Circle of Silence

Circle of Silence Carol M. Tanzman THE BIGGEST STORY OF MY LIFE COULD BE HOW IT ENDSIt’s my turn to run a Campus News crew, and I’ve put together a team that can break stories wide open. And Washington Irving High has a truly great one to cover, if only we can find a lead. A secret society has formed in our school. It announced its presence with pranks: underwear on the flag pole, a toilet in the hallway, cryptic notes.A circle of silence keeps the society a mystery. No one knows its members, agenda, or initiation secrets–until a student lands in the hospital under strange circumstances. I will blow this story wide open and stop others from being hurt…or worse. And while my ex, Jagger, might want to help, I don’t trust him yet. (And, no, not because of our past together. That is not important to this story.)But whether you find me, Valerie Gaines, reporting in front of the camera, or a victim in the top story of the newscast…be sure to watch Campus News at 9am this Friday morning."…an explosive read that will grab you from the very beginning and not let go until you've read the last page. I read this in one sitting." –Starry Sky Books on dancergirl THE BIGGEST STORY OF MY LIFE COULD BE HOW IT ENDS It’s my turn to run a Campus News crew, and I’ve put together a team that can break stories wide open. And Washington Irving High has a truly great one to cover, if only we can find a lead. A secret society has formed in our school. It announced its presence with pranks: underwear on the flagpole, a toilet in the hallway, cryptic notes. A circle of silence keeps the society a mystery. No one knows its members, agenda or initiation secrets—until a student lands in the hospital under strange circumstances. I will blow this story wide open and stop others from being hurt…or worse. And while my ex, Jagger, might want to help, I don’t trust him yet. (And, no, not because of our past together. That is not important to this story.) But whether you find me, Valerie Gaines, reporting in front of the camera, or a victim in the top story of the newscast…be sure to watch Campus News at 9:00 a.m. this Friday. Henry points to the glass-enclosed case that everyone, including Mr. Wilkins, passes by every day. “I don’t know how long it’s been there. I just noticed it,” Henry tells us. At first, all I see are the usual trophies: WiHi’s 1994 Sectional Wrestling Trophy, 1953 City-Wide Baseball win, 2011 Girls’ Varsity Basketball champs, Debate Team Champions of 1966. At last, though, the fakes become apparent. Once I notice them, it’s impossible not to stare at the two “added” to the case. They’re the type of trophies a little kid gets after soccer season, but the first one is more menacing than anything from a recreational center league. A thin rope loops around the girl’s neck. The other end is attached to the shelf above so that the trophy hangs. The original nameplate has been replaced with “Roving Reporter.” The second fake is scarier. The player’s head is chopped off. * * * Praise for Carol M. Tanzman’s dancergirl “This addicting, thrilling mystery hits upon many of our worst fears.” —Booklist “An explosive read that will grab you from the very beginning and not let go until you’ve read the last page. I read this in one sitting.” —Starry Sky Books blog “A fantastic read that I could not put down.” —The Book Barbies blog “A page turner…. Had me hooked from the beginning straight through until the final sentence. Dancergirl had me twisted round its proverbial finger.” —The Little Munchkin Reader blog “The creepy atmosphere [was] really well-done…this is a great read.” —Paperback Treasures blog “Tanzman [has] created realistic, likable characters…kept me on the edge of my seat.” —Nicole’s YA Book Haven blog “I loved this book so much….extremely entertaining…I highly recommend this book.” —jj iReads blog Circle of Silence Carol M. Tanzman www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk) For Jack, Liana and Dylan with love and gratitude Contents Prologue (#uc4395f85-4727-5134-a0ae-582331814a85) Part One (#u1181c775-5530-5cee-81a2-ba65f3cd84fc) Chapter 1 (#u63dac106-12d0-5d19-9539-356aaa0ca7a6) Chapter 2 (#u46ae8d46-e8f9-5b9f-95d4-caebdf67d593) Chapter 3 (#u7ffa79b3-8594-531d-a4bb-d5b03443f865) What We Need Is Hatred (#ua0b2312d-47b2-508e-a482-3de40b77ff9b) Chapter 4 (#u7bf06341-f23e-5304-ad57-7cee372806a4) Chapter 5 (#u383e8847-2ab5-56c4-87e3-007ccd96d713) Power and Liberty (#uad76077c-1228-566b-8268-307da8170c69) Chapter 6 (#u1ade5dae-31c6-55b7-9ca8-40a363fe4b16) Chapter 7 (#uf3b32264-c2f1-5cf4-b761-b2a6633b5704) Anarchism Is the Great Liberator (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) You