Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

hesitated, cleared his throat, gave me a pleading look. I said, “Roger, what the hell is going on?”
    Finally, he said, “Mr. Mason, you’ve got to see what’s happening. It’s over the whole school about what happened to your classroom. If they can do that here in school, think what they could do to us.”
    â€œWho’s they?”
    â€œI can’t tell you.”
    â€œCome on, Roger. You know I can be trusted.”
    â€œI know. But all the same, I can’t tell you anything.”
    â€œIs Becky behind all this?”
    He looked pained and defensive and didn’t answer, but I presumed I was right.
    â€œWho had a reason to kill Susan?”
    â€œNobody. She just hung around with us. I think the girls thought she was kind of okay. She was part of the crowd only because she dated Jeff.”
    I asked him about the possibility of drug or alcohol abuse at the party. I got nowhere with him on that topic. The bell rang
for second hour. I could learn nothing more from him at that moment, so I let him go.
    At noon, I called to see whether there’d been any progress in getting Jeff released. Mrs. Trask reported she’d be in court that afternoon. They’d managed to find a judge who would set a reasonable bail.
    I expected Eric at four. In my restored room I spent the time after my tutoring group left wading through a stack of senior essays on Wordsworth and Coleridge. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds have amazingly weird notions about English Romantic poetry. I was halfway through the stack when Eric walked in. He arrived precisely on time.
    Exceptionally lean and gawky, Eric was tall enough to be a basketball star, but uncoordinated enough to be stuck on the bench most of the time, when he wasn’t ineligible because of his grades. Since graduation last June, he’d grown a mustache. His hair, more than fashionably long in back, was often gathered into a mini ponytail. On occasion, I’d seen him sporting a diamond stud earring. His thick eyebrows formed a straight line across his face, on which an ocean of zits mixed with scraggly wisps of beard.
    He dumped his winter hat, coat, and gloves on a chair, along with his gym bag. He draped himself into a front-row seat. He wore designer jeans and a tight silk shirt. He’d obviously changed from his mechanic’s work clothes. He moved his ass to the edge of the seat, planted his feet wide apart, and crossed his arms over his bony chest. He’d driven my car over. I offered him a ride home, but he said he’d stop at basketball practice and get a ride with one of the guys.
    That out of the way, he said, “Jeff didn’t kill her.”
    I could understand a brother standing up for his own, but he sounded absolutely definite.
    â€œWho did?”
    â€œBeats the hell out of me. Jeff may be a good athlete, tough and all, but he’s got the soul of a nerd and the heart of a wimp.
Every time we wanted to do stuff, he’d wimp out. Like if me, Paul, and Roger wanted to go cruising to pick up girls, Jeff wouldn’t go along. Said Susan was his girl and that was it. We were doing it just for fun. Nobody ever got lucky. But you never know, you might.” His grin revealed uneven teeth. “I’d say he was pretty much by himself. He hung around with us, but he said the least.”
    â€œWhat about his temper?”
    â€œWe had fights. All brothers do.” He shrugged. “He loses it pretty quick at games, that’s all.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound wimpy to me.”
    â€œYeah, it is. He loses his temper over crybaby stuff. He only makes the refs mad. He sees the college and NBA guys do it on TV, and he thinks it’s okay. It’s bush-league bullshit.”
    â€œHow was he Sunday? His usual self?”
    â€œAll he did was try to get Susan to leave early. We all ragged at him about it. He got kind of mad. He and Paul almost got into it. Nothing came of it. They