Circle of Silence (5 page)

“Very funny. He thinks I’m doing a terrible job. That the team
would be better off if he was producer.”

“He told you that?”

“Not exactly. I can tell by the way he looks at me.” I remember
his half-assed nod in the director’s booth.

“What about you? Do you like him?”

“I guess. Sure. He’s cute, but it’s not like I ever thought of
him as boyfriend material.”

She pounces. “Then who
do
you think
of as
boyfriend material? If you even breathe the
J
name—”

“Don’t worry. I went off on him today.”

“Hallelujah!” Marci breathes. “What did he say?”

The elm in front of our brownstone has begun its yearly
transformation. Yellow leaves, like shots of gold, shimmer between the
green.

“He didn’t say squat, actually. You know Jagger. Doesn’t care
about anyone—or anything—except his own butt.”

“That’s what I told you. The guy never changes. Pretty on the
surface, devil below. Maybe it’s good he’s in TV. Lets you see him as he really
is.”

Instead of answering, I contemplate the tree. For years, I
assumed that leaves were naturally green. Then I discovered that chlorophyll,
running through veins in the leaf, masks their true colors. Underneath, leaves
are more beautiful than the surface allows us to see.

The nagging thought that Marci’s wrong—that what’s going on
with Jagger isn’t that he’s shallow but that there’s something hidden deep
inside—keeps me up half the night.

7

“Hey, you! News Girl!”

Standing in a doorway, Ms. Cordingley beckons. I make my way
through the crowd of kids hurtling toward second period.

She wears a paint-smeared smock. “Thought that was you. What’s
your name again?”

“Val. Valerie Gaines.”

She nods, although the name means nothing to her. I haven’t
seen the inside of an art room since seventh grade. “I’ve been thinking about
our conversation. MP.”

My heart immediately speeds up. “You found someone taking art
with those initials?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why—”

“Art History. That’s why I didn’t think of it right away. She
took AP Art History last year.”

“She?”

“Mirabelle Portman. A junior. Do you know her?”

Everyone knows Mira. She might be the prettiest girl at WiHi—if
you like your chicks with porcelain skin, pixie haircuts and the most amazing
eyes on the planet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet, which I didn’t think was an
actual thing until Mira showed up.

“I forgot about her because she barely came to class,” Ms.
Cordingley says. “Took the tests, of course, aced every one.”

“How can that be?”

The teacher shrugs. “Her mom runs the art department at City
College. Mira knows more about the contemporary scene than me—or the critic at
the
Times.
That’s what made me think of her. The
more we see of MP, the more it reminds me of found art. Some Dada, of course,
and a little Banksy in the way—”

This is not the time for an art lecture. “Sorry to interrupt,
Ms. Cordingley, but I have to get to class. Thanks for the tip!”

Mira Portman? She most definitely does not have that
underwear/toilet/body parts kind of vibe. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps
doll-like Mirabelle is a secret cutter. Or purger. Could this be a weird cry for
help?

I find Marci right before she walks into her next class. She
listens without interruption. When I’m done, she nods.

“You and I should talk to her at lunch without the others
tagging along. Don’t want to scare Mira off.”

In math, I try to imagine dainty Mirabelle dragging a toilet up
three flights of steps. No way. If it
is
her, she
had help.

At noon, it’s my soccer-playing best friend who spots her in
the crowded hallway leading to the cafeteria.

“Mira!” Marci waves. “Can we talk to you for a minute? In
private.”

Her smooth face wrinkles in confusion. “It looks
important.”

“It is,” I say.

A pair of doors stands behind us. Beyond that, a short
staircase leads to an entranceway. A second set of doors opens to the street. No
one’s supposed to leave during the day, so the tiny foyer is quiet.

“What’s up?” Mira asks.

“You must have seen those MP things—” Marci blinks as Mirabelle
laughs. “What’s so funny?”

“I wondered if someone would think of me.”

“You’re MP?” My voice squeaks. Did we do it? Find the right
person?

