Circle of Silence (6 page)

“What?” She looks startled. “I don’t know.”

Both Phil, carrying a boatload of dripping paper towels, and
the team arrive at the same time.

“Ran into Jagger,” Omar tells me. “He’ll be right here.”

Marci rolls her eyes. “After the work is done.”

I pull open the locker door and Raul whistles. “Now,
that’s
a visual.”

Phil might have some caveman in him, but Raul understands news.
After the lights are set, Omar starts to shoot. He gets straight on, side, and
low angles.

Just as Marci predicted, Jagger strolls down the hall the
instant we finish. “Miss much?”

“Take a look,” Henry says.

Jagger takes it in without blinking before turning to me. He
sounds concerned. “What are you going to do now?”

“Are you kidding?” Marci looks like she wants to gag. “Throw it
away. Right this second. I can’t imagine the diseases the poor thing has.
Had.”

“I don’t think we should toss it. We need to keep it for
proof,” Raul says.

“Of what?” Jagger asks.

Henry says, “Foul play.”

Jagger can’t help laughing. “
F-O-W-L
play? Now, that’s good, Henry.”

Henry actually smiles. “
F-O-U-L.
As
in, this is a seriously bad sign that MP wants Val to stop reporting.”

“You’re right.” I dig into my backpack and pull out a copy of
the email. “Got this a few days ago.”

The group gathers to read. Marci blinks. “And you didn’t tell
us?”

“I didn’t think they’d actually
do
something to me. Tell the truth. Does anyone here think we should back
off the story because MP says so?”

“Give us a little credit,” Raul mutters.

“Wait a sec. We
should
stop
reporting it.” Marci points to the locker, at the same time Phil throws me a
satisfied look. “Whoever did this is crazy. You’re just feeding his,
their…whatever by giving MP all this publicity. Not only that, but this is
clearly a ‘Locker Violation.’ Wilkins will be pissed. You should tell him.”

“You can’t be serious,” I protest. “He might squash the story.
It’s my locker, Marci. I get to decide whether or not to keep quiet.”

“Like that will ever happen,” she mutters.

Phil holds up a hand. “It doesn’t matter to me what you guys do
about
Campus News
. Right now you have to decide
about the bird. You can’t leave it here or maggots will—”

“Phil!” Marci shrieks. “That’s disgusting.”

“But true,” Raul says. “How about we find a plastic bag, wrap
it tight.”

“And keep it where? Not in the Media Center or this is the last
you see of me.” Marci pouts.

“Freezer,” Henry suggests.

“Gross,” Marci mumbles.

“I have twin brothers. If they see it next to the ice cream or
whatever, they’d dissect it in two minutes flat.”

That pulls Marci out of her funk. “You should see Val’s fridge.
There’s no room to freeze a candy bar, let alone a bird.”

“What the hell?” Raul says. “If we find a bag, I’ll keep it.
Tell my mom it’s a science project. She’s seen worse.”

Everyone except for Jagger goes off in search of a plastic
bag.

“Looking a little pale there, ValGal.” Although he sounds
lighthearted, his concern feels genuine. “You sure you’re all right?”

Before I can say “I’m fine,” his arms circle me. Omigod! I’ve
forgotten what it’s like to be this close to him. The body wash, or aftershave
or whatever he uses that smells so good. The way my head reaches the soft part
just below his shoulder. The shift as he leans into me, creating tiny bolts of
lightning at every spot his body touches. Even though I know I should, I can’t
push away.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers.

Before I can ask if he means the dead bird or the way he
treated me last year, we hear the excited chatter of the team just before they
round the corner. Instinctively, I jump aside. Jagger winks before turning
toward the team.

Our little secret.

9

In bed that night, I feel the events of the day
swirling around my brain. The dead bird, Jagger’s hug. Marci pushing us to back
off the story, Jagger’s hug. Was it a friendly “you found a creepy thing in your
locker” hug—or something more? I consider calling him to ask, but that thought
lasts about ten seconds. I’d feel really stupid if he doesn’t know what I’m
talking about. As in, I hug girls all the time, so don’t think that was
something special.

Then there’s the lock mystery. It wasn’t broken, so someone got
the combination from somewhere. It would be easy for Tracy Gardner—locker to my
left—or Lawrence Gold on the right—to sneak a look. But Tracy’s headed for
Harvard, so why would she have any part in hanging a dead bird? And Lawrence
must have OCD. He has not one, but two boxes of antibacterial wipes in his
locker, as well as a stock of mini hand sanitizers. If Lawrence heard Phil
mention maggots, he’d have dropped out of school by now. Still, I plan to have
someone from the team interview them.

