Circle of Silence (4 page)

“I think we got it,” Raul says.

“Audio’s clear,” Jagger announces.

“Cool.” It’s the first all-team effort. Except for the little
tiff between Marci and Jagger, I’m happy with the way it went. “Let’s get the
empty flagpole. When the office finds this stuff and puts the flag back, we can
reshoot the pole.”

The toilet’s gone by the end of the day. That’s all right with
me because the footage Omar shot is perfect.

Over the weekend, I make a list of people to interview. Jagger
doesn’t object when I suggest we start with the art teachers on Monday. Working
the segment at the end of last week seems to have broken the iceberg between us.
He’s quiet, focusing his attention on the camera, letting me do the
interviews.

All three teachers swear it’s not a project they assigned. When
I ask Ms. Cordingley, the department chairperson, if she has a student with the
initials MP, she taps a charcoal pencil on the desk.

“I wondered about that myself, so I checked the rosters. No one
with those initials is taking art. Not this semester.”

“Okay. If you remember someone from last year, would you leave
a note in the
Campus News
box? I check it every
day.”

In the hallway, Jagger asks, “Do you think she will?”

“Nah. But I had to suggest it. Like Carleton always says, leave
no stone unturned when investigating a story.”

On our way back to the Media Center, we run into Josh Tomlin,
cast in every WiHi play since freshman year
.
He
agrees to be interviewed. No surprise there, because the kid never met an
audience he didn’t like.

Jagger’s behind the lens again; I’ve got the mic.

“It’s not performance art,” Josh tells me, “because you need a
performer for that. But the toilet would make an awesome prop for a play.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

Josh pauses dramatically. “Like everyone else, I wish I knew. I
can’t wait to see what’s next. At least, I hope there’s something else.”

“Thanks.” I turn to the camera. “That’s what everyone wonders.
Will there be anything more?”

The following day, Jagger and I interview a history teacher,
Mr. Correra. An Army Reservist, he sponsors the school’s Junior ROTC program.
The teacher makes it clear that he’s extremely upset at the “desecration of our
national symbol, the American flag.”

For balance, I insist we find a free-speech teacher.

“That’ll be Mrs. O’Leary,” Jagger says. “Had her for ninth
grade English. Old-school hippy fer sure.”

He’s right. When I ask the teacher, dressed in a long flowered
skirt, dangly earrings and Earth shoes, if she thinks the flag has been
desecrated, she bristles. “I found the entire toilet seat display an especially
incisive metaphor for our country in these troubled times.”

“Some people are upset that the flag was stolen from the front
of the school,” I tell her.

Mrs. O’Leary pauses to get her thoughts in order. “While I
cannot, of course, condone taking down Irving’s American flag, sometimes
dramatic measures must be taken to fight the powers that be. It should also be
noted that the flag wasn’t actually stolen. Borrowed, then returned.” She
smiles, proud of the way she tightroped the answer.

Jagger and I do one more interview. Tanya’s one of those peppy
girls joined at the hip to her best friend. We manage to catch her alone,
scurrying back from the bathroom. Before agreeing to be interviewed, she flips
open her cell to use as a mirror.

“You look great,” I tell her. “Once we get rolling, introduce
yourself and then tell us what you think about the flagpole and the toilet
bowl.” I stick the mic in her face. Tanya giggles through her name.

“Cut! Let’s start again.”

It takes five tries before she keeps a straight face. “I’m
Tanya and I’m a sophomore. I just want to say how cool this school is. The first
year I was here, which was last year, WiHi had
dancergirl
. This year, it’s something completely different. I don’t
know who’s doing all the MP stuff and I don’t care. It’s fun seeing what shows
up.” She sticks up her index finger. “Irving is definitely number one!”

“Cut!” I say. “Great, Tanya, thanks.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’ll air Friday on
Campus
News
.”

I wind the mic’s cord as Tanya trots off. “We’ve got enough,
Jags. Let’s go back—”

“Uh-uh.”

“What does that mean?”

“The student interviews are one-sided. Everyone’s looking at
the surface. It’s something different to break up the daily grind.” He gestures
down the hall. “‘Irving’s so awesome,’ but did Tanya actually read the message
on the underwear? You’d think she’d be insulted.”

