Circle of Silence (14 page)

22

The next morning, Marci catches up to me at my locker.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

Jagger? The secret meetings? The kissing?
How would she know—

“Winter Formal. Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“Oh! Well, yeah. I mean, with everything going on…” I hang my
jacket on the metal hook. Forget? The fact that I’m supposed to go to the dance
with Raul has been wiped from my memory bank. “How’d you find out?”

“How do you think?” Marci pouts. “Raul told me the other day. I
was waiting for you to say something, but there’s been sort of a deafening
silence coming from your side of the friendship.”

“Sorry, Marci. I didn’t want anyone on the team to know. So no
one accuses me of, you know, favoritism.”

“I’m not anyone!” Immediately, though, she brightens. “We’ll
shop for dresses together. In the Village—hey, Raul!” She waves him over. He
turns out of the slipstream of kids heading off to homeroom. “We were just
talking about you.”

He looks pleased. “Yeah?”

Marci grins. “Val and I are going to shop for Winter Formal
together.”

“Cool!” He grins shyly. “Don’t forget to tell me the color,
Val.”

I manage a smile. What on earth should I do? Tell Raul
that
last night I fell into the Voorham Vortex,
so forget you? That’s flat-out mean. But how am I supposed to pull off dancing
with him? What if Raul tries to kiss me? After last night, Jagger’s touch is all
I can think about.

Best friends were invented to figure out stuff like this, but
if I even
hint
that Jags and I might get back
together, Marci will clobber me with her history book. And I wouldn’t blame her
one bit.

* * *

Second bell announces the end of homeroom. Dashing into
the Media Center, I settle at a computer and start editing quickly so I don’t
have to talk to anyone. When I’m done, I play the get-well video card through.
It’s terrible.

“What’s terrible?”

Startled, I glance at Raul, two stations down from mine. I
hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “The piece. It’s lame.”

“Let me see.”

Within ten seconds, Marci and Jagger gather around, too. At the
final frame, Marci nudges me. “I think it’s sweet. All you need to do is write a
good intro and find some music.”

“Uh-uh.” Jagger gives us a gravelly look. “Camera angles are
boring and repetitious.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carleton,” Raul says drily. “It just needs a
bit of cutting. Like Marci said, the instant you lay in music, it’ll brighten
right up.”

Jagger shrugs. “You ask for truth, I give it to you. You don’t
like it, it’s no skin off my nose.”

“That’s your opinion,” Marci snaps. “Not every segment has to
be heavy. I bet lots of people will love this.”

Raul taps my shoulder. “I can help tighten it if you want.”

Instead of snapping, “I’ll figure it out myself,” I take him up
on the offer. Stupid to let my newly complicated personal life get in the way of
the help I need.

He smiles broadly. “Let me save the stuff on my computer.
BRB.”

Jagger checks to make sure no one’s looking before he
winks.

Just playing the game.

I give him the briefest of nods. “You think you can find music
that isn’t sickly sweet?”

“Sure. Come over after school. We’ll figure it out.”

* * *

I never make it to his house. Jagger finds me after
sixth period, walking glumly out of a bio test I’m sure I tanked. He pulls me
into the stairwell.

“Got the summons,” he whispers excitedly. “I’m supposed to meet
MP after school.”

“Today? Are you sure you—”

“It’s just the ‘meet in person and decide if they want to let
me in’ meeting, Val. I’m gonna be so charming they can’t say no. Then we’ll blow
the lid right off their stupid club.” He grins. “Honest to God, I get why you
love
Campus News
. This is way more exciting than
figuring out the back beat of a song.”

“It is.” I pull him close. “But I swear to God, if you let them
talk you into doing anything dumb…”

“Relax.” Jagger runs a hand along my spine. “It’s going to be
okay.”

I want to believe him, but it seems too good to be true. Break
the MP story and be with a more honest Jagger? Does anyone ever have it all?

23

I’m at Starbucks, sitting in the back of the store
where no one on the street can see me. I’ve been sipping a cup of hot chocolate
for about an hour, anxiously waiting for word from Jagger. When my cell rings, I
snatch it quick. “You okay?”

A laugh. “Of course I’m okay.”

“Raul? Sorry, I was expecting another call.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Yes.

“Ha. What’s up?” I ask.

“You’re not going to believe the double bill at the Quad this
weekend.
All the President’s Men
and
Broadcast News.”

“My two favorite movies. How’d you know?”

“I figured. You want to go Friday night?”