Leave no stone unturned.

On my sister’s side of the room, the steady rise and fall of
the blanket tells me she’s asleep. I sneak over to the computer. A second
message from MP awaits.

Like the present? Stop putting us on the news. You don’t want
to be responsible for more dead birds. Or worse.

I take my time typing a reply.

I asked for a meeting and you ignored me. I’m asking again. If
you’re too scared to meet in person, perhaps it’s chickens, not sparrows that
should be on your flyers.

“Val?”

“Why are you sneaking up behind me, Bethany?”

“I’m not,” my sister says. “I called your name three times, but
you didn’t hear.”

That’s probably true. Years ago, I learned to tune out the
chaos in the house, especially when I’m concentrating. In an effort to shield
the computer from Bethany’s prying eyes, I stand in front of the screen.

“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.

“Nothing. Sending an email. Go back to bed.”

“You know I can’t sleep until every light in the room is out.
Including the computer.”

Honestly! What did I do in a previous life to deserve the Queen
of Lame in this one?

“One second!” I mutter.

No chance to reconsider. With a pounding heart, and the click
of a finger, my message to MP flies through the Net.

10

The scoop is humongous, outrageous, crushing. While
we’re busy spinning our MP wheels, A Team’s next broadcast rocks the house.
Literally.

They did an entire show about the Battle of the Bands going
down Saturday night. On the whiteboard, Scott listed each segment differently so
Mr. C. wouldn’t catch on until too late. News story about the show itself,
Spotlight on one of the bands, Community story about a benefit concert (that
just happens to feature the third band—with their youth-obsessed thirty-year-old
lead singer), and a fourth story he listed as Informational. Like anyone at WiHi
doesn’t know about death metal bands. Even if you live in a cardboard box under
the Brooklyn Bridge, you’d have some sense of what they’re about. The leader of
Impaled on a Stick mumbled something about mutilation and necrophilia before
Scott cut it off.

Even worse, after really short interviews, each band
played.
Hailey told Mr. C. that it wouldn’t be fair if
one band performed and not the others because it was a battle and they couldn’t
tip the vote. So what we basically got was a sixteen-minute music video. Forget
applause. The hoots echoing down the hall are proof positive that A Team jumped
way ahead of us in terms of popularity.

Jagger slaps Scott on the back. “Freakin’ tight, man. How’d you
mic Impaled so they sounded so good?”

Hailey gives me a
gotcha, bitch
grin. I walk over, smile sweetly. “Nice job. A little narrow in scope, but
hey…if you don’t have a lot of ideas, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Look who’s talking.” She stares so hard that her eyes cross.
“I bet you made it all up.”

“Made what up?”

“MP. You needed an interesting story, so you got your friends
to put up stuff around school.”

The accusation is so shocking I can’t even speak. That only
seems to confirm Hailey’s belief.

She lets out a breath. “Of course! How clever. MP! Marci and
Phil!” She turns.

“Scott—”

I grab her. “Shut up! I would
never
fake a story. Not in a million, trillion years. So don’t go spreading rumors
that aren’t true.”

Before she can respond, Raul comes over. “Sorry, Hailey, we
need Val.” He pulls me toward the director’s booth. “What was that all
about?”

“Nothing. Hailey’s an idiot. What’s up?”

“Henry’s got something.”

The rest of the group is there when Raul and I enter. Jagger’s
jumpy, more excited than I’ve seen him all year.

“That was a cool show!” he says. “Wish we’d done something like
it.”

Marci gives him the death stare. “You can always play for the
other team, Voorham. No one’s stopping you.”

Omar pats the chair next to him, grins wickedly. “Other team’s
just waiting.”

Jagger winks. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Henry clears his throat. “Guys? I’ve been thinking about that
bird all night. Who’s got your locker combo, Val?”

“No one. I mean, besides me.”

“Not even Marci?” Jagger asks.

She shakes her head. “Got enough trouble remembering mine. I
keep doing last year’s. Anyone else have that problem?”

No one answers.

I lean forward. “I thought about that, too, Henry. Somebody
could have watched me work it.”

He pushes hair out of his eyes. “You think you’re being
followed around school?”

“Not exactly. It wouldn’t be hard for Lawrence Gold or Tracy
Gardner to get the combo. They have the lockers next to mine.”

Henry nods. “Do you want me and Omar to check it out? Lawrence
is in AP Gov with us and Tracy and I have Spanish together.”

Raul drums his knuckles on the table. “You should definitely
talk to them. But there
is
another way to get the
combo. Who’s your homeroom teacher, Val?”

