Circle of Silence (3 page)

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

Jean Genet

MP LOG

Six drops of blood. Oh yeah, they looked cool on the page. Real
red. One drop for each of us. We sat in a circle and pricked our fingers. Even
the chicks did it. Then we mixed them together for a blood oath. Watching each
other’s backs is the only way to survive.

This school is such bullshit, man. Ask anyone what they
think and they’ll say it blows. But the truth is, everyone’s a phony. They say
one thing, but then they join a team or sign up for some club they know is
stupid. Not to mention sucking up to the teachers. MP’s not gonna suck up to
anyone.

Phantom and I are in charge because we thought it up.
Everyone picked names. I’m Skeletor. There’s Hell Girl, Frankenstein, Ghost Face
and Zombie. We memorized the oath because that’s how I want to start every
meeting. Always a good idea to remind people of a sworn blood oath.

Then we talked about what’s next. I explained my theory that
you never do your best stuff first. Everyone agreed: start small and work up to
some serious shit.

See, we’re really not the same as the other kids at school.
When
we
say WiHi sucks, we mean it.

I cannot wait to see their shocked faces when it all goes
down.

4

Every member of TV Production focuses on the monitor.
It’s the Wednesday before the first broadcast. Presentation Day. The team has to
show Mr. Carleton what we have so he can sign off on each segment.

Henry and I ate lunch in the Media Center for almost a week to
work on the opening graphics. They’re heavily Photoshopped, with a bit of anime
that Henry, bless his overachieving little soul, created.

When they finish running, we get the thumbs-up from Carleton.
Next, Marci runs the football segment, which includes an interview with Phil. A
few cheerleaders go on—and on—about school spirit. Then the senior-class
president, Greg Martin, makes the pitch about the hot dog stand.

“An Irving dog is a deserving dog, dawgs,” his on-screen image
tells us.

“Lame!” Jagger grumbles.

“But it’s in sync. And loud enough. Although the piece is a
little slow, Marci,” Mr. Carleton says. “Can you edit the girls? And that tight
end?”

“Linebacker,” Marci corrects. “As long it gets done in class. I
can’t stay after school.”

I nod at my best friend, remembering our pact at Tony’s.
Whatever you can’t finish, I will.

Next, it’s Raul’s turn. Eagerly, he clicks into the
skateboarding piece. The thing starts crazy and keeps on going. Jagger’s on a
board, doing some amazing tricks. A sweet bank to the ledge before he blasts a
kick flip looks pretty spectacular on the screen. Then the point of view shifts
so it seems like the viewer’s skating.

“Dude!” A Team’s leader, Scott Jenkins, looks a little green
with envy—or worry.
“
Where’d you get the music?”

“
GarageBand,
bro,” Jagger says.
“Put it together last night.”

“Now, that’s tight!” Scott murmurs.

I try not to gloat.
Score one for the
newbie—and the team stuck with him.

Mr. Carleton is not as impressed. “Camera work’s good, boys.
But it’s a little light on specifics. For example, where’s the park located?
Hours. The boring
information
that actually
constitutes news.”

Raul laughs. “Don’t sweat it, Mr. C. I’m planning a voice-over
under the last trick.”

“You could end with a visual,” I suggest. “Didn’t I see footage
of the entrance sign in an earlier version?”

“I cut it because I thought we were long, but sure, I can go
out on it. Along with the voice-over. Would that be okay, Mr. Carleton?”

The teacher nods. “What else do you have, Val?”

“Spotlight and club news. Omar, you’re up.”

He plays his interview with Mrs. Fahey. It’s the least
interesting thing we’ve got, but it’s short. Still, it’s the kind of piece
Carleton loves because it puts the administration in a good light.

“Great job, Omar, although her audio’s a little low. I’ll show
you how to boost it when we’re done,” the teacher tells him.

I tap Jagger. “Ready?”

He shakes his head. “I was helping Raul.”

“You were supposed to work on the clubs—”

“No worries, Val.” Raul tries not to yawn. “It’ll get
done.”

