To Die For (3 page)

I
T WASN’T MY IDEA
. It was Russell got me into it. Always was a peckerhead.

It’s, I don’t know, September, October maybe. October I guess, because I didn’t have my license yet. Got my license November 8, day I turned sixteen. Man I’d been waiting a long time for that day.

We’re outside school, having a smoke, when she pulls up in that Datsun of hers. Steps out like some chick in a commercial—first all you see is her legs in those high-heel shoes. Didn’t even see her face right off, just that leg. Fuck if that doesn’t give you a boner, says Russell.

Her nose was kind of funny, but to me she still looked pretty. And knew it. She bends over so her rear end’s in our face, reaching for her damn briefcase or some shit. Then she just stands there a minute, leaning against her car, and she runs her tongue over her lips, like you know women do because they saw it in a movie and they know it makes guys hot.

And then she heads into the school, tossing her hair when she passes us, wiggling her butt, the works. “Some cunt,” Russell says to me, loud enough I bet she heard. Not that she let on. “Wouldn’t I like to bang that?”

Me, I’m just standing there letting my cigarette burn down. She was close enough that I could smell this perfume she was wearing. But you know, she might as well’ve been heading to Mars, for all the hope I had of getting in her pants. I’m fifteen years old at this point, and I know I’m never going to have a piece of ass like that. They’ll strut by you with their I-got-the-pussy attitude, but they’ll keep on walking. I might as well be a piece of dog shit.

She shows up at our health class that morning. It turns out her name’s Mrs. Maretto, and she’s some TV reporter making a video about teen life. She wants to interview a bunch of kids about their thoughts on all these subjects like, How Do You Feel About Using a Condom? and Do Your Parents Understand You? She’s looking for volunteers to work with her for the next six months. I tell Russ, “I dare you to talk to her.” He says, “OK, I will.” I should’ve known better. Russell’s not what you could call the quiet type.

The next day we’re out there having our smoke and her car pulls up again. “By the way,” says Russell. “Looks like you’ll be spending some time with Mrs. Hard-on.” Turns out Russell signed me up for this video project of hers.

I go straight for his balls, but of course he’s ready for that. “Fuck,” I say. “Why’d you go and do that for?”

“It’s about time you picked up some brownie points at this scumhole,” he says. “You might even get your name on the announcements or something.” Then he laughs, because as long as Russell and I been going to this fucking school, the only place our names ever came up was in the detention list. They might as well make a rubber stamp with Russell Hines and Jimmy Emmet on it, because we’re always there. Dependable as shit.

I didn’t plan on showing up for this video gig. Just because my name’s on her list doesn’t mean I’m Joe Student all of a sudden. Only what happens is, I guess nobody else signs up and she’s desperate. Most likely she told her boss she’s going to make this video and she’s got the equipment and shit, and no kids. Or just me. Now probably the asshole says they’re going to bag the whole deal, but she don’t want to do that on account of she’s wetting her pants thinking about this being her big break that’s going to make her famous. Meanwhile my guidance counselor’s having a hard-on of his own that I’m finally showing an interest in extracurricular activities. He figures he’s got to encourage the little fucker. Or words to that effect. Then she comes back to Russell and says listen, why don’t you join our video project? And old Russell, thinking this is going to be a gas, says, “Sure, Mrs. Maretto. That sounds interesting. I wouldn’t miss it.”

She says to meet her at Pizza Hut after school, so we can get to know each other. We make a plan, Russell and me. We’re going to give the chick a hard time from day one, fuck with her head a while, then split. We figure we’re her little project. She can be ours.

But when I show up that first day, it looked different all of a sudden. I’m the first one there, and she’s sitting in this booth with a new notebook, and she’s got these papers all copied out, one for each of us, and she’s even typed out all this stuff on her computer with roman numerals. An outline or whatever you call it. And it hits me, I don’t know, that she’s been busting her tail over this, like it really matters. She calls me James and she even shakes my goddam hand. And when I shake her hand back, I can feel it’s trembling like she’s nervous. Which it never hit me somebody like that would be.

