Circle of Silence (15 page)

Rising quickly, I limp into the shadows, staying frozen. To my
relief, no one comes to look for me. When I’m sure it’s safe, I sneak to the
building’s edge. Somewhere, somehow, there has to be a way in. I check each
window, looking for a loose metal covering. Crumbled bricks. An actual hole into
the building.

There! At the far end a small, unobtrusive door is set into the
wall. The padlock’s broken. Not only that, but the door itself is ajar—as if
someone entered hurriedly and didn’t bother to pull it shut.

Carefully, I inch the door inward. I don’t shout for Jags in
case I’m paranoid and everything’s going fine. Instead, I slip inside. The place
is pitch-dark with that musty, rat-poop smell peculiar to closed-up
buildings.

There isn’t a sound. Did I miss the entire initiation?

Stepping forward, I turn my head. There! At the far end, a beam
of light spills across the floor.

“Jagger?” I whisper.

No reply.

“Anyone here?” My panicked voice, now uncontrollably loud,
echoes off brick walls.

The need to find him overwhelms me. Moving forward, I stumble
over something soft. Using my cell as a light, I see that it’s a backpack.
Jagger’s backpack.

“Jags!”

My feet pound as I head for the cone of floor light. Scooping
up the flashlight, I swing it around. The next sound I hear is an unearthly
scream that practically shatters my throat. Then—absolute silence. Mouth open, I
stand frozen in horror.

Jagger dangles in front of me, swinging gently, a rope around
his neck.

25

I have no sense of the time. The waiting room is quiet
at last. Everyone’s left to go…somewhere. EMTs, Jagger’s mother, the doctors.
Even a pair of cops. One of them didn’t look very old. You’d think maybe he’d
get it—but it was like talking to a brick wall.

“It
wasn’t
attempted
suicide,” I said fiercely. “It was MP. They’re a
secret group at school. They made him do it.”

The young cop, Officer Chen, showed me a piece of paper that an
EMT guy found on the warehouse floor. Instructions for Pass Out, downloaded from
the internet, complete with a diagram of someone “hanging.”

“Did Mr. Voorham tell you he was into this?” Chen asked.

I shake my head. “He wasn’t. Like I told the EMT guys, it was
an initiation into the group. They’re like a club, but no one knows who’s
involved. They call themselves MP. We were working on a story for
Campus News
. Jagger was undercover—” The cops exchange
skeptical glances. “It’s true! That’s how I found him. You have to figure out
who’s in MP. Stop them before someone else gets hurt….” My voice cracks at the
thought of Jagger lying in the ICU. Barely alive.

Mom shows up minutes after the police leave, Bethany at her
side.

“I can’t believe it,” my sister keeps repeating. “How could
this happen to someone from school? Someone you know?”

“Take her home, Mom,” I beg. “Please! She’s not helping.
Marci’s coming. She’ll be with me.” When Mom hesitates, I wave my cell. “I’ll
call if I need you. I promise. I can’t leave right now. I have to stay a little
longer….”

After they’re gone, I sink into a hospital chair, completely
numb. Finally, a voice pulls me out of the fog. “Omigod, Val, he tried to kill
himself!”

Marci puts her arms around me, but I shake her off. “He didn’t!
I’ve been trying to tell people that all night. It was Pass Out—”

“What?”

I wet my lips. My mouth can barely form words anymore. “It’s
that choking game. You know, to get high—”

“Are you kidding?” Marci’s voice squeaks in disbelief. “Jagger
can get weed whenever he wants!”

The clomping of feet is jarring as Raul, Henry and Omar rush
into the room.

“We checked with the nurse,” Raul says. “He’s still not awake….”

“Omigod.” Tears, which have been coming and going all night,
break through again. “Omigod, omigod…”

Omar settles on one side of me, Marci on the other. Henry looks
ready to sob along with me.

Raul stands, uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be any place but
in a room full of hysterical people. He offers to find water. My best friend
digs into her backpack and pulls out a pack of tissues. She hands them out to
everyone. Raul returns with paper cups filled with water. As I drink, Marci
relays what little I told her to the guys.