“Not that I disagree, but we have to import what we shot,
edit—”

“It’s my piece.” He holds up his index finger and then sticks
out his thumb, turning the Irving
I
into an
L
for
Lame
. “I’m not going
to put out only the rah-rah view. We need to find an outcast or two. See what
they think.”

I’m kind of impressed with the way Slacker Jagger’s fighting to
get what he wants—although there’s no way I’ll tell him that.

“Fine. I’ll text Raul and get him to bring us another camera.
He can start importing this while we find—” I make an O with my fingers
“—outcasts.”

Jagger groans. “Tell me you are not that dorky.”

“I’m not,” I repeat dutifully. “Usually.”

He laughs. “Come on, I know where to find the peeps we
need.”

We gallop to the basement level. At the back of the school, an
exit opens into the yard. Raul catches up to us at the door and we switch
cameras. Jagger leads the way outside. Except for the gym class on the field, no
one’s around.

“Not much time before the bell rings,” I tell him.

“So move it.” Around the corner, on the far side of the
building, a group of kids smoke forbidden cigs. The outlaws. The haters. The
kids who ignore the rest of us. One of them glances over, sees we’re not
teachers and returns to his smoke.

Jagger moves to a pimply dude sitting by himself. “Liam. I’m
helping out a friend. Can she ask a couple of questions about the flag stuff
going on? She’s with
Campus News.
”

He gets the finger for his trouble—and gives it right back.

“Such cooperation,” I mumble. “Like any of these guys will go
on camera. You won’t even do it.”

“He was a bad choice,” Jagger admits. “The only screen Liam
cares about is a computer screen. Someone else will talk.”

I’m not so sure. Two kids stamp out their butts and shuffle
into school without acknowledging our presence. Another pretends not to hear. I
might as well be in my bedroom, talking to Bethany for as much good as this
does.

I’m about to tell Jagger to give it up for the day when someone
finally agrees to be interviewed.

The kid definitely fits Jagger’s idea of an outlaw. He’s got
the tats, the earrings, the unwashed hair. He tells me he’ll go on camera but
won’t say his name. I shrug. His choice.

Anonymous starts to talk as soon as I give the cue. “I didn’t
see the toilet bowl. But I don’t know what all this crap’s about. Who gives a
shit?”

The bell rings. Anonymous takes off.

I laugh. “Happy, Jags? We can use it if I cut the last
line.”

“Do we have to? It was very poetic. Toilet, crap, shit. Mrs.
O’Leary would love the use of extended metaphor.” Jagger hands me the camera,
the headphones, the mic. “You don’t mind bringing the equipment back, do you? I
have class on the first floor and I gotta finish the homework.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me alone, holding everything myself.

* * *

After school, the Media Center is quiet. I set up at one
of the computers to start editing.

Carleton walks over. “Faculty meeting today, Val.”

I groan. “Can I stay? Please. We want to add the new segment
for Friday’s show. I haven’t begun to cut it.”

He sighs. “Okay. But don’t go broadcasting that I’ve left you
alone. I’ll be back to lock up at four-thirty
if
Wilkins can keep to the schedule. Do. Not. Leave. Someone’s got to stay
with the equipment.”

No problem. Jagger and I shot a ton, so paring it down to four
minutes will be a challenge.

I play the first several minutes of raw footage. Hit Stop.
Rewind. Click through frame by frame. Something bothers me. It’s not just the
obsessiveness of the image. The precise fold of the flag. The way it’s looped
exactly equidistant from either end of the porcelain tank. It isn’t the
positioning of the toilet, either, placed in such a way that it can’t be seen
from the main hall. Or the pail—wait! That’s it. Inside.

I stare at the overhead shot Omar took at the last minute. The
entire pail can be seen resting in the bowl. Inside, across the bottom rim, tiny
letters look like decoration. Then again, it might be a message. A secret note.
Maybe a signature…

I blow up the frame as large as I can. Can’t make out anything
except
s o r
. There’s not a first name I can think
of with those letters. Last names, sure. Mr. Sorren, the history teacher. One of
the outlaws I recognized at the side of the school. Craig Sorestsky.