“No,” Mira says. “My initials
are
MP, but I’m not the person who did those stupid pranks.”

“One of the art teachers thinks they’re, like, cool
pieces.”

Mira laughs. “Ms. Cordingley? Hasn’t a clue about contemporary
art.”

“She said that, too. Told me you know more than she does.”

Mira’s violet eyes brighten at the compliment, but then her
face falls. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t an art project.”

“How can you tell?”

With a graceful wave, Mira suggests we sit on the steps.
“Promise you won’t say anything to anybody.” She waits for us to nod. “We don’t
hang, so you guys don’t know me. I’m afraid you’ll think this is totally
conceited. Everyone thinks I am, but really, I’m not.”

Marci shakes her head. “We don’t. What does knowing you have to
do with MP?”

Mira hesitates. “Has anyone ever been in love with you?
Totally, madly, completely—and you can’t stand the guy?”

“Sure,” Marci says.

I remain silent.

Mira searches for the right words. “It’s possible—and I really
do mean
possible
—that someone’s doing this to get
back at me.”

Marci’s eyes widen. “Because you dumped him?”

Mira shakes her head. “Never got that far. I ignored him.
Ignore. Present tense included.”

“I get that!” Marci tightens her ponytail. “The reason you
think it could be this dude is because the MP stuff is on the arty side, right?
And there’s the initials. It’s like people who hire airplanes to skywrite, ‘Will
you marry me, Louise?’ If the name isn’t there, it’s a waste.”

Mira nods. “It sounds completely crazy but he might be trying
to impress me. Or hope I’ll get in trouble. Of course, it could be a ‘who needs
you?’ bitch slap.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of effort to go through,” I say.

“That’s why I’m not sure. But see, Ms. Cordingley came up with
my name. If he wants to get me in trouble, why not do it like this?”

Marci and I exchange a glance.

“Who’s the guy?” I ask.

“Uh-uh. I give you a name, it could make things worse. I’m
ignoring it. Crossing my fingers that you
Campus
News
guys find out who it is. Maybe it’s not who I think it is or the
reason I said. Then I’d feel stupid, which is why I swore you to secrecy in the
first place.”

“Mira,” Marci says firmly, “you have to trust that we won’t go
all whistle-blower on you. Val and I will find a way to talk to whoever it is
without them knowing we spoke. If you want it to stop, you have to give us a
name.”

With a resigned sigh, Mira whispers, “Trey Lyman.”

Marci grimaces. “You poor thing.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with Trey?”

“Are you kidding? Trey Lyman in love with you?” Marci shivers.
“The guy’s had a creepy little mustache ever since fifth grade. Real hair, too,
not some little pencil line.”

“Oh, come on. How would you even know that?”

“I went to P.S. 27 with him. Before I knew you, Trey and I rode
the magnet bus together. Boogers came out of his nose and milk bubbled from his
mouth every morning. Nobody would sit next to him.”

“Thank you!” Mira exclaims. “At least I’m not the only one
grossed out.”

“That was elementary school,” I point out.

“It’s hard to get the picture out of your head,” Marci
says.

Mira nods vigorously. “I met him at Hebrew school. Same
boogers. Same milk. He never said a word to me until last year, but I always
knew he liked me.”

“Okay, Mira, thanks for the tip,” I say. “Trey will never know
we’ve talked.”

* * *

After soccer practice, Marci and I walk to her house.
She lives at Cadman Towers on the nineteenth floor. A corner deck overlooks
downtown Brooklyn. Daylight saving time hasn’t ended yet, so the late
afternoon’s infused with a last gasp of warmth. We settle on lounge chairs, a
bag of chips and Marci’s laptop on our knees.

“I need new boots,” she tells me. “Brown. Mom said if I find a
good deal, she’ll buy them.”

Marci’s idea of a good deal is on the loose side. Ten dollars
off counts as a major sale. It doesn’t take long before we bookmark at least ten
pairs, not one less than two hundred bucks.

“You didn’t find any you like?” she asks.