My cell clicks, signaling a second call. The fastest way to end
the conversation is to take Raul up on the offer. “Friday’s good. See you at
school tomorrow.”

I switch over to Jagger. “Everything okay?”

“I’m aliiiive.”

“Don’t fool around. What happened?”

“I got out about five minutes ago. You home? I’ll come
over.”

I didn’t want Bethany to figure out that Jagger and I are up to
something, so I never went to the house. “I’m not home. Going there’s not a good
idea.”

“Meet you at my place?” he asks.

“No.” As much as I’d like to, I can’t do that. Not after just
agreeing to go to the movies with Raul. “Not good, either.”

“Too distracting?” Jagger laughs. “Okay. Tony’s is too popular.
What about Burger ’n Bun? It’s on—”

“I know where it is!” I take a breath. “Too close to WiHi.
Someone from MP might be sitting on the next stool and we’d never know.”

“Then it’s got to be the bridge. Half an hour.”

It’s not until I hang up that I realize what I’ve agreed to.
The Brooklyn Bridge is where Jagger took me on our very first date.

* * *

The pedestrian walkway that spans the bridge might be
the most romantic spot in the world. It’s easy to imagine couples promising
undying love while down below, boats sail, silent witnesses to the pact.

Jagger puts his arm around me. “Warm enough?”

God knows I want to snuggle into him, but I need to focus.
Carefully, I slide a few inches to the right. “I’m good. Dying to know what
happened. Who they are.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “They wore masks.”

“The whole time?”

Jagger laughs. “Yep. They think they’re oh so scary.
Frankenstein, Zombie, Skeletor—”

“Who’s Skeletor?”

“
Masters of the Universe?
Skeleton
face, cape thing with a hood—”

“Holy crap!”

Jagger blinks. “What?”

“I know him.” Jagger’s mouth falls open in astonishment. “I
mean, not
who
he is. Some kid in a skeleton mask and
hoodie tried to get me to dance at Omar’s party. Of course, it might not be the
same person—”

“What color was the hood?” Jagger asks.

“Blue. Darker than sky-blue but not exactly navy.”

“Letters or pictures?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Plain.”

“So was the one he wore today. What’s his voice like?”

“The music was so loud I could barely hear. Do you really think
someone from MP tried to pick me up? That’s insane!”

He gives me a look I can’t read. “Not so insane, Valerie.”

“If that kid’s in MP, it was a goof. Getting off on me
not
knowing who he was.” I stare at the long strip of
land that’s Brooklyn. “What happened next?”

“I gave them exactly what they want.”

“Which is?”

He lightens his voice. “You’re so awesome. I really want to be
in the group. I have lots of ideas for things we can do.”

Before the meeting, he and I came up with a list of pranks in
case that was part of the interview. “Did you give it up?”

“Nah. I told them they have to let me into the club first. Like
we planned. Dangle the carrot, let them grab for it.”

“Did they?”

“Oh yeah. Had them eating out of my hand by the time I
left.”

I snort. “So you say.”

“You’ll see. I’ll get in.”

Down below, a tugboat pushes an oiler. “How many are
there?”

“Five.”

It’s killing me that I wasn’t with him. “Could you tell if
there’s a leader? Someone they’re afraid of.”

“Not sure. If I had to pick, I’d choose Skeletor. He was pretty
quiet, but the others kept looking at him. As if trying to figure out what he
was thinking.” Jagger shakes his head. “The hardest part was not laughing. They
kept calling each other by their mask names. I’m supposed to choose one for
myself if they vote me in. How dorky is that?”

“Actually, it’s smart. The masks hide who they are.” Something
tickles my brain. “Taneisha had a
Masters of the
Universe
comic at the hospital. Wonder which character she
chose.”

“They never mentioned her or anyone else.”

I poke him. “Did you pick a name? For when you’re
initiated?”

Jagger laughs. “You choose. What about Gollum from
Lord of the Rings?
Or the one all the girls think is
hot. What’s his name?”

“Legolas.”

“Great! That’s who I’ll be.”

“Egomaniac!” Laughing, he starts to protest, but I wave him
off. “Seriously, we have to plan. They might give you fifteen minutes to get
somewhere. That’s all I had to find the notes.”

Jagger’s eyes are bright with anticipation. “You’ve got an
idea, don’t you?”

“Yes. But you have to promise to follow it.”

Unexpectedly, he turns me so I have no choice but to look
directly at him. “Valerie, please tell me last night wasn’t some freak accident.
That you really do forgive me.”