Have Kindled a Fire (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Power Is Pleasure (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Fear Is Maintained (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Power Is Not a Means (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Part 3 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) The Blood-Dimmed Tide (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Yet Understand (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) PROLOGUE Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea… The words keep time with my pounding heart. Dashing, darting…hurtling forward. It’s like a nightmare. Chasing after the school bus, the train, a minivan. No matter how fast I run, I can’t get there in time. I’m left stranded, alone, surrounded by abandoned warehouses, darkened streets and smelly drunks…. This isn’t a dream. I know where I’m going. I just can’t move fast enough. Jagger. Jags! I asked you not to do this. Begged you… My cheeks feel wet. How did I not see the approaching storm? But the streets aren’t slick and the pitter-patter of rain does not mingle with the sound of my feet slapping against rough cobblestones. I touch my face. Taste the droplet. Salty… That’s when I know I’ll be too late. Instinct, ESP or maybe just plain terror breaks through. Because it’s my fault. I pushed too hard; it went too far. Whatever terrible thing I am about to see, I could have stopped. No matter what anyone tells me, no matter who insists, “You can’t blame yourself,” I will always know, deep down, that it’s a lie. PART ONE SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1 My sweaty palm pushes the Media Center door open on the second day of senior year. The single most important class of my life is about to begin. “Don’t look so worried, Val,” Marci tells me. “We got this covered.” I give my best friend since eighth grade a pained look. Sunny Marci. Always seeing the bright side. Except this time, she’s especially naive. There’s no way it’s a sure thing. Together, we move to the table Mr. Carleton assigned to us. Yesterday, he divided the class into two permanent Campus News teams. First order of business today: each crew votes for producer. The job I covet. The position I worked really hard, during both sophomore and junior years at Washington Irving High School, to get. If mine, it could propel me straight into the college of my dreams. I steal a glance at my competition. Raul Ortega. His dark chocolate eyes take everything in. Taller by about three inches than me, he wears his hair in a brush cut that tops a solid body. Raul’s definitely the guy you want on your side in a fight. Not that he’s a hothead. On the contrary, the dude’s cool. He knows his way around TV Production almost as well as I do. Exactly the reason he might get more votes than me. He feels my look, turns. Grins nervously. Oh yeah, Raul wants it, too. The real question is: which of us does the group want? Besides Marci Lee, the team consists of Omar Bryant and Henry Dillon. With five votes, there won’t be a tie. Mr. Carleton takes attendance and then says, “Okay, folks, you know what to do.” For a moment, our table is silent. Afraid that I’ll come off as either too confident or too bossy, I resist the urge to take charge. Raul’s busy giving the other two boys meaningful glances. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. Did he talk to them last night? Make them promise to vote for him? That would totally suck. Marci jumps in. Energetically, she tears a piece of paper into five pieces. “You all have something to write with?” Henry whips out a pen. A classic overachiever, he skipped both second and third grades, won a national award for drawing in eighth and captains the chess team. “I’ve got extras!” Underneath the curtain of brown hair that covers his forehead, Henry shoots Marci puppy dog eyes. He’s been quietly crushing on her for at least a year. Quietly—since she’s dating a football player. Doesn’t matter to Henry. He’d probably faint if Marci actually kissed him. Omar extends a well-manicured hand. “I forgot a pencil.” “Forgot?” Marci counters. “Or never had one in the first place?” He wriggles his eyebrows. She indulges him a laugh before handing over a slip of paper. At first glance, Omar Bryant’s a diva. When he was eight, he put on a sparkly cape for Halloween and refused to take it off until Christmas. Didn’t care what anyone said—then or now. But dig deeper and you’ll hit the sensitive soul of a true artist. Everyone in Campus News knows he has a great eye and a steady hand. When he gets behind the lens, his focus is total. Marci