“Dr. Linet. Except homeroom teachers don’t know combinations.
All they do is give out the slips on the first day.”

“Let’s make sure. Because if teachers keep a copy in their
desks, anyone who has class in that room could find it.”

“Even if they don’t, the office must have a list,” Marci
offers.

“You don’t actually need that,” Omar says. “Janitors can get
into any locker anytime they want.”

The hair on my arm rises. “How do you know?”

“My uncle. He’s head custodian at LaGuardia. They have master
keys. That’s the reason he told me never to put anything dangerous in my
locker.”

“Like a gun?” Marci’s eyes are huge.

“More like weed. The administration can open any locker without
asking because it’s the city’s property, not ours.”

“Good to know,” Jagger says.

Omar grins. “Better clean out your locker quick, bro.”

Jagger nods vigorously and the group laughs.

“A janitor makes sense,” I say. “Access to school at night—and
early in the morning. One of them could easily carry the toilet up to the third
floor himself. Paper the hallways with flyers before anyone got here.”

“Except Mr. Orel looked really pissed about the flagpole stunt.
Unless it’s one of the other janitors and he doesn’t know,” Marci concedes.

Omar shrugs. “He could be acting. Any of them could. Like
firebugs. Lots of times, they observe people watching the fires they set.
Sometimes they call it in themselves so they can be the heroes. Or an abandoned
building is lit up by a fireman who needs the overtime.”

“How do you know?” Henry asks.

“My uncle.”

“Wait. I thought he worked at LaGuardia High,” Marci says.

“That’s my uncle the janitor. This is my uncle the fireman. I
have more than one, don’t you?”

I wave the question away. “This is solid information. Let’s
split up. Interview Tracy, Lawrence and the janitors. Who wants what?”

Still upset about the bird, Marci forgets her vow not to work
on any MP story.

“I’ll go with you, Val. We can talk to the lady janitor,
Shirley.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “I bet she’s in the cafeteria.
She cleans up after the free breakfast kids finish eating.”

The team grabs cameras and splits up. WiHi’s cafeteria is in
the bottom level. A row of small windows lines up directly underneath the
ceiling. Most of the light, however, comes from ugly fluorescents that turn
everyone’s skin a little green. During lunch, the old floor tiles and Formica
tables make the room sound like Grand Central Station. Aeons of horrible school
cooking have seeped into the walls. The barfy cheese smell is something I’m sure
I’ll remember the rest of my life.

The doors are locked. Marci stands on tiptoes and glances
through a rectangular glass window. She waves. After a few moments, a door is
pulled open.

Shirley’s Jamaican-style braids, blond at the tips, are tied
back in a loose ponytail. A set of keys jangles against her tan uniform. She
gives us a quizzical look. “Lunch doesn’t start for another couple of
periods.”

“We know.” Marci turns on the hundred-watt smile. “My friend
Val and I wanted to ask you a few questions for
Campus
News
.”

“You want to put me on the TV?”

“We’re trying to find out about MP,” I say. “You know, the
toilet bowl, the missing flag, the flyers. All those plastic body parts—”

Shirley shakes her head. “I don’t know nothing about that!”

“Wait! Can we turn the camera on while you talk? It’s for a
class.”

She considers. “What do you want me to say?”

“We don’t want you to say anything specific,” Marci explains.
“Val asks questions and you answer them however you want. Honestly. It’s like a
conversation. You can sit at a lunch table. Val will be right next to you.”

“I guess.” Shirley pulls the rubber band off her hair. The
braids frame her face nicely. “Do I look okay?”

“Absolutely.” I settle beside her and Marci starts recording.
“Good morning, Ms. Johnston.”

She smiles. “Oh, now, I’m not a teacher. Call me Shirley.
Everyone else does.”

“Okay, Shirley. You must have noticed strange things popping up
around school. Do you or any of the other custodians know anything about
it?”

She shakes her head. “We show up to Irving like you kids, and
there they are. Pretty weird, huh?”

“Yes. Do you think one of the other custodians is doing it? For
a joke? The stuff must be set up either after school or before it starts.
Custodians are the only ones here at those times.”

Shirley’s braids shake. “Not true. Lots of teachers stay late.
Or come in early. The teachers at this school work really hard. I don’t think
you kids appreciate that.”

“But don’t they have to be let in by you guys? The custodians,
I mean.”

Again, her head shakes. “Teachers have two keys. One for the
front door and one for their classroom.”

“Are you saying that MP’s a teacher?”