The other times I saw her she always looked so pretty and perfect. Up close, I could tell some things I never saw before, like that she was so skinny she had this safety pin in her skirt. This is dumb, but I remember she had a zit. Nothing major, just a place on her forehead where you could tell her skin broke out, and she’d tried to cover it up with makeup only it didn’t work. And even though she didn’t look so pretty then, it hit me that she was more like a kid, wobbling around on those high heels of hers. She actually thought I was tough shit.

She had this diamond ring. Jesus, I’m thinking, this chick is married. She’s a TV reporter and everything, and she still gets zits.

“So,” she’s saying, “I think this will be a stimulating look at the sociological and psychological ramifications of being a young person in the nineties” and blah blah blah. And she’s saying she just knows we can make a dynamite documentary. And I’m looking at Russell, who’s come in by this time, and he’s staring straight at her tits, and she knows that too, and when she gets to the part about being excited he grins. Real quiet, I say to him, “Fuck off man. Lay off her.” Which I never in a million years figured I’d say. A guy like me, I mean.

But there was something about Mrs. Maretto. I didn’t just want to fuck her. I respected her. I liked her. I didn’t want her thinking I was just this jerk kid that all he cared about was humping some girl. More than anything I wanted her to like me. Not that I let on to Russell, naturally.

What I said to Russell was, “I’d kill for a piece of that.” But at the time, it was only meant to be an expression.

P
UT YOURSELF IN MY
shoes for a moment. All my life I’ve been dedicated to achieving certain goals in life, and I’ve pursued those goals. I worked very hard to get where I was. I never used drugs. Always maintained my appearance. I never got into any trouble. Look at my high school record, and college. I graduated with a 3.9 average. I have always believed that life is what you put into it, and that it is every person’s God-given right to be all that he or she can be. For myself, I wanted to be happily married, with a home and a fulfilling career. A mere six months ago I had attained those things, and I was working to build an even more exciting future. Now everything I had is lost. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m a widow.

I know what Larry would say if he were here today. “Don’t let it get to you,” he’d say. “Life isn’t always fair, Suzanne, but we have to make the best of the hand life deals us and move forward from here.” He would say, “I have faith in you, Suzanne. I know everything will work out.” “Look for the positive aspects instead of dwelling on the negative.” And so I am trying to do that. Larry is gone forever, and nothing will bring him back to us. But I can’t give up on my life, just because he’s gone. I’m a fighter.

This whole thing is like a movie on television I can’t turn off. Sometimes I still wake up, forgetting it actually happened. I look across my pillow, expecting to see Larry lying there asleep. Then I remember. It’s not just a bad dream.

I had gone out to an audition for a position at a television station over in Woodbury that night. Arts and entertainment reporter at WNTK. I hold a bachelors degree in Media Communication from Sanders College. One reason I always try to cooperate with the press, the way I’m doing right now, is because I’ve been a journalist and broadcaster myself, and I always planned a future in television. I owe it to Larry as well as myself to make that dream a reality someday. Just because a person you love dies doesn’t mean you’re dead too. I’m still very much alive. And I still have dreams. I still have a future.

Just to give you some idea of how things were between Larry and I, I had talked to him just a few hours before the audition. And he was so excited for me. He knew how much this job meant to me, and because it was important to me, it was important to him. Looking back on that conversation now, I realize it was the last time I ever spoke to him. His last words to me were, “You go in there and show them, Suzanne. I know you can do it.”

It was a very important night for me. I’d worked hard on my presentation, which included a sample movie review and a weekend roundup of fun activities for families. I know I did well on my interview too. Everyone was impressed. After I played the video of my weather broadcasts at my present job, they even clapped. Naturally nobody was going to make a commitment that very day, but the station manager gave me this look, as he was shaking my hand, before I left, which I knew meant he was looking forward to my coming aboard. “Very nice material, Suzanne,” he said to me. “Very nice.” I’ll always remember the way he squeezed my hand as he said that. You knew he was sincere.

