Circle of Silence (10 page)

15

Mom’s on the phone when I get home. She waves me into
the kitchen and tells the caller, “Val just got in. Call when you’re on your
way.” She disconnects. “There you are!”

“Here I am. Stayed late to work on something for
Campus News.
” It occurs to me that the house is
unusually silent. “Where is everyone?”

Mom runs a hand through her hair. “I got stuck on the train for
more than an hour. Some kind of stall ahead of us. Dad’ll be late, too.”

I’m confused. “Where are the twins?”

“That’s the problem. I texted Connie as soon as I had
reception. Asked her to pick up the boys when she got Robby from after-school.
If you get them from her place, I’ll start dinner.”

“Why do I have to? I’m not the only teenager in this house, you
know.”

Mom throws an apron over her navy blue power suit and starts to
chop an onion with short, quick motions. “Bethany’s sick. Oh, that reminds me, I
need to find the thermometer—”

“If she gives me that disgusting cold going around, I’ll never
speak to her again. Marci coughed so much at lunch, green crap came out of her
mouth.
”

“Valerie!” Mom stops midchop. “The boys?”

With my fist, I pound the counter. “Just once, I wish Bethany
would do something around here besides complain! Or get sick at the most
inconvenient times. I’ve got homework!”

I stomp into the hall, shrug back into my coat. Honestly, the
kid gets out of doing everything. In my next life, I plan to be the youngest. Or
an only child.

It’s not quite six o’clock, but already the night has that damp
chill that settles deep into your bones. Connie and her son live four blocks
south. I scurry down the sidewalk, dodging peeing dogs and their impatient
owners, as well as pedestrians carrying grocery bags and briefcases. I’m
checking building numbers when something makes me glance across the street. I
stop so fast that the woman behind me literally bangs into my rear.

“Sorry,” she says.

“My fault.” Ducking my head, I slip into the shadows of a
doorway. After a few seconds, I peek out.

Jagger’s across the street, talking to a girl. When she laughs,
her face shifts slightly. Ali Ruffino! The chick choreographing the musical.

Great. He leaves me flat at the pizzeria to meet her! My cheeks
burn with anger. I don’t have to text Marci to know what she’ll say.

Once a flirty jerk, always a flirty
jerk.

Fear is maintained by a never failing dread of punishment.

Machiavelli

MP LOG

I called an emergency meeting. We had to get together
because of what happened with the new girl.

We sat in a circle like always. The chicks started in right
away, not even waiting for the oath. They’re scared they’ll get in trouble. They
think the new girl will tell someone what really happened. I said, “Smarten up.
It’s been three days. You would have been called to the office by now if that’s
what she was going to do.” I looked around. “Any of you been summoned?”

Heads shake. “See? You really don’t understand how powerful
we are. She wants to be part of us. She knows she can’t if she tells. End of
story.”

After a bunch of grudging nods of agreement, I shifted the
conversation. “Since we’re here, we might as well get started on the next
prank.”

Out of the blue, Phantom said, “I quit. I don’t like how
this is going. When that girl fell, one of us was awfully close to her.”

Everyone turned to me, but I know my circle. I understood
the look in their eyes. They’re scared but not about the new girl anymore.
They’re worried I’m going to flip out or say, “Okay, no more group” because they
know Phantom and I started MP together.

None of them wants MP to end.

I laughed, which is not what anyone expected. In situations
like this, it’s always better to do the unexpected, to keep everyone off
balance. I said, “I don’t care if you quit. Go ahead, but you can’t tell anyone
about us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Phantom said. “I took the blood oath, so you
don’t have to worry about me snitching or anything.”

I have these two sharp teeth and if I open my lips a certain
way, I look like a wolf. I gave the group my
Canis
lupus
smile. “I got another reason you won’t tell, Phantom. Why no
one will tell.” Like a magician with a hat full of rabbit, I pulled out the
pictures from the initiation and fanned them across the floor. “Every one of you
is in at least two of these pictures with the new girl. But not me. So if anyone
says anything, I’m going to send these to Wilkins. Anonymously.”

Phantom looked at me with eyes full of fear—and respect—and
then said, “I told you, I’m not gonna tell and I won’t, but I’m outta here. If
the rest of you have any brains at all, you’ll follow.”