Is he making the point that he’d be a more laid-back producer
than me? Or am I paranoid and he’s just trying to help?

Carleton stands. “Good start, folks. Valerie, you’re shooting
anchor tomorrow, right? Plus keeping track of time.” He claps his hands. “B
Team, you know what you have to do.

“A Team, I better see some equipment signed out. You’re on the
hot seat next week.”

The class scatters. Scott’s group huddles at their table.
There’s always some degree of rivalry between the two teams. If Scott wants to
put in the effort, he and his team can definitely give me a run for the money. I
won’t find out how seriously they want to compete until their broadcast airs
next week.

“Bring it, A Team,” I whisper before moving to the computer
Henry’s staked out as his own. “Do you want to write anchor stuff or should
I?”

“You do it,” he says. “I’m not happy with the last two seconds
of the opening.”

“Looked fine to me.”

Henry shakes his head. “Color’s not tracking….”

I leave him to his screen. No sense wasting class time writing
material, because I can do that at home. There are more important things to
worry about.

Raul and Jagger are working on the skateboard voice-over.

“Can I see what you have on the clubs?” Jagger hesitates, so I
get in his face. “Let me explain how Advanced works, Voorham. Points are taken
from everyone if we don’t run four segments. That’s why there’s a producer. It’s
about the team, not any one person. I’m supposed to work with anyone who needs
help.” I look to Raul. “You guys shot stuff, right? And imported?”

Importing footage to the computer takes forever. It’ll help a
lot if they’ve gotten that far.

“Yeah, we digitized.” Raul stretches. “I got this, Jags. Can
you find it for her?”

Jags?
Don’t tell me Raul’s
fallen under the Voorham spell. I’m pretty sure they
never said a word to each other before last week.

Jagger strolls to a computer at the far end. Damn. Now it’s
just the two of us. He’s wearing an emerald-colored tee today, tight enough to
make even his skinny body look buff. I wonder if he realizes how that particular
shade brightens the specks of green in his eyes—

Stop thinking about him. Concentrate on
the job….

Pulling up a chair, I view the raw footage. The problem’s
fairly obvious. There’s no focus. No angle into the story—and not a lot of time
to get one. Part of that’s my fault. It was too big an assignment for someone
new to the game. It also didn’t help that the boys got so into the skateboard
story, neither of them cared about this one.

“Run it again,” I mutter.

The second time through, I see a way to make it work. “Mind if
I do a little editing?”

“Knock yourself out,” Jagger says.

We switch chairs. “The interview with Mr. Sorren on his new
European history club isn’t bad, but he goes on too long.” Jagger and Raul
interrupted his class when they walked in. As the video camera pans the room, I
see my sister sitting by herself. I’ll never hear the end of it if Bethany gets
into the piece looking like a friendless twerp. The first thing I do is cut her
out.

See how I protect you?
Bethany
wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, so I won’t mention it. But somewhere, on a huge
whiteboard in the sky, someone’s keeping track of my good deeds. At least I hope
so.

I fast-forward to a student interview. One of Jagger’s skater
friends asks, “Why join anything?”

“Might be able to use this kid as a segue….” I want to try an
editing trick one of last year’s seniors used. Repeat a tiny section, in this
case, “Why join anything?” between the interviews. It can give a piece momentum
so it doesn’t feel all over the place.

“Jagger, get the Weekly Bulletin and scan the Club Schedule
into the computer. You know how to do that, right? Then blow it up, print it
back out and we’ll shoot it….”

The class ends before we’re close to finishing, but at least I
have a plan. “I might be able to get a rough edit done during lunch.” I glance
guiltily at Mr. Carleton. I’m not supposed to do Jagger’s work—but it’s crunch
time. It’ll take too long to teach him the ins and outs of editing before the
Friday broadcast.

“You’re allowed to eat in here?” Jagger asks.

“As long as we don’t spill anything on the equipment. You’re
supposed to sit at one of the tables, but no on actually does.”

“Should I meet you in the cafeteria?”

No! No—

“I brought a sandwich.”

