It was Martin what?” Mr. Deacon said. “It was Martin who got the drugs when you needed them?”
“We didn’t need them. It was just for fun, just to relax. That’s all.”
“Where did he get the drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
“He had a dealer he used, didn’t he?”
“I said, I don’t know!”
“Don’t know or won’t tell?”
“Mom!” I looked pleadingly at her. For a moment she sat motionless. She was angry with me. I had no choice. I started to cry. My mother took the hint. She stood up.
“I think you should leave,” she told Mr. Deacon.
Mr. Deacon stayed where he was. His eyes stayed on me.
“Did you see Martin’s drug dealer that night?” he said. “Did Martin get into some kind of dispute with him? Did he refuse to pay him? Is that what happened? Is that why Martin and Clark died?”
“No.”
“No? So you do know something about this, don’t you, Tegan?”
“No. I don’t know anything.”
“And yet you seem certain that Martin’s drug dealer didn’t shoot Martin and Clark?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“According to the evidence and to what you told the police, the shooter was on the driver’s side, isn’t that right?”
I looked at my mother. Why didn’t she make him go away?
“Tegan?” Mr. Deacon said.
“Yeah. So?”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that he was on Clark’s side of the car but that he shot Martin first? Why do you think he did that?”
I just stared at him.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid, Tegan? Is that why you won’t cooperate with the police?”
What?
“I told them everything I know.”
“Did you?”
My mother stood up again.
“I want you to leave. Right now,” she said.
“I’ll understand if you tell me you’re afraid, Tegan. The police can protect you. If you help them catch the scumbag who killed Clark and Martin, they’ll protect you.”
“I didn’t see anything.” How many times did I have to say it?
“You’re upsetting my daughter.” Wh
at she really meant was he was upsetting her. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the police.”
Mr. Deacon stood up, but his eyes never left mine. “Or maybe it was one of Martin’s dissatisfied customers,” he said in a soft voice, like a snake’s hiss. “Is that it, Tegan? Did Martin stiff one of his customers, maybe pass off some inferior stuff or shortchange someone? Is that what happened?”
“Martin didn’t have customers.”
“Are you sure about that? A lot of users deal on the side.”
“He wasn’t a user.”
He glanced at the paper in his hands. “He smoked marijuana that night, Tegan. According to Thomas Skelton, so did you. Thomas said that Martin provided the marijuana. He was dealing, wasn’t he?”
I stood up. I pushed him, hard. I didn’t stop pushing him until he was out of the living room and in the front hall. He looked calmly at me.
“You really should cooperate with the police, Tegan. You should do the right thing. Clark is the innocent one here. He didn’t deserve to die.”
Clark didn’t deserve to die? Clark was the innocent one? What was he saying—that Martin did deserve it?
He opened the door and was gone. I slammed the door behind him and turned. My mother was standing behind me.
“He’s right, Tegan,” she said. “If you know anything, you should tell.”
NINE
Kelly
INT.—TYRELL FOYER—NIGHT
KELLY bursts through the front door, flinging down her backpack.
KELLY
(shouting)
Tegan! Tegan, are you here?
TEGAN
(from the living room)
I’m in here.
CUT TO:
INT.—TYRELL LIVING ROOM—NIGHT
TEGAN is curled up on the sofa when KELLY charges into the room, her face twisted in rage.
KELLY
How could you? And don’t bother denying it! I know it was your fault!
TEGAN
Deny what? What are you talking about?
KELLY
Martin. He quit smoking dope, but he was smoking that night. Everyone says so. It was you, wasn’t it? You pressured him into it!
TEGAN
(squirming uncomfortably)
Obviously he didn’t quit if he was smoking that night. And how dare you blame me! I’m under enough pressure as it is. Martin wouldn’t have done anything he didn’t want to do.
KELLY
He would if you nagged him enough. I know you. You make such a pain of yourself that it’s easy to do whatever it is you want just to shut you up.
TEGAN
(pulling herself up straight)
I don’t know what you’re talking about. And this is none of your business. You weren’t there. You have no idea what happened, no idea what I went through. Martin was my…he was my boyfriend.
KELLY
(stunned)
What? Says who?
TEGAN
Says Martin.
KELLY
When?
TEGAN
At the party. Don’t look so surprised. Martin and I were friends forever. We hung out together. It just naturally evolved into something…more meaningful.
KELLY
You’re lying!
TEGAN
(springing to her feet)
No, I’m not. We made it official that night. And then…
(her eyes tearing up)
And then that had to happen.
KELLY
Right—you finally got yourself a boyfriend and then someone had to come along and mess that up for you by shooting him. For your information—KELLY suddenly clamps her mouth shut and draws in a deep breath.
TEGAN
(glowering at her)
I hate you, you know that? I absolutely hate you!
TEGAN runs out of the living room. Her footsteps are heard on the stairs, followed by a door slamming from somewhere up above. The camera moves in for an extreme close-up of Kelly.