Omar twists his ring nervously. “That doesn’t sound like
Jagger.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“What I don’t understand is how you found him, Val,” Raul says.
“How did you know where to go?”

Yet again, tears overflow. How to begin? Where? The story’s so
awful…

“Let’s leave,” Raul suggests. “Jagger’s mom is here. The nurses
won’t let anyone else into the room tonight, so it’s not as if we can see him.
We’ll come back tomorrow. Early. Hopefully, Jagger will be awake by then.”

Marci nods. “We can go to my house. My folks will be asleep by
the time we get there. It’ll be quiet….”

The team surrounds me in the subway, then circles protectively
as the elevator rises nineteen floors to Marci’s apartment. It isn’t until we
settle in the living room that I notice the stares. They can’t help it. I found
Jagger in an abandoned warehouse in Red Hook. I called the cops. They know
there’s a story—if only I can pull myself together to tell them.

They wait as patiently as they can until I start. From the
beginning. The emails, the secret meetings. The way Jagger put an application
into the MP box without telling anyone, got accepted and made me promise to keep
quiet.

The walk to the flagpole, the long wait, the frantic search. In
halting sentences, I explain what happened after I saw Jagger swinging on the
rope. The way I rushed forward, pushing him
up
toward the ceiling. Hoping the rope would loosen and he’d wake up. After
a couple of seconds when nothing changed, I realized I’d have to get him down
myself. The rope was tossed over a ceiling pipe and then attached to a radiator.
It took a superhuman effort to release Jagger and let him hang again. I ran to
the wall, untied the end hooked to the radiator. Jagger crumbled to the floor
the instant it loosened.

The team sits silently, horrified.

“I’m not exactly sure what happened next,” I mumble. “I called
911, got the rope off his neck…but it’s kind of a blur.”

Marci’s mascara etches black lines down her cheeks. I look at
her oddly, not sure how that happened, until I realize she’s crying.

“Lucky you were there,” Henry mutters.

Omar is furious. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us. It was
stupid—”

“Don’t yell,” Marci says sharply. “She’s been through
enough—”

“I begged him, Omar. I swear. Begged, yelled, pleaded. Tried
everything to stop him.”

“Then it was even stupider to keep quiet. We all would have
been there—”

“And done what?” It’s Henry who comes to my defense. “Hide next
to Val in the garden? Wave a bunch of branches in front of our faces like that
army in
Macbeth?
If MP
had
shown up at the flagpole, it would be obvious what was going on
the instant they saw five of us trying to cram behind a bunch of plants.”

“Jagger said that, too,” I mumble. “He thought it had to be
just him and me—”

Raul slaps the coffee table, as pissed off as Omar. “We would
have spread out, Val. From the bus stop to the park. So if, or when, they
changed the plan, one of us would have followed.”

That catches Marci’s attention. “What do you mean, change the
plan?”

“Val said they never got to the flagpole. That means they
headed him off at the bus stop. I bet MP never planned to go to the park.” Raul
shoots me a dark look. Is he upset that he wasn’t there to save Jagger?
Disappointed that we blew the story? Or jealous because I spent so much time
with Jags? “The only reason MP told Jagger to go to the flagpole was in case he
spoke to someone else.”

As soon as he says it, it’s obvious. Once again, I’ve been
outmaneuvered. I can’t look at Raul. He’s absolutely right. I made all the wrong
choices.

* * *

It’s two in the morning. Marci insists that I stay
overnight. After everyone leaves she offers to take the air mattress, but I make
her sleep in her bed. I figure I’ll be awake all night, so why not let one of us
be comfortable?

Quietly, I take her laptop, prop it on my knees and sign in to
my email. Nothing from MP. Furious and devastated beyond belief, I decide that
this time I’ll be the one to make contact. It’s not like I expect an answer. But
I have to let the double agent know the consequences of his betrayal.