hands out the rest of the paper. Names are scribbled. Without a word, we all fold the slips into tiny squares, as if that can disguise who voted for whom. Five tiny bundles are tossed onto the table. “I’ll count.” Carefully, Marci unfolds the first piece of paper. “Valerie Gaines.” I keep my face neutral because that doesn’t mean much. It’s either my vote—or hers. The second paper has Raul’s name on it. So does the third. A wave of disappointment hits. I told Marci I might not win. Not if it’s boys vs. girls—with the boys outnumbering us. Marci gives me a cheerful look after unwrapping the fourth vote. “ValGal.” Obviously, that’s hers. The score’s tied. Raul leans forward, triumph etched across his face. I can practically see the writing inside the final piece of paper. Raul Ortega. “Valerie,” Marci says. “What?” She waves the slip. “The last vote’s for you. You won!” The shock on my face is genuine. As is the surprise in Raul’s eyes. Marci shoots me an “I told you” smile before prancing to the whiteboard. She grabs an orange marker and writes Valerie Gaines, B Team Producer. Mr. Carleton nods. “Team A, you have a winner?” Scott Jenkins raises his hand. His stick-up sand-colored hair and square jaw make him look skinnier than he actually is. Given who’s on A Team, he’s the person I’d vote for, too. Scott’s good but I’m better. I work harder. I care more. I won’t ever let my team down. The teacher heaves himself out of his chair. “Good choices, folks. Now listen up! Rule review so you can’t say you didn’t know ’em when you break ’em. Each show consists of four segments, no more, no less, interspersed with anchor ins and outs. Sixteen minutes total. Remember to look for the angle. What’s the way into the story? Teams alternate weekly broadcasts. B Team’s up first, then A.” Which doesn’t make sense. You’d think A Team would start because, well, it’s first in the alphabet. But that’s how Mr. Carleton thinks. Roundabout. And backward. “Last three rules. First—” he holds up an index finger “—a Question Sheet must be filled out before every interview.” Two fingers go up. “Rude behavior or fooling around in hallways when you’re shooting Will. Not. Be. Tolerated. Third. Do not open a case unless it’s on a table or the ground because equipment in said case will fall out. If it breaks, your folks pay. Trust me, they Will. Not. Be. Happy.” Mr. Carleton, a portly African-American man, keeps his head shaved smoothly and his desk immaculate, proof positive that he’s a fan of the “less is more” theory. Tightly edited sequences, one-word sentences. He continues with basic equipment sign-out procedures. When he’s done, he glances at the clock. “Okay, teams, with whatever time’s left, start planning your first broadcast.” Excited, I pull out my Campus News notebook, but before anyone can say a word, the door flies open. Every head turns. “Omigod!” Marcis hisses. “What’s he doing here?” My heart takes a nosedive straight into my stomach. Jagger Voorham! Pouty, rocker-boy lips, hazel eyes that change color according to his mood, and yes, supercute. Slacker Jagger crosses the room without bothering to look at anyone, including me. As if he doesn’t know I’d be front and center. He hands Mr. Carleton a mustard-yellow Schedule Change form. The teacher frowns. “Don’t worry, Marci,” I whisper. “Carleton’ll never let him into the class. Jags didn’t take Intro. He can’t be in Advanced.” Resolutely, I tap the notebook and try to discuss stories for the first broadcast. But everyone’s focus is on the quiet conversation at the front of the room. Finally the teacher nods. “B Team!” Mr. Carleton points a finger at Jagger. “New member.” Do something, Marci mouths. Like what? Throw myself under a bus? Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge? Drop the class? Jagger saunters over. I look down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his existence. There’s no way I want him—or anyone else in the room—to see the tears of frustration forming hot in my eyes. How could Jagger do this to me? My triumphant moment—ruined! My BFF, a four-foot-eleven, barely one-hundred-pound Korean dynamo, kicks me. I don’t have to look at Marci to know what she’s thinking. Who wants to deal with Jagger all year? That’s the moment the bell rings. Everyone in class jumps up, as if electroshocked into obedience. Mr. Carleton gestures. “Stay a moment, Val?” Marci glances at me, but I wave her on. Scott Jenkins smirks as he passes, knowing my team’s just been saddled with a complete neophyte. Hailey Manussian, on the other hand, shoots me a look of sheer hatred—or maybe it’s jealousy. Like most girls at WiHi, Hailey’s probably going through