“Then I’ll come after I get through the line,” he tells me.

Omigod, omigod, omigod…

“Sure,” I mumble.

“Val?” His touch is light but every fingertip tingles against
my skin. “Thanks for helping.”

He takes off. I walk to the B Team table for my backpack,
trying to figure out his game. Did Jagger take the class because he thought it
would be easy? That he’d be able to slack off while I do all his work? If so,
he’s in for a very rude awakening.

* * *

At the lockers before lunch, Marci has to relay every
detail about last night’s fight with her dad. Usually, I don’t mind listening,
but right now
there’s no time. Luckily, Phil shows
up halfway through the replay. She turns to him for the kind of comfort I can’t
give. A sloppy lip-lock.

Released from best-friend duty, I burst into the Media Center.
Mr. Carleton waves. Feet on desk, coffee in hand, he’s watching something on his
computer.

“Anyone from the team show up?”

He shakes his head. “Not even Henry.”

I glance at the clock. Jagger’s probably stuck in the lunch
line. It’s why I bring a sandwich every day. Pulling up the piece, I continue
editing where I left off, working quickly. It’s not until the bell rings that it
occurs to me that Jagger stood me up.

Unbelievable! How can I possibly fall for his B.S. again?
Instead of being hurt, I’m furious—at both him and myself.

At the end of the day, I head directly for the V row of
lockers. Jagger always leaves school as soon as he can, and I want to catch him
before he does. Laura Hernandez, she of the considerable rack and raven hair,
hovers close to him, chatting a mile a minute. Instead of fighting for airspace,
I shout from across the hall.

“Yo! Voorham!” He glances over, waves. “Talk to you?
Alone?”

Jagger saunters over, probably so Laura and I are sure to
notice how good he looks in his black jeans—front and back. I move to the gap in
front of the band room. “What happened to lunch at the Media Center?”

His eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean? You blew me
off.”

“Are you kidding?” His crap might work on someone else but not
me. Not anymore. “I might have been a little late, but I asked Carleton. He said
no one from the team showed.”

“I never talked to him,” Jagger tells me. “I peeked into the
room, saw you weren’t there, so I waited in the hall. After a while I figured
you forgot.”

“I wouldn’t forget—”

He puts up a hand to still my protest. “Let’s not fight! It’s
just one of those crossed-wire situations. Not like it hasn’t happened before.”
He waits for me to nod reluctantly before asking, “Did you work on the
piece?”

“Yes. But there’s still plenty to do.”

“What about music?”

“I was a little busy editing, Voorham. By myself.”

He ignores the dig. “I don’t have anything that’ll work on the
iPod, but there’s a couple thousand songs on my laptop.”

From across the hall, Laura yells, “Jagger! Coming back today
or what?”

He looks annoyed and lifts a “one second” finger. “Don’t worry,
Val. I’ll go home right now and find something good. How about I bring a bunch
of choices tomorrow so you can pick what’s best?”

Forget flowers or chocolate. Jagger knows the way into this
girl’s heart. No matter how well it’s edited, a driving beat goes a long way
toward disguising boring footage.

“Okay.” I sigh. “It’ll run at least two and a half minutes, so
make sure the music’s long enough.”

He gives me the patented Jagger grin before going back across
the hall. Laura immediately starts talking as if he never left. I know I should
get to the Media Center, but I’m glued to the spot. Did Jagger tell the truth
and lunch was just a missed connection? Is he really eager to create a sound
track to brighten up the club segment? Or is listening to music a perfect excuse
to make out with Laura Hernandez on that extremely comfortable bed he has?

That thought is what finally gets me to move away.

5

I stay late again on Thursday to tweak a few things.
The broadcast runs 15:30—a perfect time. Omar shot the anchor ins and outs, so
it’s beautifully framed. Henry looks surprisingly comfortable behind the anchor
desk. The edited flow, football to Spotlight, clubs to skateboarding, ends on a
high note.

Battered briefcase in hand, Mr. Carleton barks, “Shut it down,
Val. We were supposed to be out of here five minutes ago.”