“I told you. I do. But what’s important right now is stopping
MP. Let’s do that first, and then figure us out.”

He grabs my scarf and pulls me close. “That’s exactly the
reason I want to be with you. You’re the most driven person I know. Interesting,
exciting…”

I back away. “Now you’re making fun.”

“I’m not! I mean it. And I’ll prove it to you, if you’ll let
me.” He holds up his hand. “
After
we get the
story.”

With the wind ruffling his hair and bridge lights reflected in
his eyes, Jagger’s a city sprite swearing undying allegiance. It’s heady, beyond
anything I ever imagined—but we have to get back to business.

I take a step away. “Here’s what I think we should do. Did you
see that little camera some company donated to Mr. Carleton? He wants people to
try it out….”

The plans get made. When we’re done, I let Jags take my hand
for the walk back. Just like he promised, he doesn’t push for more.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved—or disappointed.

24

It’s weird. I find out when and where the initiation
will take place before Jagger does. I wish it had to do with some awesome
reporting on my part, but it doesn’t. The message is in my in-box late Thursday
night. No time for the secret agent to play his annoying hide-and-seek game
because it’s planned for the very next day.

Flag Pole, little park by the river in Red Hook, 5 p.m.
Friday.

I know the place. From the Heights, the bus travels
south through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens before it crosses under the
Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. On the other side of the BQE, it’s a different
world. Mostly warehouses and factories, mixed with blocks of identical brick
buildings turned into low-income projects.

It can be dangerous, especially at night. Some of the
warehouses were converted into artist studios and lofts, although many are
abandoned. A tiny park stands at the river’s edge. The East River empties into
the ocean less than a mile away, so the wind goes arctic awfully quick. Once
November hits, the park is empty.

The perfect place for an MP initiation.

* * *

Jagger and I meet in the Media Center during lunch. The
team’s latest broadcast aired earlier that day, so we don’t have a specific
reason to be there. Mr. Carleton’s reading the paper, however, and isn’t paying
attention.

We slip into the control room and keep the lights off.

“You’re sure the camera’s charged?” I ask nervously.

The white camera is about the size of an iPod. A little
thicker, maybe, but not by much. Jagger and I tested it yesterday. The images
are clear—and the audio rocks. The small mic built into the cam picks up voices
from across a room.

“Positive,” he tells me. “Checked again last night.”

“Good. I’ll get to the park by four and hang out in the garden.
Watch it happen from behind a bunch of plants or something.”

“Be careful,” Jagger says. “If anyone sees you, they’ll shut
the whole thing down.”

“Don’t worry. You be careful, too.”

He smiles with the self-confidence that’s pure Jagger. “It’ll
be fine. You’ve got your cell. If I do this—” he tugs his ear “—call 911. But
only if I give the signal.”

We’ve gone over and over this. I can tell he’s as excited as I
am. If we really do pull this off, we’ll have the story of a lifetime.

“Meet back at my house after it’s over and we’ll check the
footage…together,” he whispers.

That, too, has been arranged. We don’t want any MP dawdler to
see us together.

Jagger and I plan to rough-edit over the weekend and show it to
the team on Monday. From my hiding place in the garden, I’ll set my still camera
on zoom and photograph each MP member who shows up. Then we’ll intercut the
pictures with whatever footage Jagger gets.

“What do you think they’ll have you do?” I wonder.

That, too, is a question I’ve asked incessantly. Jagger nibbles
my ear. “We decided not to worry about it, remember?”

I pull away. “Promise me one more time that you won’t do
anything stupid.” Silence. “Jags?”

He grins. “Only if you do something for me now.”

It’s hard to suppress a smile. “And that is…”

“One kiss. For good luck.”

How can I say no? No one sees us. Nobody knows what we’re
doing.

* * *

By the end of the day, I’m so focused on my part of the
plan that I jump half out of my skin when someone taps my shoulder. “Sorry,
Raul. Didn’t hear you behind me.”

“Next time I’ll wear a bell.” He grabs my backpack as I stick
my arms through my jacket. “Should I come by at seven?”

“What?”

His face falls. “Double bill at the Quad—”

“Omigod, I totally forgot.”

My face feels flushed. It’s not only that I failed to remember
that Raul asked me to the movies. This is precisely the moment I should tell him
what Jagger and I are doing.

I don’t say a word. Two people sneaking around the garden
doubles the danger. If we get caught, Jagger will never forgive me.