I waited at the flagpole. No one came. Why did you lie? How
could you leave Jagger in the warehouse, in the dark, with a rope around his
neck? I found him, but it might be too late. If he never wakes up, I want you to
know it’s as much your fault as mine.

* * *

It takes two days before they let me into the ICU.
Jagger’s completely still, almost unrecognizable.

His face is puffy and swollen. An angry red mark circles his
neck. One end of an accordion-like plastic hose attaches to a tube that
disappears down his throat. The other end is hooked to a machine. He can’t
breathe without it.

Seeing him frozen in the twilight world of a coma is more than
I can bear. The nurse walks me out. She smells like coconut, her dark skin soft
as she puts an arm around me. She speaks with a New Orleans lilt.

“You the girl who found him?”

I can barely nod. “Will he be all right?”

“Nobody knows,
cher
. He could wake
up tomorrow with little or no damage. Depends on how long his brain was deprived
of oxygen. Or…” She hesitates.

Part of me does not want to know what’s on the other side of
that sentence. But another needs to find out every bit of information. Not as
reporter, but as punishment.

We stop in the middle of the hallway. Doctors and nurses pad
softly around us, giving us space. They’re used to tragedy.

“Tell me,” I whisper. “I have to know.”

Quietly, the nurse utters words I will never forget. Once said,
they can’t be taken away.

“He could stay like this. Not livin’, not dyin’. A persistent
vegetative state is what they call it.” She gives me a look with eyes that have
seen it all. “You don’t want that for him,
cher
.
Trust me. You don’t.”

PART THREE
DECEMBER

26

It’s funny how you can get to be a high school senior
and never really understand the word
crisis
. Not
that I haven’t lived through plenty of bad days. Zits and flunked tests and, oh
yeah, getting cheated on by my boyfriend. But nothing, until now, has come close
to the literal meaning of the word. Zero hour, point of no return, doomsday,
death’s door. The last an all-too-real reminder of what’s actually going on in
hospital room 225.

The team lives in a fog. None of us can do much except go
through the motions. WiHi, hospital, home. Any moment we expect, hope…pray that
Jagger will get better. Homework, tests, deadlines. None of it means a thing.
Thanksgiving arrives, and then it’s history. The weather is a merry-go-round of
slushy rain, bright sun, snow flurries—but Jagger’s condition does not vary.
He’s living, if you can call it that, in a time warp of nothingness. Can’t move,
can’t speak, can’t seem to wake up.

After two weeks, the time comes when even I have to stop the
daily pilgrimage to the hospital. Marci drags me to her house at the end of the
day to force me to write the paper Mrs. Orapessa assigned.

I stare at the book. “My brain is mush.”

“Come on, Val. The extension runs out tomorrow.”

“So I’ll flunk. Why does it even matter?”

Marci throws a pillow at me. “Jagger would not want you to blow
senior year. Colleges look at first-semester senior grades. You know that—”

“And I don’t care. No college should accept someone as stupid
as me. Someone who let Jagger go through with that…”

The obsessive guilt loops constantly. In the waiting room,
during all-too-brief visits with Jagger, in bed at night.

“Valerie!” Marci’s voice is sharp. “Jagger chose to put his
head into that rope. They didn’t hold a gun to his head.”

“How do you know?”

She looks directly at me, slumped beside her on her bed. “I
know.
The members of MP might think they’re
cooler than Italian ice, but they’re not the Jersey Mafia. Jagger thought if he
played along, finished the initiation, you and he would break the story.”

“Since when are you a Jagger expert? You don’t even like
him.”

Marci’s pissed. “I’m not gonna vote him Most Popular, but the
dude almost died to get the story. It’s impressive, okay? I understand why
you’re in love with him—”

“I am? You do?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “But I’m not sure how to tell Raul.”

“Omigod, Marci, I’ve been sick about that, too. I don’t want to
hurt him. He doesn’t deserve it. The only reason I said yes to the dance is
because I decided to try…to see if maybe it would work out—”

“The whole thing’s my fault, Val. I pushed you into it.” She
pulls the hair band from her ponytail and shakes her head as if some brilliant
thought will wriggle loose. “We’ll figure something out—”

Mrs. Lee knocks on the door. “Turn on the TV, girls. Channel 5.
They’re doing a story about your friend.”