“Are you kidding? The only way I get new boots is if I find
them at the discount place on Fourth Avenue. In the sale bin. We have twins,
Marci. They need new shoes, like, every other month!”

She brightens. “Why don’t you tell your mom to buy them two, or
maybe three, sizes too big? They can grow into them. Money saved goes to
you.”

I throw the bag of chips at her. “You’d make a terrible older
sister.”

“I guess.” She shuts the laptop. “I was thinking about
something all through practice. How are we supposed to interview Trey and
not
tell him we talked to Mira?”

“How should I know? It sounded good at the time.”

“Do you have any classes with him?” she asks.

“Uh-uh. You?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe one of the guys. Gym or something.
They could propose a ‘girls who won’t give you the time of day’ story.”

I reach over and grab the chips. “Cuts Jagger out.”

Defiantly, she grabs them back. Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows
arch. “Send Raul. I’m pretty sure he can relate!”

Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that
have held him captive.

EMMA GOLDMAN

MP LOG

I’ve been thinking about how modern man is completely tied
down by rules and regulations. It’s not like back in the day when you could do
what you want when you want. Now all decisions are made by people you can’t
influence or talk sense to. It’s exactly the same at WiHi. We’ve got to eat when
they say and stand when they say and sit where they say and even get permission
to take a shit.

MP has got to start changing things. That’s what I told the
rest of the group. We’re the only ones willing to show the world it can be done.
We should start with
Campus News
. Block them from
broadcasting stories about us. Once that stops, once we break the power ladder
in this school, it can’t be put back together. It can’t be controlled.

Phantom said, “It’s cool to be on school news because nobody
knows who we are. Everyone wonders about us.”

I said, “Uh-uh, we need to control the informational flow.
When we’re ready,
then
we’ll tell them what we
want them to say. That shows our strength. Our priorities. Our total command of
the situation.”

Phantom’s face had a skeptical look, but Ghost Face said,
“Skeletor’s right. That
Campus News
girl is the
type who won’t stop unless we make her. If she finds out who we are, the school
might break us up.”

Ghost Face glanced at me while saying it. I’m pretty sure
she likes me, not like most of the stuck-up bitches at this school.

“How are we supposed to stop her?” Phantom asked, all pissed
off because people were on my side.

Hell Girl came up with an idea. I have a better one, but
sometimes you’ve got to let chicks think they’re smart if you want to keep them
in check. If Hell Girl’s plan doesn’t work, we’ll go for mine. Like I always
say, save the best for last.

Once we got that out of the way, we started planning the
next prank. That’s what we call the stuff we do. Phantom read some old book
about people doing pranks. It’s part of the reason we’re MP. In the summer, when
we thought up the idea, Phantom wanted us to be the Merry Pranksters. I said,
“No. We can’t copy from that book exactly. We could maybe use the initials, MP,
but it’s got to mean something else—” That’s when the idea came to me. “Masked
Pranksters! All the people we ask to be in it can pick their own names from
comic books or
manga
or even horror movies and
then we’ll get masks.”

“What for?” Phantom asked me.

“We’re going to need them. People feel freer behind a mask.”
Free to do whatever’s needed.

8

“Whoa!” Marci whispers as we exit the third-floor
staircase.

The hall looks like the East Village with concert announcements
plastered across construction site walls. The only difference is that the papers
taped to lockers aren’t blasting info about the latest indie band. The flyers,
if that’s what they are, repeat the same words, over and over.

JOIN US.

Underneath the stenciled letters, a small group of birds
gather. The drawing doesn’t have many details. Hatch marks create messy
feathers; darker lines make up legs and heads. Something about them looks cool,
though, despite the fact that the picture is crude.

In the bottom corner, one bird stands alone. He’s got a crooked
wing and stares up at the flock as if he’s just been attacked. On the other
hand, it might be that the poor bird’s desperate to join the rest. It could go
either way.

“MP?” Marci whispers.

“Who else? The writing’s the same. Call Phil. See if they
papered his hall. I’ll try Bethany.”