But
s o r
doesn’t have to be a
name. It could be part of a word. Sore…sorrow…sorry. Hmmm. They’re sorry. You’ll
be sorry.

Something in my gut—reporter’s instinct?—tells me that’s
correct. Someone’s going to be sorry.

“What are you doing here?”

I jump at the sound. A Team’s Hailey Manussian stands behind
me. Her perfectly round face, completely surrounded by dark wavy hair, looks
irritated.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I tell her.

“Door’s not locked. Where’s Carleton?” She glances around the
room suspiciously, as if Mr. C. and I are having a secret rendezvous behind the
anchor desk.

“Faculty meeting.”

“He let you stay?”

I shrug the obvious answer. “He’ll be here by four-thirty. Come
back then if you want to talk to him.”

She glances past my shoulder. “What’s on your screen?”

I click it closed. “Something I’m working on.”

Hailey gives me a stony stare. “You think you’re so clever,
ValGal. Best friend’s on your team, so producer vote goes your way. Got the hot
guy, too, because Carleton thinks you’re the only girl in class who knows how to
do stuff. I know everything you know—and more.”

She stomps off. Hailey hasn’t liked me ever since I screwed up
a science lab in seventh grade—getting us both a shitty grade—but you’d think
she’d be over it by now. That rant was on the vicious side. Even Bethany doesn’t
hate me
that
much. At least, I don’t think she
does.

I return to editing, but my mind’s all over the place. As soon
as Carleton enters, I head for the office. Mrs. Kresky gets Mr. Orel on the
walkie-talkie. The custodian’s mopping the language hallway.

“Mr. Orel. Remember the toilet and pail on the third floor?
Were you the person who took it away?”

Not a rhythmic beat of mop swishing is missed. “One of the
younger janitors carried it down.”

“Where’d he put it?”

“Trash bin. Pickup was this morning.”

“The pail, too?”

My disappointment must show because Mr. Orel stops cleaning.
“Yes. But don’t fret. The flag’s fine. Ever since the incident, I take it down
as soon as school ends. Come tomorrow morning, it’ll be flying high.”

“That’s great,” I tell him. What I’m thinking is:
Some reporter. Why didn’t I notice the letters on the pail
before today?

Power and Liberty are like Heat and Moisture; where they are
well mixed, everything prospers.

First Marquess of Halifax

MP LOG

So it was cool. We did the first two pranks. Just as I
thought, everybody talked about them for days. People wondered who has the balls
to do what we did.

In the third-floor hallway, I overheard someone say they
wished they’d thought of this. But even if they had, they wouldn’t follow
through. The truth is, no one’s ever done anything like what we’re doing for two
reasons. One: deep down, people are afraid. They think they’ll get their asses
kicked or their mothers will yell at them when they find out what they’ve done
or they’ll get sent to the office. And two: you have to be smart to pull off
stuff like this without getting caught. It’s brains, not muscle, that are
important. You can always find the muscle you need, but you can’t make yourself
more intelligent. That’s a fact.

Most times even the people who think they know you don’t,
because they only see what’s on the outside. The outside’s a flimsy cover that
no one takes the time to lift so they can see what’s really underneath.

Now people are saying they want to be MP—whatever MP is.
It’s hard not to laugh out loud because no one has ever wanted to be me before.
It isn’t only that I’ve become hard-core. It’s that I know something no one else
does—exactly what MP stands for. No one else can understand because not one
single person saw the message I left. If they had, they’d realize:

MP is power. The kind of power that sneaks up on people,
smacks them in the face and makes them regret their sorry existence.

6

At last, people pay attention to
Campus News.
I know this because it’s
Bethany
who says something at the dinner table.

The twins shoot peas at each other, using the engineering
principle of spoon-as-lever. Dad is busy pointing out how advanced this is to an
extremely annoyed mom when my sister clears her throat.

“Val was on TV.”

The conversation-slash-argument stops. Bethany rarely initiates
a dinner topic. She can barely manage a mumbled yeah or nah when asked a
question.

“Excuse me,” Mom says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear—”

“Val was on TV at school,” my sister repeats.