KELLY
If I was a different kind of person, I’d tell her. I’d just come right out and tell her. But what good would it do, especially now?
She flops down onto the sofa and begins to cry softly.
TEN
Tegan
Jesus, my sister is a pain in the butt. Can’t she see how I feel? Can’t she understand what I’m going through? Two people were killed right in front of me. It’s a miracle I wasn’t killed myself. Every time I close my eyes, I see the scene again—in close-up, in slow motion, like one of those crime scene shows on tv. I see the barrel of the gun. I see the bullet come spiraling out of it, heading right for Martin. I see it make contact. I see his head—
If I’m lucky, that’s when I wake up screaming.
If I’m not lucky, I have to watch it happen. And then I see the gun turn on me. I hear an explosion, like a cannon being fired, and I see a bullet spiraling toward me this time, heading straight for the spot between my eyes. I hear myself scream. I feel it hit me—it’s burning hot. It sears through me. The next thing I know, I’m sitting up in bed, soaking wet with sweat, tears streaming down my face.
And my kid sister wants to give me a hard time about smoking a couple of joints?
Okay, so maybe Martin wasn’t as accommodating as he usually was when I said I hoped he was going to deliver on the party favors that night. He’d been a real downer for a few weeks before that, turning into a real grouch whenever I suggested we have a little fun. He always had some excuse why he didn’t want to—he had too much homework; he was in a hurry to get to his volunteer job with Doctors Without Borders, which all of a sudden seemed like the most important thing in the world; he was short on cash (which I knew was a crock—his dad always saw to it that he had walking-around money). It was like he was turning into a different person. I had to really work it to get him to deliver, and even then…God, I hate Kelly. I hate the way she thinks she has me all figured out. I especially hate it when she turns out to be right.
I pretty much kept at Martin for the whole three days before the party, until, for the first time ever, he exploded.
“Jeez,” he said. “Are you ever going to just shut up about it?”
I was so surprised that all I could do was stare at him. I felt like I was going to burst into tears, but I refused to let that happen, not while I was sitting there in the cafeteria, not when so many heads had turned to look at us.
“Fine,” he snarled. He jumped up, making even more noise as his chair scraped against the floor, and stormed out of the cafeteria.
I glanced at Clark, who wasn’t the least bit sympathetic. Clark had gone all straitlaced after his accident, at least where weed was concerned. Right after it happened, he said his parents had been all over him with: Do you want to end up like your brother Scott? I couldn’t believe it. Clark and Martin were practically my best friends. We used to party every weekend. Then, all of a sudden, they both went all serious on me.
But Martin produced at the party. And, with a little coaxing, he finally joined the fun. He kept looking at me too, but not the way he used to. It was like he was trying to read my soul, and, I swear to God, he was on the edge of telling me something. He would have too, when he and Clark dropped me off at my house. I know he would have. I’m not the completely self-centered bitch my sister makes me out to be. I can read people. I read Martin that night. I knew exactly what was going to happen.
Clark was going to pull over in front of my house, just like always.
Martin was going to get out and open my door for me, just like always.
Only this time he was going to go with me up the walk.
This time he was going to tell me what had been on his mind all night.
This time, he was going to kiss me.
I just knew it.
The day went from merely sucking to sucking the big one.
My best friend, Gina, called—it was the first time I’d talked to her since it happened.
; “You still mad at me?” I asked. She’d been angry when she found out that I’d been invited to Thomas’s party but she hadn’t. She’d asked me to ask Thomas to invite her too. I told her I would, but I didn’t. Thomas wasn’t hot on Gina, and I didn’t want to get myself crossed off his invitation list because I’d badgered him about her.
“Of course not,” she said, as if she hadn’t shrieked at me and accused me of not trying hard enough to get her onto the guest list. “Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“I heard Martin’s parents talked to Clark’s parents about having a joint funeral. It makes sense, right? Clark and Martin were best friends. They have tons of friends in common. They went to the same school, which means a lot of the same teachers are going to want to be there. Also, if you ask me, they would have wanted to be together, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” The truth was, I hadn’t thought about funerals. Maybe I didn’t want to think about them.
“Clark’s parents said no,” Gina said.
“What? Why would they do that?”
“I heard from Sara, who got it directly from Anna”— Anna is one of Martin’s sisters. She goes to my school too—“that they weren’t very nice about it either. You know how they can be, especially Clark’s mom.”
I knew all right. She was stuck up. She’d grown up rich, she’d married rich, and she thought she was better than everyone else because of it. She especially thought she was better than Mr. and Mrs. Genovese—one who had never finished school, and the other who had come over from the Azores without a word of English and had worked nights as an office cleaner even after she married Mr. Genovese, using her paycheck to run the household while every penny he made went into building his business. Mrs. Carson had never liked that her precious Clark’s best friend was the son of two such unworthy people.
She Said/She Saw Page 4