My sister answers on the second ring. “If I get caught
talking—”

Honestly, would it kill the kid to answer the phone nicely just
one time? “You won’t get in trouble. It’s before first bell. Are you at your
locker? Is the hall papered with MP flyers?”

“No. Is yours?”

“Yes. Go around the corner. See if anything’s there. I’ll
wait.”

It doesn’t take long before she whispers, “I see them—”

“Which hallway? English or French?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know where all the classes are yet.”

“What room are you in front of?” I ask.

“One eighty.”

“That’s French. Thanks, Bethie-any.” I hang up before she can
yell at me for screwing up her name. “First floor was hit. The language
corridor.”

“Phil’s locker is clean,” Marci reports. “What do you think? MP
only had time to do a couple of halls.”

“That’ll be my guess. We should ask Mira—darn it!” I point down
the hall. “People are starting to tear these down. I’ve got to get
equipment!”

Just before sprinting to the Media Center, I make sure to
reattach the flyer to my locker.

* * *

By the time first period ends, Omar and Raul have
returned from their reconnaissance trip.

“MP did one hallway on each floor,” Omar says. “My guess is
there wasn’t time to blanket the whole school.”

“Any rumors going around about who did it?”

“Eryn Forrester, who’s on Student Council, thinks it might be
an advertisement,” Raul tells us. “For a new gym or something.”

“They can’t do that, can they?” Henry asks. “Advertise in
school?”

I perk up. “Wait! The Board of Ed is considering a motion to
allow companies to hang banners in public schools. Paint lockers with their
logos. They’d give the district a ton of money if it passes.”

“How do you know?” Raul asks.

“Channel 5 did a piece about it last week. But I don’t think
the Board voted yet.”

“How can Wilkins let some business put up weird ads on
our
lockers?” Marci’s pissed. “Honestly, what does he
do
all day except go around with that stupid
bullhorn and yell at people in the cafeteria?”

“Good point. We should get the administration view,” Omar says.
“I’ll check it out with my new friend Mrs. Fairy.”

“Cool. Go with…Jagger?” The boys nod. “Raul, Marci’s got a long
shot idea to tell you about.”

“Wait up!” Henry gets tongue-tied the instant everyone
turns.

“Do you have a suggestion?” I ask gently.

He shakes his head and points to the flyer. “A question. It
says ‘Join Us.’”

“Yes. It does.” Marci wrinkles her eyebrows. “What are you—oh,
I get it!
Us
. If MP is someone’s initials, why
didn’t he write ‘Join Me’?”

Henry gives her the puppy dog eyes. “Exactly. Who’s us? ’Til
now, we’ve assumed it’s one person. And there’s a second question. How does
someone join? There aren’t directions.”

Marci chews the string on her WiHi Girls’ Soccer sweatshirt.
“Maybe this is the first flyer. There could be more with instructions.”

“Hold on!” Raul points. “Henry, are you saying MP isn’t the
bird in the corner? It’s the group of birds?”

“Flock,” Jagger notes.

“Group, flock, whatever.”

Henry’s scruffy hair flies as he nods. “The flock’s definitely
MP.”

“Why are you so sure?” Omar asks.

With a Sharpie, Henry traces a pattern on the flyer. “Check out
the feet. See the two letters on each claw? MP. The corner bird doesn’t have
that.”

Raul whistles. “I’d never have noticed that in a million
years.”

“Doesn’t prove anything.” Jagger taps the paper. “Maybe ‘Us’
means if you join
Me,
MP, then it’s an us.”

“Whatchu smokin’, bro, and can I have some?” Omar laughs. “That
makes no sense.”

“It does. If it’s rhetorical,” Jagger insists.

“Rhetorical or not, you guys sign out a camera and talk to Mrs.
Fahey during lunch so we can rule out a company looking for publicity,” I tell
them. “If it’s a dead end, at least we have another way to go.”