There’s a moment of silence as the parents try to figure out
what Bethany’s complaining about. She rarely speaks my name without whining
about something I’ve done—or not done.

“Campus News,”
I remind them
.
“I’m a producer. I told you guys….”

“Right,” Dad says, except I’m pretty certain he has no idea
what I’m talking about.

James sets his milk at the edge of the table. “Was it fun to
see her, Bethie?”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “It’s knee. Beth-a-
knee.
I’ve told you a million times—”

“He’s only six,” Mom soothes, at the same time moving his glass
inland to avoid catastrophe. “James, her name is Bethany.”

“Nobody calls you Jimmy,” my sister points out.

“They could. I wouldn’t care.”

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” Jesse chants, accompanying himself with
his favorite percussive instrument: fork-pounding-on-plate.

Dad holds up his hand. “We get the point, Jesse. What was Val
talking about, Bethany?”

In any other household, the question would be directed to me
because, well, I was the one on the screen. But here? Bethany speaks and the
world stops spinning. It’s like trying to get druggies to talk about where they
score. You don’t dare stop ’em once they start.

“Last week someone took the flag from the front of the school
and replaced it with a bunch of underwear—”

Jesse shrieks. Bethany shoots him a superior glare. He clams
up.

“This week someone put a toilet in the third-floor hallway,”
she continues.

“A potty?” James shouts. “Did anyone pee in it?”

Despite Bethany’s frown, he and Jesse laugh. My sister gets all
huffy and refuses to say another word.

I jump in. “Sorry to disappoint, little dudes, but not a single
person used it for, um, personal activities. There was a beach pail in the
bowl.” For whatever reason, that seems even funnier. The boys’ whooping becomes
contagious. Laughter circles the table.

“Okay, girls, don’t keep us in suspense,” Dad says, “Who’s the
culprit?”

Bethany shrugs. “No one knows.”

For the first, and maybe last time in the history of the
universe, I agree with her. “So far, nobody’s taking responsibility. But it
makes watching
Campus News
interesting, right,
Bethany?”

My sister stabs a French fry, deaf once more. Too bad. The
truce was kind of nice while it lasted.

* * *

Neither interesting, nor nice, is how Marci sees any of
it. Especially when body parts show up. Not flesh and blood body parts, though
from a distance, that’s what it seems. Up close, it’s obvious they’re plastic. A
department store mannequin pulled apart. An arm dangling high above the
third-floor staircase railing; in a second-floor bathroom, a bald head and neck
hang from a noose. An upside-down leg with a red high-heeled shoe, sticks out
from a trash can at the side of the school.

Every part has the same message:

THIS COULD BE YOU.

MP.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marci gulps.

“Just that someone watches too many horror shows. Jeez, look at
the crowd.” The crush of people surrounding the leg is three deep.

“Who cares about a crowd?” She tugs my arm. “Let’s go.”

“Not yet.”

I push forward to check out the leg. No tiny letters that I can
see. Being this close to a cut-up body, though, even if it’s plastic, makes me
feel weird. Like some kind of perv. Or maybe it’s the flash of intuition that
tells me Marci’s right: MP’s not all fun and games. Underwear and kiddie pails
and secret writing meant to seem cool. He might be something else. Something
darker. Someone evil. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms.

When I hit the Media Center, Raul, Henry and Omar are already
there, looking three shades of gloomy.

“What’s up?”

Omar tugs an earring. “Read the board. A Team’s doing an MP
story.”

“What? That’s ours!”

“It’s not on our list,” Raul points out.

“How was I supposed to know he’d get all serial killer today?”
A glance at the A Team table tells me this was Hailey’s doing. She can barely
contain a superior smile. “I’ll take care of it!”

I make a beeline for Carleton, quietly taking attendance. “A
Team cannot have the MP story. It’s ours.”

Scott Jenkins scoots over. That doesn’t surprise me.
Passive-aggressive Hailey sent
him
to do her dirty
work.

“We listed it like we’re supposed to. Mr. Carleton approved
it,” he tells me.