So naturally I was feeling good as I drove home. Thinking about the new job and all. And especially looking forward to telling Larry. Knowing how proud of me he’d be. He was always my biggest fan.

It was another dream come true. And the whole time I was driving home, I was thinking to myself, Larry will be so happy when I tell him. He’d been out late himself that night, at the restaurant, but I figured he’d get home before me, and when I got to our condo I saw I was right, because his car was parked out front like always. Only the odd part was, Larry always left the house lights on until I got home. It was just after ten o’clock, but our house was completely dark.

Still, nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I opened the door. There was Larry lying in a pool of blood, like John Lennon or somebody. Our home had been totally ransacked. There were stereo components lying in the middle of the floor, and a box of my jewelry spilled on the rug, and furniture turned over, like there had been a fight. I figured Larry must have come in just as this burglary was being committed and surprised the criminals. It’s one of those situations of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.

So they grabbed him, and struggled. Larry was a very strong, very athletic person, so I think there had to be at least two of them to hold him down. Anyway, there he was. You know the rest. Lying there, with blood all over his head, and blood dripping on our new carpet. I took one look at him and knew he must be dead. Looking at him, I remember thinking, He’ll never know if I get the arts and entertainment reporting job. It would’ve made him so happy.

I’ve been trained in crime reporting, so I kept my head. I knew I should get out of the apartment right away, in case the criminals were still there. Also I knew better than to disturb the body. At Sanders I worked as a reporter for the college radio station, and I was present at numerous crime scenes. I know how important it is to leave everything the way you found it. Even in a crisis, you never stop being a journalist. That’s just the way I am. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same things as other people. It’s just my professional training coming through.

Right from the start, I tried to cooperate with the police in every way, to assist them in finding Larry’s killers. It won’t bring my husband back. But it’s important to those of us who loved him that we see justice done. The police have been doing a terrific job. Just incredible.

I don’t blame the police for what’s happening now. It’s their job to explore every avenue, consider every possibility, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. In a murder investigation, you’ve got to listen to everybody, even if they have a reputation for getting into trouble. Even if they’re the kind of people everybody knows are mixed up with drugs and crime. Which applies to both of those boys, heaven knows. I mean we’re not exactly dealing with a bunch of Eagle Scouts here.

O
NE DAY LAST FALL
, we came into first period and our health teacher said, “We have a very important guest here this morning, a representative of our local television station who has asked to have a few words with you.” Just when I’m ready to space out, up she steps. That woke me up, let me tell you. I mean, this wasn’t any Kim Basinger we’re talking about, but she was definitely an improvement on Mrs. Finlaysson.

She was wearing this little skirt with suspenders, and these lace-up boots, and the tiniest feet. Lacy stockings. Her hair in a ponytail. “I know you’ll want to give Mrs. Maretto your attention, students,” says Mrs. F. Like there was ever any doubt.

Then she tells us about this video she’s making for the cable station. “Adults are always sounding off to kids,” she says. “This is your chance to tell them what’s on your mind.” It wasn’t so very many years ago she was in high school herself, she says. Even if she did seem like an old married lady. Which of course she didn’t.

The show was going to be called “Teens Speak Out.” She’d be spending time at the school for the next couple months, interviewing kids. She wanted to really get to know a group of us, hear our thoughts on drugs, sex, rock music, peer pressure. You could just see all the guys, especially, rolling their eyes when she said that. Like they were really going to sit down in front of a TV camera and tell their deep feelings about sex.

She knew it too. “Listen,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about your anonymity. We have this special device I use on the sound equipment that scrambles your voice. You can have your back to the camera. We can even speak in private, off camera, and I’ll just report on some of what you tell me. Think of this as your opportunity to let the older generation understand what makes you tick.”

By this time it wasn’t just the guys that were making faces, it was just about everyone. There’s this little wave of snickering going on, people shooting each other looks or giving the person in front of them little kicks under the desk. One real popular guy, Vic, that plays center on the varsity basketball team, raised his hand and asked her, real innocent like, whether they’d need permission slips from their parents before talking to her. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. You got the impression she was the type person that could never tell when someone was pulling her leg.