* * *

Skipping the cafeteria, I pop into the Media Center to
digitize the locker footage during lunchtime. Just before the bell rings, the
rest of the team appears. Nobody looks happy.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Mrs. Fairy told Omar that she won’t be interviewed on camera
again,” Jagger says.

Omar lightens his voice for a very credible imitation of the
assistant principal. “‘What I can tell you right now is that Mr. Wilkins
wouldn’t think of allowing advertisements without the Board’s approval. And I
hope, no, insist, that
Campus News
refrain from
spreading rumors. I refuse to speculate regarding the nature of the
flyers.’”

Before we stop laughing, the intercom squawks. Mr. Wilkins.

“Teachers, please excuse the interruption. At this time, I need
to remind all students that postering on lockers is not permitted. Approved
flyers
must
be placed on bulletin boards designated
for that purpose. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Marci shakes her head. “Let’s see if I get this straight.
Cut-up plastic body parts are fine with Wilkins as long as they’re not hanging
from lockers.”

I laugh. “The mysteries of WiHi are…”

“Mysterious. I know. But—” The bell cuts off whatever else
she’s about to say. Marci waits as I hit Save and then Close.

“Raul and I struck out, too, Val. Trey’s got that horrible flu
that’s going around. The runs, the stomach—”

I hold up my hand. “No further details needed, thank you very
much!”

“Yeah. Okay. He hasn’t been in school all week, so he didn’t
put up the flyers. He’s not MP.”

“Are you going to tell Mira so she won’t keep worrying?”

She holds her phone. “Already texted.”

* * *

Later that evening, I catch the news while the twins
take a bath. Channel 5’s Emily Purdue does a piece about roadkill jewelry,
actually modeling a rat bracelet. Shows how far that lady will go for a story,
even if it’s fluff. I love the way she keeps her cool, though, never letting
viewers know what she really thinks. Watching her on the screen, I fall into one
of my favorite fantasies. A summer internship as Emily’s assistant. How cool is
that? My dream college in Syracuse has an extensive internship list, so it’s not
like it’s out of the question.

That line of thought leads me upstairs. No sense sitting around
when I have so much stuff to do. Narrowing down the list of schools that I
should apply to. I could start the Common Application admissions essay. Or
figure out a way to catch MP.

The door to my bedroom is closed. It’s no surprise to find
Bethany on her bed just…sitting there.

“What?” she snaps.

“I just watched the grossest thing—”

My sister blinks. “And you’re telling me because…”

“I’m considering buying you a skunk necklace for Christmas.
Just want to know what you think.”

She yawns. “I hate skunks. Everybody hates skunks. Are you done
with the TV?”

Honestly. Why bother trying to have a conversation? “All yours.
Until the twins get out of the bath, that is.”

Bethany shoots out of the room like a cannonball. Her feet
pound the steps. Dad yells, “Who’s running like that? I’ve told you kids a
million times…”

Instead of starting the essay, I pull out my
Campus News
notebook and try to come up with a plan
to unravel the MP mystery. A coup like that would go a long way with college
admissions committees. Is it a group, like Henry thinks? If so, what does that
mean? No lightbulb ideas hit, so I move to the computer. Bethie and I share,
which means I can only get on when she’s not. As producer, I’m on WiHi’s
announcement distribution list, so I try to check email at least once a day.

Two messages are in my in-box. Reading the second one sends a
jolt of electricity through my brain.

Information is power. MP has the power. Stop trying to find out
who this is or
Campus News
will be cut out.

Holy smokes. Actual contact! Never mind what it says.
Sending an email means my stories have hit home. Maybe I’m closing in without
realizing it.

The email address,
mp@hotmail
,
doesn’t help. Anyone can set up a Hotmail account. Leaning forward, it takes a
couple of tries to craft the right response.

Can we meet to talk about this? Any time and place you say.

Imagine the scoop! Meeting MP, trying to convince him—or a
group—to go public. The triumph when I tell the team. Raul will have to admit I
was the right choice for producer. It won’t matter whether Jagger smirks or not.
I’ll break the story. Student Emmy Award—and college of my dreams— here I
come!