Even though I’m furious, I keep my voice reasonable. Thanks to
Bethany and Jagger, I’ve had lots of practice. “Guess you didn’t realize we were
doing follow-ups, Mr. C.”

“No one knew,” Scott says. “It’s not on the board.”

“We haven’t finished planning the next broadcast. That’s what
today’s for.”

The teacher holds up a pudgy hand. “Don’t fight—”

I refuse to let Hailey get away with this. If I lose, my team
will never forgive me. “Mr. Carleton. On TV, the same reporter follows a story
no matter how long it takes. They don’t hand it over to whoever feels like
working it that week.”

“Puh-lease.” Scott laughs. “This is high school….”

He continues to argue. I catch Mr. C.’s eye. With what I hope
is a subtle tilt, I glance at the Emmy Award shelf. Mr. Carleton’s name is
nowhere to be found. It’s the last media teacher, R. Rosenfeld, who’s listed as
adviser.

When Scott pauses to take a breath, I jump back in. “Mr.
Carleton’s trying to run a professional operation. So we can move on to good
media programs in college, get jobs, win awards…”

“Val!” Mr. Carleton admonishes.

Oops. Might have hit the award thing a
little too hard.

“But Ms. Gaines is correct.” Behind us, the room is silent. “A
story should be followed by the originating reporter. Val, I didn’t realize you
were continuing to investigate. If it messes up your broadcast, A Team, I’ll
allow three pieces this week. No grade penalty.”

Scott slumps over to Hailey. If looks could kill, he’d be
heading straight for death row. I feel for him, but I’m glad it’s not me who
lost the argument.

Mr. Carleton lowers his voice. “Don’t let me down, Val.”

“I won’t!”

The team piles into the director’s booth.

“Way to get back what’s ours, sista!” Omar hoots.

Henry and I fist-bump. Raul gives a short nod. Over in the
corner, Jagger yawns. If I expected props from Voorham, I’m a fool. His short
attention span hasn’t increased by much in a year. Screw him.

“Let’s get organized. Jagger and I stay on the story since I
just made a big deal about it. But we need help.”

“I’ll anchor,” Raul suggests. “Frees me up to do whatever’s
needed.”

“Right on. I have all the footage shot and half-edited on the
College Application story we didn’t air last time. If someone wants to finish
that, it’s an easy second segment.”

Marci speaks up. “I’ll do it. MP creeps me out.”

Omar grins. “All mannequins are creepy. But naked ones are
waaay better.”

I roll my eyes. “The rest of us split into groups. Omar and
Raul. Henry, me and Jagger.”

“You don’t need three people,” Henry says. “I’ll help
Marci.”

“That’s sweet,” she tells him, “but we’ve got a week.”

For a moment, he looks disappointed. Immediately, though, Henry
cheers up. “We need more stories. I’ll stay here and think of a couple easy
ones. Marci can help me shoot next week.”

“Fine. Whatever. Got to get going,” Raul urges.

The team piles into the main room, ignoring the resentful looks
Scott and the rest of his team send our way. I head for the equipment cabinet.
“Marci, sign it out for us?”

“Aye-aye, ValGal.” She salutes.

Expertly, I flip a case onto a table and pull the camera. “Jags
and I shoot the yard. Raul, you and Omar get the inside stuff.”

* * *

Outside, at least, the plastic leg is untouched. Jagger
and I set up in front of the trash can.

“You’re awfully quiet,” I tell him.

Jagger shrugs. “What’s there to say? Either you were going to
get the story back—or not.”

“Don’t you think we should follow up? You’re the one who wanted
it in the first place.”

He plugs the headphone into the camera. “All I said was that it
would be a good story. Especially since
Campus News
is usually so lame—”

“Thanks a lot.” I whip the mic cord out of the way. “Why are
you even in the class if that’s what you think? You could have taken Mechanical
Drawing or the Fine Art of Cooking Crap or whatever that class is called.”

Jagger gestures to the trash can. “Ready?”

“No. Me and
Campus News
might be
lame, but you’re…awful. A terrible person. You hang out with me all summer. Then
the night of Sonya’s party, I’m stuck babysitting the twins, so I say, ‘Doesn’t
mean you can’t go.’ Every other boyfriend in the universe would tell me, ‘I’ll
keep you company.’ Not you. When I finally show up, you and Dawn Chevananda are
tonguing like crazy.” All the hurt bottled up inside gushes out. “You never said
a word. Ever. Don’t you think I’m owed an apology? An explanation.”