After Phantom left, no one said anything. Nobody got up to
leave, either. Then one of the chicks asked, “We still got a group, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We still got a group.”

16

“Why won’t you shut off the light?” Bethany whines.

It’s after eleven. She’s been out of school for a couple of
days. It wasn’t a cold, but a virusy thing that was making her extra cranky.

“Just a minute.” I type the last sentence of my history essay
and don’t even proof it before hitting Print. While I wait, I click over to
email. Holy crap! A new message. It’s from a Gmail account, though, not
Hotmail.

If you want to know more about MP, meet me at the Promenade
playground, 4:00 tomorrow. Don’t tell anyone. I will know if you disobey. Come
alone.

My immediate response:
I’ll be there. By myself.

Even though the time elapsed from reading the email to sending
the reply is probably no more than sixty seconds, I feel my sister’s eyes on my
back. Sure enough, when I turn, she gives me a pouty stare.

“If I’m still sick tomorrow, it’s your fault.”

I don’t get into the science of germs with her. Like the fact
that they have a specific life span and keeping the light on five more minutes
won’t make a lick of difference to her health. Instead, I gather pages from the
printer.

“Done! Go to sleep.”

“Shut the light!” she commands.

I flip the switch on my way to the bathroom. That means I have
to feel my way across the Sloth Queen’s Cave of Darkness upon my return. It’s
not like I’m falling asleep anytime soon, however. A million questions run
through my mind: Who sent the email? What will the person tell me? Why the
playground?

Every night, before going to sleep, I pull the curtains
together in order to get the room dark enough for my sister. Long ago, I
discovered that if I shift the fabric in a certain way and lean against the
window, the light from the streetlamp shines only on me. Without waking Bethany,
I slide my
Campus News
notebook out of my backpack
and come up with questions to ask. My assumption is that MP will freak if I whip
out a notebook so I memorize the list.

Once that’s done, it’s hard not to pick up my cell, charging on
the desk, and text Marci. Or someone else on the team. But if I do that, I’ve
broken my promise. Gone public with something private. When you’re investigating
a story, “off the record” is the hardest thing to deal with. It means the
reporter’s not allowed to name the source who gave up the information. The
problem is that no one can double-check the accuracy of what I’m saying. I could
be accused of lying like Hailey had done.

There are other reasons to keep quiet. I could be getting
Punk’d.
No one shows up and I look like a gullible
twerp. Or they do show up and I can’t convince whoever’s meeting me to agree to
an interview—or get them to go public—so I can report it. Better to not
embarrass myself in front of Jagger and the rest of the team until I find out
what’s up.

Still, I’m so excited. I stare at the moon.

“I’m meeting MP!” I mouth, knowing the moon, at least, will
never tell.

* * *

At school, I’m antsy all day. Jagger uses the computer
station next to mine to edit his Spotlight interview, but I barely notice. It’s
only when I hear Henry say, “The stuff on Ali’s rehearsal tape is really great,”
that I glance over.

“What rehearsal tape?” I ask.

“Ali gave Jagger video of a rehearsal that Mrs. Malmgren shot,”
Henry tells me. “She brought it home to check how the dances look. Ali’s in the
show
and
she’s choreographing.”

“Guess she’s doubly talented. When did you get the tape,
Jags?”

He looks up. “What? Oh, after I left Tony’s. That’s the reason
I ran out of there so fast. Ali said she’d meet me in front of her building at
five forty-five and I didn’t want to be late. Why?”

Wow. I’d completely misinterpreted the situation but at least I
hadn’t said anything to him. “No reason.”

Jagger shrugs and shifts his attention to the screen. “Henry,
do you think this part is a little slow…?”

Happy to dodge
that
bullet, I
return to my list, reviewing the questions I plan to ask my MP contact and
adding a couple of new ones. I want to be ready for anything the contact
says.

What I’m not prepared for is the envelope propped on the shelf
in my locker at the end of the day. It’s not as creepy as finding a dead animal,
but being reminded that MP has my combination—and is not afraid to use it—makes
me furious.

It’s a plain white envelope, the kind all parents have on their
desk, and that any kid can take without it being missed. Nothing’s written on
the front or the back. Inside, the typed note is brief:

Change of plans. Tonight at 9. Same place. Remember—not a word
to anyone. Do not come one minute earlier.