an if only Jagger wanted to get into my pants phase. Backpack on shoulder, I walk to the teacher’s desk. “I put Jagger Voorham on your team,” Carleton tells me. The blood rushes to my cheeks at the mere mention of his name. “I noticed.” “He can’t fit Intro into his schedule. I let him in because he’s a senior like the rest of the class. Although that doesn’t mean you let him slide. He needs to do his share. Show him the ropes, won’t you, Val?” Despite the fact that I find it hard to breathe, I put on a tough act. “Sure, Mr. Carleton. I’ll kick his butt.” The teacher laughs. “I bet you will.” He points to a couple of Student Emmy Awards gathering dust on the shelf above his desk. “Get those stories, girl. I’m counting on you to win us another.” “No pressure,” I say. His bald head gleams. “Would it be Campus News if there wasn’t?” * * * The last bell of the day is like a tsunami warning on a Pacific island. The halls explode as almost two thousand kids run for higher ground—which in this case means lockers and exit doors. I elbow my way down the corridor with just the tiniest bit of amazement. Even though the school was cleaned over the summer, initials are already chalked across the walls. Marci stands in front of her locker, fiddling with her lock. “Maybe you should try your new combination,” I tell her. “That’s last year’s.” She frowns as she searches her backpack for the combo paper the homeroom teachers hand out. “Why can’t they let us keep the same lockers every year?” “The mysteries of WiHi are…mysterious, Marci.” The metal door pops open. She switches a book and we head down the steps. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask at lunch. What did Carleton want?” “We’re supposed to show Jagger the ropes.” “Not we. You’re the one who knows everything. I only take TV so we can hang.” She lowers her voice. “Think you can get him to switch Jagger to A team?” “What am I supposed to say?” “The guy’s a killer. Broke your heart and scattered the pieces without a second thought.” Ouch. Rip the scab right off the wound, why don’t you? Outside, the afternoon sun makes me blink. At least, that’s what I tell myself. September in Brooklyn Heights is like an iPod on shuffle. Summer weather, fall weather, and everything in between. This week it’s end-of-summer-with-hints-of-autumn. That means it’s too nice to have been stuck in school obsessing about Jagger Voorham for the past five hours. “Mr. Carleton gave me permission to kick his butt if he screws up,” I tell her. “Like that’ll help. He was my dialogue partner in French III, remember? I wanted to murder the kid, but I swear Mademoiselle Reynaud’s in love with him. Two-faced dog if ever there was one.” “Jagger or Mademoiselle Reynaud?” The French teacher is ninety years old and mean as a pit bull. She’s been teaching so long they’re thinking about naming the language hall bathrooms after her. Or maybe just a stall. “You know who I mean,” Marci sniffs. I do—and I’m just as pissed off as she is. Why does Jagger have to ruin twelfth grade the way he did eleventh? For months, we were lip-locked and then one night, he finds someone else to soothe his tortured soul. Or whatever that stupid clich? is. The fact that I wasn’t enough for him, that I didn’t even know I wasn’t enough, left a cavernous hole deep inside me. “I can ask Mr. Carleton to switch him,” Marci pleads. “I don’t mind.” I shake my head. “Scott’ll never take him. Plus, Mr. C. specifically asked me to help.” “Worse and worse,” she mumbles softly. “I heard that! You’re not helping, Marci.” “Sorry! It’s just…I don’t want to see you hurt again.” Again? I almost laugh. Watching Jagger walk into the Media Center made it clear that the hurt had never gone away. It just got buried inside the hole at the center of my life. “I’ll just have to deal with it. With him. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” My best friend shakes her head. “Not exactly the choice I was going for!” 2 Tony’s Pizzeria is a Heights institution. Old-school booths with Formica tables, cracked leather seats and the best pizza in a town known for excellent pies. It’s on Montague, Brooklyn Heights’ main street, in between Moving Arts Dance Studio and an antique shop. Marci waits in line while I scout a table. The place is packed with WiHi’s hungriest. I zero in on a couple of newbies. I can tell they’ve just launched their high school career because they have that haunted how did I survive the second day of ninth grade? look—damn! Bethany! My sister started WiHi yesterday, too. Mom made me promise I’d walk her home all week. I hit my cell. Bethany has the same lame one I do because my parents get a “two