Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Read Online Free Page A

the administration that the teacher had simply quit—and she had the makings of a good teacher. Rumor had it that if you got hold of Mr. Twitchell, you might see some chagrin in his daughter for a day or two. I’d never seen evidence of this.
    The kid mouths off, talks back, hums, whistles, mumbles under her breath, or a combination of the above, in all classes. A large portion of the faculty believes Becky’s behind every evil perpetrated in the school, from break-ins to broken windows. If kids were rebellious, it was Becky’s fault for encouraging them. If there was cigarette smoke in the girls’ john, they were sure it was Becky. If anti-teacher hate graffiti appeared painted on the school walls, Becky got blamed. The rare times Becky’d been caught, Mom had stepped in. Becky would return to school the next day with a shit-eating grin. Whatever political pressure occurred, Becky never served a minute of suspension or detention. She always won. She frightened many of the teachers. The only one of us who’d defied her this year found his tires slashed in the parking lot that afternoon.

    I’d hated her last year as a junior. I’d felt her watching me in class, her mind whirling and calculating. I know, I know. As a teacher, you’re supposed to care and be impartial. Every teacher I remember as a kid had favorites. Every teacher I knew on the faculty at Grover Cleveland High School had favorites. Face it, some kids are assholes. Some are great to know. Most teachers try to be fair. I’ve never changed a grade no matter how intensely I liked or disliked a kid.
    â€œHow do you get along with Becky?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s Paul’s girlfriend. What’s to get along with? I try to stay out of her way. All the guys do. She’s vicious.”
    Almost casually, I asked, “Did you know Susan was pregnant?”
    His openmouthed surprise clicked in my mind as genuine. “She couldn’t be,” he said. “We always, I mean, I used, you know, protection.” He told me the story of how after they’d dated awhile, Mrs. Warren had made Susan go to a family-planning clinic. She wouldn’t talk to Susan about sex or being pregnant, but she made her go. Somehow, her mom had figured out about them. The clinic made Susan take Jeff along for a visit. After this explanation, tears rimmed his eyes, but he didn’t cry. He said, “I thought she loved me.”
    I told him about condoms not being 100 percent sure, but he remained adamant. It wasn’t him.
    I switched to asking him how he got along with his mom and dad. Mom was a shrug and an “Okay, I guess.” Much as I liked Mrs. Trask, I imagine she could be a bitch to live with. Mr. Trask was a sneer and an “I hate the bastard.” He saw his dad very rarely. Last summer had been an experiment because he’d had a fight with his mom. Annoying as life with his mom had been, the months with his dad were worse.
    I got the names of the other kids at the party. I’d want to talk to them the next day. We talked for a while longer, but he could give no indication of who might have wanted to hurt Susan, where she might have gone, or who she might have been with.
His last plea was for me to please help him, and a powerful reiteration of his innocence.
    I told him it looked bleak but that I would do everything I could for him.
    When I returned to the front desk, Mr. Trask and the group of kids had left.
    I talked with Frank briefly. The last thing he said was, “If you believe Jeff is innocent, then obviously somebody else did it. A good place to start is with the other kids at the party. My cop instincts tell me something is up with them. I’ve never met such a closed-mouth group. I wanted to find out some basic information about the party. I couldn’t get more than one or two words out of them. You’re good at getting teenagers to open up to you. I’d appreciate it