“Damn!” I breathe.

How scary is a playground in the afternoon, with parents and
nannies alert for any whiff of danger? Not very. Nighttime, however, is a whole
different story.

My immediate thought is to email MP, tell him I can’t go at
night and ask for another afternoon. But if the past is any example, there won’t
be a reply. I could skip the meeting, but that ruins any chance for an
interview.

Someone’s cleverly thought this through. If I want the story, I
have no choice but to do what I’m told.

* * *

When I get home after school, I discover the Cub Scouts
are having a spaghetti dinner fundraiser at the elementary school. Mom’s on the
committee and she made Dad come home early to help.

For once, I’m the daughter who whines. “Nobody told me about
this! I’ve got stuff to do.”

“We bought you a ticket,” Mom says.

“Is Bethany going?”

“No!” my sister shouts from the living room couch. “I hate
spaghetti dinners. Gross pasta and hard garlic bread.”

“See?” I look to Dad for support. “Come on, Dad, tell Mom I
shouldn’t have to do it.”

He shrugs. “I don’t see why you have to go. But it’s your
mother’s decision.”

Mom throws up her hands. “Fine! Eat leftovers, girls.”

Bethany scoots into the kitchen. “No way. I am not eating meat
loaf again. It was disgusting the first time.”

“Then come to the dinner. Those are your choices.” Mom stomps
out of the room, yells up the steps, “Jessie! James! Time to go.”

Dad puts a finger to his lips and pulls out a couple of tens.
“Get a pizza or something.”

My sister grabs the money and grins at Dad. “Thanks!”

“Frank!” Mom is on the front stoop. “We’re late!”

“Have fun, guys!” I shout. After the door closes, I hold out a
hand for my share of the dough. “Nice going, Bethany!”

She shrugs. “I hate meat loaf.”

“So does Dad.”

“Then why do we have it?”

“That is an excellent question.”

She looks to see if I’m messing with her. I’m not, but Bethany
isn’t sure.

“I’m going to order Chinese when I get hungry,” she says. “Do
you want something?”

Bethany knows I hate Chinese, so it’s not a surprise when I say
no. She gallops happily upstairs. I finish my homework in front of the
living-room TV, watch a rerun and then the news. Emily Purdue interviews a Wall
Street dude about the stock market dip. She’s focused and polite. When the guy
doesn’t answer a question and shifts the conversation to what
he
wants to say, she rephrases. A useful tip—and one
I’m eager to try.

The delivery guy shows up about seven o’clock. It’s against
house rules to eat anywhere except the kitchen or dining room, but Bethany
doesn’t care. She takes the bag and starts back upstairs.

“If cockroaches show up in our bedroom tonight,” I shout, “I’ll
kill you!”

Her reply is a door slam. It’s not only roaches I’m worried
about. Now the room’s going to smell like Kung Pao chicken. Suppressing the urge
to run up and choke my sister, I head for the kitchen. I don’t hate meat loaf as
long as there’s ketchup. If I eat that now, my share of the money is saved for
after-school pizza emergencies.

Half a meat loaf sandwich later, my stomach, tied up in knots
from nerves, rebels. I toss the rest into the trash and check the time.
Restless, I go through my backpack. Phone charged, new pen, small notebook in
case the contact person lets me take notes. Check, check and check.

After reviewing my questions for the hundredth time, I run
halfway up the steps—no way am I stepping foot into the bedroom until my
sister’s done eating—and yell, “Bethany, I’m going out for a little while!”

Five minutes later, I’m on the way to my first-ever interview
with an unknown source.

* * *

The little park that’s the rendezvous point is next to
the Promenade on Pierrepont Street. The Statue of Liberty, the East River and
Manhattan are visible from the top of the slide. The twins still look for Easter
eggs there during the annual hunt.

What surprises me, though, is just how dark the playground is
at this hour. Twisting branches of maple trees block the streetlamp, creating
shadows within shadows. The benches are vacant. It’s not like I thought I’d see
kids swinging on swings or making sand castles. Still, it’s a surprise to find
the place completely empty.