for the price of one” deal. It’s not hard to imagine my sister staring at the caller ID while she decides whether or not to answer. She does—an instant before it goes to voice mail. “What do you want?” “Are you at your locker? I—” “I’m home. Did you really expect me to wait?” “And you didn’t think to tell me? What if I’m searching every inch of WiHi—” “You’re not. You’re at Tony’s. With Marci.” The surrounding din has sold me out. “How was your second day?” “How do you think?” The line goes dead. I give the freshmen the evil eye, as though one of them were my pain-in-the-butt sister. They look terrified, finish eating quickly and stumble away. Less than ten seconds later, Marci maneuvers over, juggling two slices and a couple of lemonades. “A little help?” she asks. “Sorry.” I grab the cups before she drops one. Marci slides into the booth. “Okay, Valerie, spill. What’s the matter?” I don’t even ask how she knows something’s wrong. “Bethany. She hung up in my ear.” Marci reaches for the jar of hot pepper flakes. “At least your sister hates someone besides me.” “Bethany doesn’t hate you.” “Does, too,” she insists. “Does not.” My best friend cocks an eyebrow. “Well, not more than she hates anyone else,” I concede. Folding my pizza in half, I shove it in my mouth. Tony’s slow-simmered sauce, gooey melted cheese and crisp crust instantly improve my mood. “You know, he’ll make a great anchor.” Marci chokes. “Jagger? Val—” “It’s my job as producer to use the resources of the team wisely,” I say primly. She rolls her eyes. “Right. Oh, and congratulations.” There’s something so self-satisfied about the way it comes out that it makes me suspicious. “Fess up, Marci. How were you so sure I’d win?” She busies herself with the pizza, shaking oregano over the slice. “Because you deserve it. Because you’re the best—” The light dawns. “Because you talked Henry into voting for me. Marci Lee! That’s cheating.” “Riigght. Like Raul didn’t get there first.” I sit back into the wine-red banquette. “Are you sure? I mean, okay, I thought I saw him give the boys a look.” Marci nods. “Me, too. I think he spoke to them after class yesterday. Before I talked to Henry. So I don’t feel the teensiest bit bad about it.” “What did you say—wait. Let me guess. You hit him with your killer smile and told him how much it would mean if your best friend got chosen producer.” She finishes chewing. “It’s not as if you don’t deserve it. Henry knows that.” “So you didn’t have to promise him a date?” “Valerie Gaines! You should kiss my cute little Asian feet right now, not yell at me.” She’s right. I hoped I’d win because more people wanted me to be producer than Raul. Without Marci watching my back, I’d be wallowing in despair at this very moment. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” She leans across the table. “The right person got the job, Val—as long as you stay focused. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.” I cross my heart. A double sign—of promise and of locking it up tight. “Excellent.” Marci grins. “And I promise that as long as I don’t have to miss soccer practice or a game, I’ll do anything you want.” “I’ll cover for you in TV whenever you need it.” I tip my lemonade toward hers. “Always and forever,” Marci replies, evoking our longtime sisterly vow with a return tap of her glass. “Exactly the reason Bethany hates us.” * * * A little after six o’clock, I barge into the bedroom. “Mom sent me up here to tell you it’s time to eat,” I inform my sister. The Gaines family, all six of us, live in a three-story brick row house. We occupy the first two floors. My parents rent the top apartment to a succession of young professionals, none of whom seem able to hold on to their jobs for very long. Our kitchen, living and dining rooms are on the ground level. Three bedrooms take up the second floor. That means Bethany and I share, as do our six-year-old-twin brothers, Jesse and James. They think it’s the best thing since the invention of the Oreo cookie; I’d live on the fire escape if Mom would let me. Right now my sister’s wearing earbuds. I know she sees me because I’m standing over her bed. Still, she pretends she doesn’t. I lift the buds. “Dinnertime.” “Not interested.” “Bethany, if you don’t eat, Dad will start in on how you’re so skinny and Mom will get crazy about anorexia—” “I’m not anorexic,” she whines. “I know. You eat plenty after everyone goes to sleep.” “That’s when I’m hungry.” “Tell it to the parents. Right now it’s your turn to set the table. If I end up doing it, you wash the pans, whether you eat or not. It’s pot roast. Emphasis on pots.” “I hate pot roast.” Bethany swings her long, thin