“I’m so sorry, Raul. I can’t go tonight.”

He tries not to look crushed. “
Mañana?
”

How can I do this to him? I
have
to
explain. But right now Red Hook awaits.

“Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll call you after lunch and we’ll work it
out.”

He lights up like a Fourth of July sparkler, which makes me
feel even worse. I suck so much.

* * *

At the bus stop, it’s an easy switch from guilt to worry
about not getting into position in time. When the bus finally comes, it’s
crowded. I pull my beanie over my hair and slide into the last empty window
seat. With my face turned to the street, the hope is that no one recognizes me.
Any of the people riding the bus could be MP, getting to the initiation before
it’s scheduled to start. Exactly the way I am.

By the time the bus crosses under the highway, all the high
school kids have gotten off. At Coffey Street, I press the yellow strip lining
the window. The driver pulls to the curb, brakes hissing in protest. The
afternoon is blustery but not too cold. Pillowy clouds skip across the sky. They
don’t linger, and neither do I.

The street is rough, built of hard cobblestone. It’s one of the
strangest things about Brooklyn. For some reason, the city never got around to
laying asphalt in this part of town. Walking around Red Hook is like stepping
into another century. Rocky streets, old-school brick buildings. The air smells
of the sea, salty and fresh. A bell clangs, seagulls screech.

The flagpole is easy to spot. Tall, like a ship’s mast, it’s
surrounded by grass. An American flag flies at the top; a second one, with a
nautical theme, flaps on a crossbeam.

Head down, I move into the garden. Three large juniper bushes
provide sufficient cover while giving me the view I need. Past the flagpole, the
narrow path widens into a semicircle overlooking the river. Maritime Park.
Benches are set every few feet along the fence. The Statue of Liberty is so
close I can see her copper-turned-green teeth.

Not a single person is there—which means I made it in time. Now
comes the hard part. Jagger had me promise not to call or text. With nothing
else to do, I put in my earbuds and set the music low so I can still hear the
world in a vain attempt to calm my nerves. I read tags on plants. Sit on the
side of a planter, and then stand to stamp my feet. The afternoon is not getting
warmer.

Time drags—and drags. I amuse myself by trying to figure out
the initiation ahead of time. Maybe they’ll make Jagger climb the flagpole. Or
ask him to tightrope-walk the ledge over the East River….

Low laughter gets my attention. Finally! Somebody’s shown up.
My heart beats fast. Carefully, I peek around the plant. False alarm. A couple
of fishermen, dressed in bulky coats and earflapped hats, carry buckets and
poles. I’ve never understood why anyone would eat fish caught in the dirty East
River, but it doesn’t seem to bother the men. Casting poles into the water, the
two settle onto a bench, content to watch the sun sink into the horizon.

This is definitely a problem. MP missed the opportunity for an
audience-free initiation. It’s a huge mistake, something that’s never happened
before. If anything, the group overplans. That’s why they haven’t gotten
caught.

The second problem is mine. Unless MP shows up soon, my camera
will flash when I take pictures. If I disable the flash, it won’t pick up faces.
That means the visuals won’t be clear enough for
Campus
News
.

Ten minutes after five.

Where are they?

My stomach burns with tension. Nothing adds up. At least one MP
member, if not all of them, should be here. No one except the double agent,
perhaps, would want to miss a moment of the initiation. Why isn’t Jagger by the
flagpole? If the ceremony’s been called off, he’d let me know. I didn’t miss a
call, didn’t get a text.

5:15, 5:17, 5:20… Something’s definitely wrong.

Leaving the safety of the garden, I circle the small park as
fast as possible without calling attention to myself. Jagger is not here.

Did I lose him?

I check my cell one last time to make sure I didn’t miss a
message. That’s when something clicks. The locator app in
Yearbook!
When Marci did the story, the entire team accepted the app
to try it out. Did Jagger turn his off?

I don’t have internet access with my lame-ass cell, although
Jagger does. What I do have is my iPod. All it needs to connect to the internet
is wireless. But of course, whenever you really want it, there’s no signal. As
I’m moving toward Coffey Street, my mind makes one of those leapfrog jumps:
Coffey—coffee. Artists have to have their coffeehouses. Every one of them has
wireless. There
must
be some kind of café in the
neighborhood.

I dash down the rapidly darkening street, oblivious of any
danger hidden in doorways or shadows. Up ahead, there’s a lighted window. An
old-man bar. Probably been there since the dawn of time. Not a chance in hell
they’ve got internet.

