Circle of Silence (2 page)

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!”