I cannot wait for the reply.

* * *

Which never comes. After two days, I give the team the
go-ahead for a segment using the flyers-on-lockers footage. Everyone except
Marci works on it. At the end, I ask the question: Is MP one person or a group?
The camera cuts to a close-up of the flyer. Henry highlighted the faint MP on
each of the birds’ claws. Just as the piece comes to a close, the letters start
to glow. We hear actual applause from the neighboring classroom when the
broadcast signs off.

Raul gives each of us the WiHi fist bump. “Great show,
guys.”

“Agreed!” I say. “Best team ever!”

Marci’s caught up in the excitement, too. “Let’s eat lunch
together. Never, in the entire history of
Campus
News,
has anyone applauded.”

Jagger laughs. “That’s because everyone’s asleep by the
end.”

She leans back in the chair. “Do you
have
to be such a jerk? Every time?”

“Can you two call a truce? Please!” The constant bickering
between Marci and Jagger is getting to Omar. “At least during lunch. I want to
talk Halloween. I’m having a party.”

“Cool,” I tell him. “Corner table by the far window?”

Everyone nods except for Jagger. Luckily, Marci’s not looking
his way.

* * *

Before heading to the cafeteria, I twirl my locker
combo, fling open the door—and immediately slam it shut.

Tracy Gardner’s got the locker next to mine. “What’s the
matter, Val? Forget your sandwich—”

“It’s nothing.” With a “no problem” wave, I barrel down the
hall. “Marci!”

The screech is louder than I intend. Marci and Phil turn at the
same moment.

“What’s wrong—” she starts.

I grab her arm. “Come, too, Phil. You’re not going to believe
what I just saw.”

The looks we get as I drag them through the crowd make me
realize I need to slow down, stay cool. Just in case someone’s watching. I pull
the two of them into the gap by the nurse’s office. “Wait until the hall
clears.”

“For what?” Phil asks, at the same time Marci says, “Tell
me!”

“Hold on.” I wait a bit before peering around the corner. Halls
empty quickly at lunch. “We’re good!” I move to my locker, turn the combo and
swing the door open. “Voila!”

Marci pushes Phil aside and then shrieks, “What on earth—”

“Crazy, right?”

A dead bird hangs inside the locker. One end of a string is
tied around his neck; the other end loops to the coat hook. The left wing droops
crookedly.

“It’s fake, right?” Marci whispers hopefully.

“Hell no,” Phil tells her. “This is, or was, a real animal.
Sparrow maybe. Or wren. Look at the eyes. That is not plastic.”

“This is way creepy!” Marci says. “And disgusting.”

Phil reaches into the locker. “I’ll get rid of it—”

“No!” I breathe. “I mean, not yet.”

“You don’t want to keep this—”

Marci shudders. “She does. At least until she can shoot
it.”

The light dawns on Phil’s face. “MP! He’s the one—”

“Or they,” Marci scolds. “Didn’t you watch the broadcast this
morning?”

My phone buzzes. Text message. “It’s Raul. They’re waiting for
us in the caf.”

“Give me that.” Marci takes my cell.

Phil gestures to the locker. “Do you really want to show this
to the whole school? It might give people ideas.”

“Don’t tell me you’re advocating censorship!”

He shifts, confused. “Um, not if that’s a bad thing.”

I toss my head. “Yes, it’s a bad thing. Marci, give me my phone
back. I need to tell them to bring equipment—”

“They’re on it.” She shudders. “Can you at least shut the door
while we wait? That thing’s weirding me out.”

“You’re not going to faint, are you?” Phil sounds worried.

“I just need to sit.” She settles on the floor, her back
against Tracy’s locker. “That poor bird….”

“I’ll wet some paper towels,” Phil says.

Marci watches her boyfriend jog down the hall. “So sweet.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s a little too troglodyte for my taste, but I’ll
never say that out loud. “How do you think someone got into my locker?”