I press Save one final time, scoop up my backpack and head for
the door. “I had one last thing to check….”

Mr. C. flips the light switch. “It’s fine. A good first
broadcast.”

Fine?
A good
first
broadcast. Like it would be way better if the team was more
experienced? As soon as I get home, I text Marci. Her reply is no comfort:
Great! An easy
A.

All night long, I’m antsy. Bethany’s got some test to study
for, so she bans me from the bedroom. I give the twins a bath, watch a little
CNN with Dad. Friday morning, I’m awake before the alarm rings. I dash into the
bathroom before anyone else so I can wash and then straight-iron my hair. Back
in the bedroom, I change clothes three times—nothing’s right. I want to look
good, but not as if I’m trying hard. In my dreams, not only does the show go off
without a hitch, but people come up and talk to me about it. How
Campus News
is way better than last year. Or the year
before.

Part of that’s true. The show, airing in its usual first-period
time slot, looks good. But not one single person at WiHi pays attention to the
closed-circuit feed in any of the classrooms. I know this because everyone’s
talking about The Prank.

Even the TV Production teams.

It had to have been set up early in the morning. Or, I suppose,
late last night. By the time I got to WiHi, all straight-ironed and looking
good, a crowd had gathered at the front. Everyone’s focus was up.

Is something happening on the roof? A
jumper? Fire?

Nothing’s there. Still, windows on all three floors are open as
wide as safety latches will allow. Less than a foot, so even an idiot can’t fall
out. Faces pressed to panes watch…something.

Phil stands near the iron statue of the school’s namesake.
Washington Irving. Although he created the Headless Horseman character, our
statue has a head. I’m not sure it improves the guy’s appearance, though.

I figure Marci must be standing next to the BF, so I make my
way over. Amazing how predictable people are. “What’s going on?”

She points to the flagpole. “Look at that!”

“Holy crap!”

I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now. The flag is gone,
replaced by a row of undies flapping in the breeze. Mostly grandpa boxers and
tighty whiteys, with a few bikinis and one bright red thong. The largest pairs
have letters stenciled across them. The early-morning sun shines in my face. I
shade my eyes with my hand to read the message.

WiHi SUCKS MP.

“Marshall Prep,” Marci says smugly. “Told you that’s
who’s doing it. The game’s tonight.”

The front door bangs open. Mr. Wilkins, the principal, strides
out. Thin as a string bean and tall as a giraffe, he carries a portable
microphone with an attached battery pack.

“Bell’s about to ring,” he announces. “Get to class,
students.”

No one moves, not even the ninth graders. That’s because the
head custodian, Mr. Orel, arrives at the same time. Hand over hand, he pulls the
rope. With a squeak, the underwear sinks to the ground. There are jeers—and
cheers. Depends on how you feel about undies. Or WiHi.

“Into the building,” Wilkins shouts, “or you will all be
considered tardy.”

As if Mrs. Gribaldini, the attendance lady, can mark hundreds
of kids late at the same time. But there isn’t anything else to see, so the herd
heads off.

Phil, linebacking a path for Marci and me, runs into Bethany.
Literally. Her unmistakable voice screeching, “Watch it!” alerts me to her
presence.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

My sister doesn’t bother to answer the admittedly obvious
question. Like the rest of the school, the prank caught me off guard.

Everyone wonders. During first period, and into second and
third. Who had the bright idea? How did they do it without being caught? What
happened to WiHi’s Stars and Stripes?

That’s the reason nobody cared about the year’s first
Campus News
broadcast.

* * *

After school, a larger than usual crowd hangs around the
flagpole. I stand close and eavesdrop. Several kids place bets on how soon Mr.
Wilkins will get the flag replaced. Another group argues about which pair of
undies they wish would permanently replace the flag. No one’s discussing our
broadcast. Not even the skateboard piece, easily the one with the most audience
appeal.

Disappointed, I start for home. Henry’s at the curb, talking to
someone I don’t know. She’s kind of punked out—ripped jeans, combat boots, nose
ring—not at all his style. Curious, I stop beside them.