“Oh no! I’m just saying the custodial staff aren’t the only
ones here before you kids show up. Or after you leave.” She glances at the round
wall clock. A steel grill protects its face. “That okay? I’ve got work to
do—”

“One more question. Please. Custodians have master keys that
open student lockers, right?”

She looks concerned. “Did something get stolen?”

“Oh no! No. We’re not accusing anyone. In fact, it’s the
opposite. What if someone wanted to put something
in
someone’s locker?”

Shirley blinks. “We couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t know which locker belongs to which student.”

“What if Mr. Wilkins gets worried that there’s something
dangerous inside one of them? You could open it, right?”

“Yes. But he’d have to tell us
which
locker. ‘Open 247 for me, please, Shirley.’ I could do it, but
I wouldn’t know whose locker it is.” She stands. “Now, ladies, I really have to
get moving.”

“Thanks for talking to us.”

Out in the hallway, Marci sounds disappointed. “She wasn’t very
helpful.”

“She was!” Unlike my friend, I’m excited. This is real
investigative reporting. “What we just discovered is that janitors don’t keep a
list of students and lockers. The next step is to find out who does!”

“Mr. Wilkins,” Marci says. “At least, that’s what Shirley
implied. Unless someone spied on you from, like, across the hall.”

“Think about it. Every person stands directly in front of his
locker to open it. Blocking it. If it’s not Tracy or Lawrence next to me, a
person would have to have binoculars to read the combo from down the hall.” I
shake my head. “I don’t buy it. Let’s go to the office and find out who has
access to the master list.”

This time, I lead the way. The main office has a large counter
across the front, with a row of desks behind it for the secretarial staff. Mr.
Wilkins’s private office is to the left. Teacher mailboxes line the right wall.
Marci and I wait for Mrs. Kresky, the office manager, to get off the phone.
Automatically, I check the
Campus News
box.

“Morning, Val. You waiting for me? I didn’t forget to put the
daily announcement in your box again, did I?”

“Oh no, we got it. Marci and I are here for something
different.
Campus News
is doing a piece on the way
things work at WiHi.”

Mrs. Kresky breaks into a laugh. “Kind of hard up for stories,
aren’t you? No one cares what we do in the office.”

“Not true,” Marci says. “Behind-the-scenes stuff is hot. Like
the way they do the Oscars. And Kitchen Wars.”

Mrs. Kresky shrugs. “If you say so.”

“Not to say it’ll definitely be a story,” I add hastily. “We’re
doing preliminary work. Getting a feel for the possibilities.”

She leans back in her chair. “What do you want to know?”

I pull my notebook from my backpack and pretend to read notes.
“First, um, how are locker assignments given out? Who keeps the list? What if
someone loses their combo and needs to—”

The office manager holds up a hand. “I can’t answer any of
that. Mrs. Gribaldini is in charge of locker assignments. She’s the only person
at school with the list. You need to talk to her if you want to find out about
lockers.”

Marci and I exchange a look. “Would you mind writing a note
that says it’s all right for Mrs. Gribaldini to talk to us? Otherwise…”

“Say no more.” Mrs. Kresky scribbles on a message pad, tears
the sheet off. “If Mrs. G. gives you a hard time, have her call me.” The phone
rings. “Washington Irving High School.”

I wave and mouth, “Thanks so much.”

She nods as she picks up the pen. “Can you repeat the name,
please…?”

Out in the hall, Marci makes a sour face. “You know what I
think of Mrs. Gribaldini. No way will I voluntarily step foot in her office.”
She gives me an evil smile. “How about I volunteer Jagger? If we’re lucky,
she’ll swallow him whole and we’ll be done with him forever.”

“Tell him to hurry. I want to get it in before the period
ends.”

Marci must have been pretty insistent because Jagger shows up a
few minutes later. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since the hug, but I’m
focused on getting the interview with Gribaldini. I hand him the camera, pull
the door and walk in.

Folding chairs line two walls of the small office. Right now
they’re empty of truant students. I haven’t been late or absent this year, so I
haven’t had the pleasure of running into the attendance lady, seated behind the
counter doing paperwork.

“Get caught cutting?” she growls.

If students ditch, they get sent to her for the old “this goes
on your permanent record” threat. Only at WiHi, it’s not a threat. You’d think
she could pull up your record on a computer, but the public school system hasn’t
changed since paper was invented. Gribaldini makes you watch while she waddles
to one of the file cabinets lined up against the back wall, stiff marines eager
to serve. Slowly, she pulls out the right folder. Writes on it with black marker
so that for the rest of eternity, everyone will know what a terrible person you
are.