legs across the bed, kicking me in the shins before I can jump aside. “Jerk,” I mutter. “Asshole,” she says. I start toward my sister like I’m gonna kick her butt. She takes off, which was my plan all along. Slamming the door, I throw myself onto my bed, next to the window and as far from my sister’s as I can get it. Bethany Ann Gaines. Her long brown hair is barely wavy, as if even her follicles can’t be bothered to curl right. She inherited Dad’s straight teeth, though, never needing braces the way I did. But now I have a perfect smile and Mom’s auburn hair, just red enough to give me natural highlights. I keep it shoulder length like my fave TV reporter, Channel 5’s Emily Purdue. It’s not only looks that separate us. Bethany is, well, boring. It would be totally cool to have a sister who scribbled angry poetry on the edges of her homework. Or a computer whiz who didn’t have to ask me how to do every little thing. I’d even take a boy-crazy chick with awesome taste in clothes—but that’s not her. Then there are the twins. Jesse and James—my dad’s not very funny joke—live up to their collective fugitive name by constantly getting into one mess after another. The amount of screaming, yelling and arguing that goes on in this house would send shy Henry to the loony bin for sure. There is, however, one advantage to a large family that only-child Marci can never claim. As long as I make decent grades (I do) and don’t get into trouble (I don’t), nobody’s in my business. It’s not that my folks don’t care. With the chaos of four kids and two jobs, the parents are overwhelmed. Which is the reason no one knew how destroyed I was last year. Perversely, I stare at the ceiling and tick off Jagger’s traits. Egotistical, manipulative and extremely charming. Pretty much a lethal combination. He has this way of talking to you like you’re the only person in the world— My cell rings. “What do you think MP stands for?” Marci asks. “Not Marci Lee. Why? Who’s MP?” “Phil called. After practice, he and the guys saw those two letters chalked all over the place.” Phil Colletti is Marci’s boyfriend. He’s a linebacker; she’s the cocaptain of the soccer team. They make an interesting couple—the Italian giant and the Korean imp—but there you go. Brooklyn diversity in all its glory. “I saw those initials, too,” I say. “Chalked on the wall near the nurse’s office.” “Got to be Marshall Prep. That’s who the football team plays first.” “Okay. Why are you so upset?” “Coming into our school, punking us before the game like that is so insulting.” “It’s actually kind of lame, Marci.” “Not really. They got into the third floor without anyone seeing. It’s bold.” My reporter instinct kicks in. “Let’s do a story.” “Hell no. We are not giving Marshall the satisfaction of knowing it bothers us.” “Okay, then what—” The door pounds. Jesse. Or James. “Mom said she told you to come right back down!” “Gotta go. Call you later.” Sneaking quietly across the room, I pull the door and stretch my arms. “Gotcha!” James shrieks. “You scared me!” “Dinnertime!” My zombie laugh echoes. “You, little man, look good enough to eat!” James wriggles out of my grasp and runs down the steps, screaming. I chase him, laughing insanely. Dad, pulling off his tie, steps out of his bedroom. “What on earth is going on?” From the kitchen, Jesse cries, “I want to play, too—” Crash. The sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the house. “Jesse Gaines!” Mom yells. “Why can’t you be more careful?” “You got milk all over me!” Bethany shouts. “Stupid idiot!” Jesse wails. James laughs. Dad thunders. Drama at the Gaines Family Zoo. Drama at WiHi. Two days into the first semester and already it’s obvious the year’s going to be a wild ride. 3 The Media Center isn’t set up like a regular classroom. The only “desks” are two round tables in the middle of the room. A row of computers, loaded with editing software and graphics programs, line the back wall. On the east side, there’s a mini-TV newsroom. Somebody, some year, painted the front of the school on a backdrop—a very realistic, to-scale depiction. The station’s call letters, WiHi, are printed at the bottom. The station’s weekly anchorperson sits at an oval table directly in front of the painting. Mr. Carleton keeps the equipment in several large, locked cabinets on the opposite wall. Cameras, microphones, headsets, lights. Sign-out sheets are clipped to a board. Next to the cabinets, two small glass-fronted rooms were carved out. One is the sound booth, the other the control room. Attendance taken, B Team settles at our table. I open my Campus News notebook and wet my lips nervously. “Ideas?” Marci speaks first. “I