“Hey, Henry.”

“Hi, Val.” After I glance at the girl, Henry takes the hint.
“Do you know Toby? She’s a junior.”

“Not really. Nice to meet you.”

She gives a sort of half nod. “Gotta go.”

“Think about it, okay?” Henry says.

Toby bestows a “you’re lower than a worm” look upon him before
walking away. Ouch! I’d like to give her a good slap. How can anyone treat sweet
Henry like that?

He doesn’t appear to notice. “At least she didn’t say no. If
Toby joins Chess Club, we have a chance to win City.”

“That girl plays chess?”

Henry looks insulted. “It’s a popular game.”

“Sorry. I hope she joins. We’ll do a story.”

“Cool!” He glances around hopefully. “Waiting for Marci?”

“Nah. She’s got practice. I was by the flagpole. Everyone’s
talking underwear.”

“It was different, that’s for sure.” He laughs. “By next week,
I bet no one remembers. Something new’ll pop up. It always does.”

* * *

Never underestimate Henry’s smarts. He’s absolutely
right. Very few people pay attention to the A Team broadcast the following
Friday.

This time it’s inside. Third-floor corridor at the west end.
Past the double doors that separate the staircase from the hallway, there’s an
extra-wide water fountain. Made of chipped white porcelain, it has a pair of
spouts on either end so two people can drink at the same time. Maybe in the last
century, before they had water bottles and continual germ alerts, people might
actually have done that. I don’t know a single person who’d stick their face
into any gross WiHi water fountain no matter how thirsty they are.

It’s not the fountain people stare at. Right beside it, someone
dragged over an honest-to-goodness toilet. Inside the bowl is the flag from the
flagpole and a small plastic bucket, the kind little kids bring to the beach.
Except it’s not mud dripping over the side of the pail—it’s streaks of blood.
The words stenciled across the front jump out at me.

MP LIVES—Will U?

After a few seconds, I realize the “blood” is paint. I’m
not the only one fooled. The kids who jostle for space beside me make the same
initial intake of breath—followed by laughter a few seconds later.

The spot was wisely chosen. It’s near the little-used stairway
that leads down to the school’s storeroom. Still, word gets out. Lots of kids
take detours on the way to first period, though I don’t see a single teacher.
The school’s adults are holed up in their classrooms, too busy gearing up for
the day’s torturous activities to notice what’s going on.

As soon as A Team’s broadcast ends, I call a team meeting. The
six of us head into the control booth for privacy. Henry and Marci are the only
ones who saw the toilet, so I quickly describe it for the rest.

“This new stunt means MP isn’t Marshall Prep,” I finish
breathlessly.

“You think?” Jagger says. “The game was last week. If they were
behind the flagpole crap, they’d move to whichever school their football team
plays next, and start punking them.”

Marci can’t do anything but agree. “Our guys killed, so why
would they ever step foot on campus again?”

“Henry.” Raul, sitting in the director’s chair, swivels around.
“Could the toilet be an art project? The flagpole stunt, too. Wasn’t there some
kind of art thing, fada or lada—”

“Dada.” As the youngest of several geniuses in the senior
class, Henry has the good sense not to show off unless specifically asked. “It
made fun of the modern world. The meaninglessness of everything. They mostly
targeted rich people and, like, posers. But I haven’t heard of a single teacher
giving out a Dada assignment. No one at WiHi’s ever been that cool.”

Raul gives me a look. Frustration? Anger? Is he telling me
he
would have made a different decision when
assigning stories? Chosen MP instead of clubs.

Time to suck it up, Val.

“Okay, everyone. Jagger was right. MP is obviously somebody’s
initials, not a high school football team. And yes, it’s a good story.”

Voorham takes an exaggerated bow. “Hold the applause ’til the
end of the magic act.”

Asswipe,
Marci mouths.

I ignore both of them. “We’ll add the MP story to the next
show. But what’s the angle? We have to find a good way in.”

Raul’s on it. “How about the flag? Ties both stunts
together.”

The bell in my head, the one that tolls
good idea,
rings loud and clear. “That’ll work.”