The play area itself is small, surrounded by a spiky metal
fence that reaches my shoulders. There’s only one gate into—and out of—the
playground. The sign says Open 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. I check my cell. It’s 8:59.

The final minute is taken up with trying to open the gate
.
Did MP screw up? Does the city lock it early?
Finally, it occurs to me that I have to reach
through
the metal bars, twist my hand and slide the latch from the inside
edge.

Dead, crinkly leaves drift across the walkway. The gate clangs.
I glance over my shoulder, but it’s only the weight of the metal set to close
each time someone enters. No one’s behind me. My gaze sweeps the area. The usual
assortment of swings, teeter-totter and slides are off to the side. In a central
pit, a large structure made of wood, rope and plastic has climbing steps,
bridges—and several hiding places.

“That’s close enough!” Coming from either inside or behind the
play structure, the voice is distorted. There’s an app for that. Given the
Gaines girls’ lame phones, we aren’t able to download it, but I’ve seen it
before on Jagger’s phone.

“I told you to stop!”

It’s too dark to see any movement ahead of me. I’m not sure the
person is even
in
the playground. He could be on the
other side of the fence, hiding behind the bushes.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I shout.

“Go to the Starbucks on Montague. Second table on the left.
Look inside the napkin holder.”

“I thought we were going to talk—”

“If you don’t get there by nine-fifteen, the note will be
gone.”

I check my cell. Eleven minutes to go. Even if I charge forward
like Phil blitzing an opposing quarterback, I can’t get out of the playground.
The fence is impossible to climb. By the time I move back through the gate and
run to the other side, the person will be gone.

There go all my carefully crafted questions. With no choice but
to hike down Pierrepont, I scan the side streets for anyone scrambling away. No
luck. I swerve onto Montague. Starbucks is two-thirds of the way down, not far
from Trinity Church’s school auditorium.

With barely a minute to spare, I burst into the coffee shop
completely out of breath. A few weird looks from people drinking chai lattes and
mocha cappuccinos get thrown my way, but nobody says anything. It’s Brooklyn.
I’d have to have a bloody face or bullet in my arm for anyone to actually speak
to me.

I check out the tables. Is it two from the back—or front? It
seems logical to count from the door. I walk up to the balding man sitting at
the second table.

“Excuse me. I have to switch this.” The man, focused on his
laptop, barely looks up as I replace his metal napkin holder with one from
another table.

In the corner, an empty leather chair beckons. Hunched over, I
pop out the napkins. Fan them carefully. Nothing. Either my contact lied, or
he’s counting from the back.

The couple at the second-from-last table when I first arrived
is gone. I do the same pull-the-napkins routine. Stuffed behind the last one is
a note.

Your broadcasts are right. MP is not a person but a group. We
chose someone from the people who put stuff in the box and told her she could
join as long as she went through an initiation. She said yes, but it went wrong.
Now she’s in the hospital. It changed everything. I could get in big trouble for
telling you this. Don’t let anyone know I contacted you. Spies are
everywhere.

The house is dark when I slip back in, twins and parents
tucked away in bed. That’s a happy surprise because it means I don’t have to
explain where I’ve been.

Despite the fact that Bethany cracked the window about an inch,
my bedroom smells like a Chinese restaurant. Apparently, being the Queen of
Sloth is an unusually tiring occupation because she fell asleep before getting
rid of the leftovers. The takeout carton sits on the night table between our
beds. With visions of roaches skittering across my pillow, I grab the box with
two fingers and toss it into the downstairs trash.

Now that I’m sure everyone’s asleep, I decide to reread the
note in the full light of the kitchen. The news hasn’t changed. Someone’s in the
hospital. Joining MP isn’t a game.

What to do? I lay out three options: say nothing, tell the team
or show the note to an adult. Mr. Carleton, Mrs. Fahey or Wilkins. But something
nags at me. It’s still possible to be the victim of an elaborate
Punk’d
scheme. What if the note’s a setup? A lie? I go
ahead, broadcast the story—and then somehow they prove it false. That would make
me look unreliable. To the school, Mr. Carleton and the team.

What I need is a second source. In Intro, Mr. C. screened
All the President’s Men
. The whole point of the movie
is that the reporters had to confirm every piece of information discovered two
ways—or their editor wouldn’t publish the articles.