In a flash, Marci’s got the remote. Emily Purdue, makeup
perfect, suit immaculate, stands in front of Brooklyn Hospital.

“…teen, playing Pass Out, discovered hanging by a rope in an
abandoned warehouse weeks ago, has been in a coma ever since. The game,
considered autoerotic, led to at least two teenage deaths last month. Is this
the new high? Will it turn into an epidemic?” She looks directly into the
camera. “For more information on this dangerous fad, click the ‘See It on TV’
link on our website. Emily Purdue, Channel 5 News.”

Hot lava erupts in my veins. For the first time in weeks, a
burst of energy gets me moving. Within seconds, I’m on Marci’s computer.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Looking up the phone number for Channel 5 News. We need to
talk to Emily Purdue.
I
need to talk to her. Tell
her she got it wrong.”

* * *

The members of TV Production huddle in the cafeteria.
Raul nibbles a greasy cafeteria calzone. I haven’t touched my sandwich; Marci’s
taken maybe two bites of salad. Henry’s making milk doodles across his tray,
using his straw as a pencil. Omar’s uncharacteristically subdued. For the last
two weeks, he’s been as devastated as I am, as if somehow he should have
sensed
what Jagger and I were up to.

Despite my attempt to reach Emily Purdue, which consisted of
refusing to get off the phone until I was transferred to her voice mail—“Please
leave a name, message and valid contact number”—Channel 5 rebroadcast the
segment during the ten o’clock news. By morning, text messages, like smoke
signals, have crisscrossed the Heights. Every kid at WiHi, it seems, has seen
the piece, setting off the gossip mill like never before.

“She made Jagger seem like such a loser,” Henry moans. “When
really, he’s a hero.”

Raul drums his fingers against the tray. “We need to get back
on the story. Get it right. Unlike Channel 5.”

“Val and Jagger tried,” Henry says loyally.

“That was then. This is now.”

“Why are you being so harsh?” Marci asks.

“Because this is the answer to MP’s prayers,” Raul tells her.
“
Campus News
doing nothing, too upset about
Jagger to work the story. Or have us doubting ourselves after watching the way
Channel 5 reported it. Either way, we’ve backed off.”

“You think that’s how Emily Purdue got the story in the first
place?” I push my sandwich away. “Someone from MP tipped her?”

Raul shrugs. “Or the cops. If it’s the third bad Pass Out
incident in a month, they’d want the public to be aware. Parents, kids.”

“You must have
some
idea what to do
next, Val.” Omar leans forward. “Where’s their weak point? What’s the
angle?”

“I wish to God I had something. The only thing I can think of
is someone should talk to Taneisha again. Maybe she’ll feel bad and spill. I
know
she’s lying about how she got hurt.”

“Jagger found out she’s in MP?” Henry asks. “That’s something,
at least.”

Exhausted, I rub my eyes. “Not specifically. The only thing
we’re positive about is that he was the second person asked to join. There was
an accident during the first initiation. Taneisha’s the only one who fits. Type
of accident, right time frame.”

“Were they playing hangman with her, too?” Raul asks.

The bluntness of his words makes me flinch. I glance at Marci.
Does Raul know about Jagger and me? She shakes her head slightly. Still…

“Taneisha refused to talk to me, Raul. Her mom said it happened
on the Promenade near the globe statue. You know how that end of the walkway is
below street level? Taneisha
said
she was by
herself, tightrope walking the sloping wall after the rainstorm. It’s a steep
curve and everything was still wet. She slipped and fell. So no. It wasn’t Pass
Out. They saved that wonderful activity for Jagger.”

Omar crumples his napkin in disgust. “It’s not just an
activity, Val. It’s some kind of criminal.”

He glances at Henry.

“I looked it up,” Henry says. “Reckless endangerment is the
least of it. Someone could make a case for attempted manslaughter. Maybe murder.
They left Jagger hanging. That’s a lot more than a ‘fun’ initiation stunt.”