Omar wriggles his fingers. “Hold on, sista. We’re talking five
segments.”

“You’re right.” I make an instant editorial decision. “We can
cut the piece I’m working on. Since the MP story was originally Jagger’s idea,
he takes it if he wants. I’ll edit what he’s working on.”

“Do I get to pick my partner?” he asks.

“Unless they want to finish their segment.”

Raul’s already nodding, assuming he’s the choice. Jagger stares
at Marci. She opens her mouth to protest. Without taking his eyes off her, he
says, “ValGal.”

A shiver runs through me. For once, it has nothing to do with
my ex-boyfriend. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Not only do I
want
that story—I want to report its butt off.

“Henry, change the whiteboard, please?” The teams have to list
all stories on the board so there’s no duplication. “Just in case Scott gets the
same idea. Jagger can pull equipment while I make sure no one messes with the
toilet.”

I gallop to the third floor. Excellent! The toilet display is
untouched. Not five minutes later, several sets of feet pound up the stairs. All
of B Team arrives. Either nobody trusted Jagger to sign out the right equipment
or everyone wants in on the action.

They’ve brought it all. Lights, stands, camera, microphone.

“Not so loud!” I warn. “We don’t want anyone to stop us.”

Quickly, the team sets up. Immediately, however, a problem
surfaces. Although we’ve got an extension cord, there’s no place to plug in the
lights. The hallway is too dark to get a decent image without additional
illumination.

Raul turns toward the steps. “I’ll get an extra cord from the
cabinet. You guys figure out where to score some power.”

Two classrooms are located around the corner. After a quick
discussion, we decide to avoid teachers if we can. There is, however, a boys’
bathroom halfway down the hall.

“Do the ‘boys’ have outlets in them?” Marci asks.

“One way to find out.” Henry jogs into the bathroom, returns
less than a minute later. “It’s at the far end. Raul will have to bring a bunch
of cords.”

“No probs.” I pull my cell from my pocket. Like all city high
schools, WiHi has a firm no-cell-phone policy, but Mr. C. lets us use ours for
stuff like this.

“Don’t abuse it, folks,” he warned. “I will not go head-to-head
with Mr. Kuperman if anyone cheats on a physics test!”

Raul’s reply is quick:
Found 4
. The instant he arrives, he, Omar
and Henry gang the cords into one. They snake it along the edge of the hall and
into the bathroom.

Turning to Jagger, I ask, “You know what to say for the
stand-up?”

He shakes his head. I start to tell him how it could go, but he
stops me before I finish a sentence. “You do it.”

“I’ll coach you. It’s not hard.”

“Uh-uh,” he says. “I don’t want to be on-camera.”

Marci puts a hand on her hip. “Why not?
Campus News
not cool enough for you?”

Jagger avoids looking at me. “Hit the nail on the head,
Marcikins. I needed an arts class to graduate. Doesn’t mean I have to be
on-camera.”

The lights go on. Henry sticks his head out of the
bathroom.

“All good,” I tell him.

The boys tumble out. Raul wants to direct. Omar calls camera.
Jagger and Marci reach for the headset at the same time.

“I got it first!” she says, appealing to me.

“Raul’s directing. His call.”

“Fine!” Marci throws the headset at Jagger and stalks to the
opposite wall. Omar messes with my hair while I sound-check.

“Ready, everyone?” Raul asks. “In five, four, three—” He holds
up two fingers. Folds down the first, then the last. My cue to start
talking.

“Good morning, Horsemen and Women. I’m standing on the third
floor of Washington Irving High School, in front of what might be considered a
work of art. Or a prank.”

I move to the side so Omar can get a clear shot of the toilet.
As I narrate, he zooms into the flag. “For the last seven days, the WiHi
flagpole lost its reason to exist. Today, that purpose has been rediscovered.
The flag removed last Friday can once again fly high. But the mystery deepens.
Who put this thing, um, object, in the hall—”

“Cut!” Raul says. “Start again, Val.”

We shoot the stand-up two more times.