Keep looking.

My instincts pay off at the next corner. A neon light flashes
Open. Exposed brick on the walls, curved steel tables. A hipster restaurant that
almost certainly has Wi-Fi.

A couple with matching nose rings drink beer and give each
other kissy-kissy eyes. Neither bothers to look over as I barrel through the
door. The only other customer is a guy at a small table in the back. He stares
at his open laptop, so it’s a good bet I’m right.

Connection never looked so sweet. In less than ten seconds, the
iPod gets me to
Yearbook.

“Can I help you?” The waitress has jet-black hair, many
earrings and amazing tats running down her arms.

“I need your wireless for a sec. My, um, boyfriend and I got
separated—”

“Bastard!” she says. “Cheating on you, huh?”

“I’m just lost.”

She grins, not buying it for a second. “Go ahead. But don’t
stand in the middle of the aisle.” She points to an empty table. “Over
there.”

The chair scrapes as I pull it out. I press the iPod and it
relights. Scrolling down, I look for Jagger’s name—yes! His app is enabled.

“Find him?” the waitress asks.

I look up. “Four eighty-two Van Brunt.”

She crinkles her nose, glances at the clock behind the bar.
“It’s all warehouse down there. The workers are gone for the day. By five it’s
dead….”

I’m already out of the chair. “Thanks.”

“Be careful. Red Hook’s not a place to wander around by your
lonesome. Especially at night.”

I raise a hand—
I’ll be okay—
and
scoot outside. It’s almost six o’clock. A whole hour since Jagger was set to
meet MP. Sixty minutes in which I was supposed to stop whatever’s happening. My
stomach churns so much I want to puke. Ignoring the feeling, I dash down the
uneven street, past drunks and the occasional homeless person camped out in the
doorway of an empty building.

Jagger. Jags! I told you not to do it.
Begged you…

A bunch of thuggish-looking guys hang around the edge of an
alley. They notice me at the same time. It’s precisely the kind of group that’s
best avoided by crossing the street before you get very close.

I’m in too much of a panic. Ignoring their catcalls, hoping
they’re too high to chase me, I careen past them.

A block later, I reach Van Brunt. Frantic, I glance at
buildings, but the numbers are hard to read. Several precious seconds are wasted
figuring out that they’re higher to the right. Toward the river.

Peeling paint in doorways, overflowing garbage cans. This part
of the Red Hook is especially sketchy. A graffiti mural proclaims
SOME WALLS ARE
INVISIBLE.

Decrepit apartment buildings glare at me from behind cracked
sidewalks. Empty factories bounce my footsteps so that it continually sounds
like I’m being followed. I touch my face, wipe away the salty droplets that run
down my cheek.

The occasional apartment building dotting the street ends. Now
there are only warehouses. One or two stories. Flat roofs. Some are in use
during the day. Those buildings are cleaned up, brightly painted signs
announcing the products sold. The rest are abandoned, windows mortared tight
with cinder blocks.

474, 478, 480. There! A red dot, with a black 482 stenciled
inside the circle, tells me I’ve arrived.

My breath comes in shallow gasps. A sharp pain stabs my side.
The dilapidated building takes up the entire block. Windows run the length of
the warehouse, every single one covered by metal sheeting. A steel door is
surrounded by cinder blocks. Graffiti squiggles decorate it,
ARSON
spelled out in red paint.

If Jagger’s in the building, he didn’t get in from this side. I
follow the sidewalk to the end of the block. The yard, littered with hulking
pieces of machinery and Dumpsters, is surrounded by fence. Spiky metal circles
loop across the top. Anyone attempting to climb over it would get their
clothes—and skin—torn to shreds.

How did he get inside?

Rounding the corner, I come across a chain threaded between the
fence and a gate. It’s locked with a thick padlock. Frustrated beyond all
reason, I kick the gate. The chain rattles and I realize it’s not as tight as it
could be. There’s some give. I push hard, widening the gap between the gate and
the fence. It’s just big enough to squeeze through.

The yard is silent. No one talks, laughs—or screams. Still,
this feels like the right spot. The emptiness, along with a sense of decay, is
the type of place MP would love.

A streetlamp gives off a semibright, orangey light. It helps as
I pick my way around broken glass and empty cans. Something brushes my leg. Cat?
Rat? Caught by surprise, I stumble and crash into a piece of machinery. The
clang
echoes loudly.