“Not if Jagger agreed to do it,” Raul argues. “If you
voluntarily do something stupid, it’s your own damn fault if you get hurt. Look
at it from the cops’ point of view. It’s the third time in a
month
some kid gets hurt trying Pass Out. They jump to
the obvious conclusion. Jagger heard about it and found a vacant building with a
group of other kids. They were experimenting. Daring each other. Being dumb
teenagers.”

“But we have proof it’s more,” Marci says. “Maybe Val didn’t
have it with her then, but you kept the note, right? The one the kid wrote
telling you about the first initiation and how it went bad.”

“Yes. Of course I saved it.”

Raul clears his throat. “But the note’s anonymous. Just like
the writing in Omar’s basement. Police work’s got to be the same as reporting.
Unless the cops verify the source, what can they do? Especially since there’s no
actual threat involved. Even we don’t know for sure if the note’s telling the
truth. Someone could have made it up.”

Henry looks thoughtful. “Did Jagger read it?”

“Yes! Trust me. I
begged
him not to
go through with it.”

“Then Raul’s right. If he did it willingly, understanding he
might get hurt, it’s on him,” Henry says reluctantly. “The police can’t do
anything to them.”

Marci shakes her head. “Not true. MP left him like that.”

Omar hits the table impatiently. “Hold on. Why is everyone
assuming the cops are ignoring what Val told them? I bet they at least checked
it out. Asked Mr. Wilkins. ‘Yes, some group appeared out of nowhere. I tried to
find out who’s involved, but you know how kids are.’”

“Which means it was the
police
who
went to Channel 5.” Raul looks around the table. “So far, there haven’t been any
arrests at school. That’s not the kind of thing that stays secret for long.
Obviously, the cops are stumped, too. Let’s do something useful to help them.
Get at least one name. Nobody cares about this as much as we do.”

“What if I visit Taneisha?” Marci says. “If she leads us to a
second source or proof that MP is behind the initiations, we could go to the
police
and
run the story. That would make everyone
happy, right?”

Around the table, heads nod.

“If you go to the hospital or her house, Marci, someone else
should go back to Red Hook,” Henry says. “Talk to the warehouse guys next to the
abandoned building. One of them might have seen a bunch of kids hanging around.
Maybe we can get a description.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Raul says. “Action. I’ll go
with you. Omar, how about you team with Marci?”

I can tell Raul’s concerned about sending Omar to the macho
part of Red Hook. The artists who live there might be cool—but they’re
outnumbered by warehouse and factory workers. The kind of guys who might decide
Omar’s a bit too flashy for their taste.

No one, including Omar, wants to deal with that.

“What about you, Val?” Marci asks.

My anger at Taneisha is so intense I’d probably break her other
leg if I talked to her. How could she be loyal to people who hurt her? What kind
of spell, or charm or just plain charisma, does MP have? If she’d told the truth
in the first place, Jagger would not be in a coma right now.

“I won’t be much help,” I say.

“That’s fine,” Raul tells me. “Henry and I could really use
you. Except for buying stuff at Ikea with my dad, I’ve never been to Red
Hook.”

“There’s another thing we could try.” Henry’s learned not to
get flustered when everyone looks at him. “You know those emails Val got? The
ones telling her where to meet? I can show them to someone I know.”

“Computer geek?” Raul asks.

“Yeah. My friend Toby. She’s a chess-playing computer genius.
She might be able to get the IP address.” He glances at the look of confusion on
Marci’s face and adds, “Every computer has a specific one, like a fingerprint.
Hopefully, Toby can track down who sent the emails.”

“That would be awesome!” I say.

As if to punctuate the feeling, the bell rings. Kids spring up,
laughing, pushing. No one at our table moves, however. Everyone’s focused,
hell-bent on stopping MP. It’s not only the story the team wants. Or making sure
no one else gets hurts. It’s personal. Without anyone quite knowing how it
happened, Slacker Jagger burrowed his way into each of our hearts.