A curtain lifts and his Tortured Soul look appears. Last year,
whenever that happened, it made me want to hold him tight, tell him it would be
okay, whatever
it
is.

“What’s wrong?”
I would
whisper
.

“Nothing,”
he’d always say.

So I’d let it go, thinking I was crazy. Or believing that my
hugs—and kisses—would banish whatever problem he was having. Until I found out I
wasn’t enough at all.

“This is not the time to get into it, Val.” Footsteps sound
behind us. Immediately, Jagger’s expression changes. Frustrated, he points to
the leg. “Start talking or the bell will ring before we get a single shot off.
Then you’ll really be pissed.”

Like I’m not now—but he’s right. Mr. Orel heads straight for
us, trash bag in hand. Stalking to the garbage can, I glare at the camera. To
add to my rage, Jagger counts down as if he’s been in TV Production forever.

“In five, four, three…”

* * *

Later that evening, after the twins are asleep, Mom
calls me into her bedroom.

“What did Bethany tell you I did now?”

She laughs. “I don’t know. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” Mom looks pleased. As if by using Advanced
Interrogation Techniques she’s managed to get something out of me. “I’m the one
who wants to ask a question. About your sister.”

“Go ahead.” I sit on the queen-size bed, the blanket a lumpy
mess from the twins’ postbath read-aloud.

“Does Bethany have a boyfriend?”

“What? No!” That would be horrible. I haven’t had a boyfriend
since Jagger. How could she?

“You sure?” Mom asks.

“Not really. How would I know? It’s not like Bethie talks to
me. Ever.”

“That’ll change when you get older. Blood’s thicker than
water.” Mom gets her canny Interrogation look again. “Maybe you’ve seen her with
someone at school.”

“Mother! Are you asking me to spy on my sister?”

She appears dutifully shocked. “Of course not. I was just
wondering.”

I prop up the pillows. “Now I’m curious. Why are you
asking?”

Mom laughs. “No big deal. Bethie wants to go clothes shopping.
Asked if I knew where to get cute shirts.”

“She said, ‘cute shirts’? Not tan shirts? Or baggy cargo pants?
Boring brown sneaks…?”

“You don’t need to go on, Valerie. But yes, that’s why I’m
asking.”

The idea that Bethany has a boyfriend boggles my mind. “If I
find out anything, Mom, you’ll be the first to know.”

Or not. Hoodie on, I wade through the dirty clothes and the
rest of the junk Bethany’s tossed all over the floor. Grabbing my cell, I open
the window beside my bed and climb onto the fire escape, pulling the pane back
down so she can’t hear me. I have a private nest out here—three-inch camping mat
and sleeping bag rolled up in a waterproof bag. It works great until the weather
turns November nasty. I’ve got a few weeks of privacy until then.

Marci is horrified when I repeat Mom’s conversation. “You
cannot sell out your own sister if she doesn’t want anyone to know about it.
Even if the sister in question is Queen of the Sloths. What’s that thing your
mom says?”

“Blood’s thicker than water?”

“Yeah.” Marci pauses. “I don’t actually think she’s right,
but—”

“Don’t worry. You’re more my sister than Bethany will ever
be.”

Marci giggles. “Okay. So maybe she is right. Which means you
can’t rat Bethie out.”

“I’m not saying I’ll tell on her. I only said that to appease
Mom.”

“SAT word!” Marci moans. “You’re not studying, are you?”

“You kidding? I’ve got enough on my plate.” Last-chance SAT is
in a week—and then we start to apply to colleges. Neither of us wants to think
about
that,
so I return to the discussion at hand.
“It would be the ultimate revenge if Bethie has a boyfriend.”

“Because you don’t?”

“Yeaaah.”

“I hope she does.”

“Hey! Who’s BFF are you?”

“Yours,” Marci says. “Maybe this will get you to pay attention.
I’m pretty sure Raul has the hots for you.”