could interview the football team about their chances for the year.” I glance at my List of Possible Stories. Next to the line that says Football/school spirit/hot dog stand, I’d penciled in Marci’s name. “Excellent. Since it’s the first game, can you add a bit about school spirit? And don’t forget the senior hot dog stand. Money goes to prom.” She nods. “Can I work with Omar?” Advanced TV Production works in teams of two. One person interviews, holding the mic, while the other runs the camera, wearing a headset to check sound quality. They switch roles for the second person’s assignment. “You’re on, sista. But it’s a lot of setups,” Omar says. “Anyone got something easy for my segment?” His eyes flicker toward Raul as if he’s the one in charge. I jump in quick. “How about a Spotlight? There’s that new assistant principal.” Raul laughs. “Mrs. Fairy?” “Fahey,” I correct. “Like anyone’s gonna call her that,” Jagger snorts. “Snap!” Omar gives me the wriggly eyebrows. “Spotlight works, Val. Always a good idea to kiss up to the new administration.” Two down. Time to take on the monster. “How about anchoring, Jagger? It’s not hard—” “Nah,” he interrupts. “I don’t want to be on camera.” Of course. I should have told him not to anchor. “Then what’s your plan?” “What do you mean?” “If you don’t anchor, you have to shoot and edit a piece. Do you have an idea?” His eyes turn thunderstorm-gray. “Didn’t know I had to think of one.” Omigod. Why is he even in this class? Trying not to appear flustered, I glance at Henry. “What if you take the anchor position for the first broadcast? That way, you’ll have time to help with the opening graphics.” He nods. “I could do that.” Thank goodness for Henry. “Cool. That leaves Raul with Jagger.” Jagger leans forward. “Why can’t you and me be together?” My heart jumps—until I realize he’s playing me. Or is he? The sudden intensity in his eyes is confusing. It seems so…honest. The next instant, though, I catch myself. Do not fall for the Voorham charm the very first day! Omar, fanning his face with mock envy, raises his voice. “Hooking up during Campus News! That allowed, Mr. Carleton?” The teacher, sitting with A Team, glances at us. “Whatever you say, Omar. As long as Work. Gets. Done.” Great. First day in charge. Jagger’s making a fool of me, and Mr. C. thinks we’re screwing around. “Producer doesn’t take a specific assignment the first week, Voorham.” My voice has a frosty edge. “Except for directing anchor stuff and making sure everything else works out.” Raul must think I can’t handle Jagger, because he jumps in. “Val’s right. You’re with me. How about doing something on the new skateboard park down by the river?” Why didn’t I think of that? “Community story! Carleton’ll love it,” I tell him. Raul smiles. At the same time, Jagger looks a bit…disappointed. Or maybe he’s pissed that he didn’t get his way. I glance at Marci to see if she’s paying attention, but she’s filling out the Question Sheet for the football story. Quickly, I get back to work. “That leaves only one segment to figure out.” After checking my list again, I make a decision. “After-school clubs. It’ll be good for the ninth graders.” Jagger snorts. “Clubs? I’d rather do something about MP.” Omar glances at him curiously. “Who’s that?” “Haven’t you seen the initials chalked around school?” Jagger asks. “Got to be a tagger.” Marci pushes her paper aside. “MP. It’s Marshall Prep. They’re the first football team we play. They’re messing with our heads. Something you know all about.” He grins. “Whatever. I’ll do that. Talk to the usual suspects around school. If nothing pans out graffiti-wise, I know a guy at Marshall. I can try to find out if he’s heard anything—” “No way!” Marci declares. “Marshall Prep does not get one bit of publicity for punking us.” Jagger tilts his chair back so that it balances precariously on two legs. “Why are you so against me trying, Marcikins?” Quickly, I shut my notebook. I need to take charge right now so the team doesn’t blow up before a single frame is shot. “It doesn’t matter whose initials they are. Clubs are more useful for a first broadcast. Five hundred freshmen need to hear about them before sign-up day.” Jagger lets the chair down with a dissatisfied bang. “Whatever you say. But I’m willing to bet MP is a way better story than a group of lame-ass kids sitting around solving equestrian math puzzles!” 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. “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.” “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.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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