Читать книгу Circle of Silence - Carol Tanzman M. - Страница 14

5

I stay late again on Thursday to tweak a few things. The broadcast runs 15:30—a perfect time. Omar shot the anchor ins and outs, so it’s beautifully framed. Henry looks surprisingly comfortable behind the anchor desk. The edited flow, football to Spotlight, clubs to skateboarding, ends on a high note.

Battered briefcase in hand, Mr. Carleton barks, “Shut it down, Val. We were supposed to be out of here five minutes ago.”

I press Save one final time, scoop up my backpack and head for the door. “I had one last thing to check….”

Mr. C. flips the light switch. “It’s fine. A good first broadcast.”

Fine? A good first broadcast. Like it would be way better if the team was more experienced? As soon as I get home, I text Marci. Her reply is no comfort: Great! An easy A.

All night long, I’m antsy. Bethany’s got some test to study for, so she bans me from the bedroom. I give the twins a bath, watch a little CNN with Dad. Friday morning, I’m awake before the alarm rings. I dash into the bathroom before anyone else so I can wash and then straight-iron my hair. Back in the bedroom, I change clothes three times—nothing’s right. I want to look good, but not as if I’m trying hard. In my dreams, not only does the show go off without a hitch, but people come up and talk to me about it. How Campus News is way better than last year. Or the year before.

Part of that’s true. The show, airing in its usual first-period time slot, looks good. But not one single person at WiHi pays attention to the closed-circuit feed in any of the classrooms. I know this because everyone’s talking about The Prank.

Even the TV Production teams.

It had to have been set up early in the morning. Or, I suppose, late last night. By the time I got to WiHi, all straight-ironed and looking good, a crowd had gathered at the front. Everyone’s focus was up.

Is something happening on the roof? A jumper? Fire?

Nothing’s there. Still, windows on all three floors are open as wide as safety latches will allow. Less than a foot, so even an idiot can’t fall out. Faces pressed to panes watch…something.

Phil stands near the iron statue of the school’s namesake. Washington Irving. Although he created the Headless Horseman character, our statue has a head. I’m not sure it improves the guy’s appearance, though.

I figure Marci must be standing next to the BF, so I make my way over. Amazing how predictable people are. “What’s going on?”

She points to the flagpole. “Look at that!”

“Holy crap!”

I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now. The flag is gone, replaced by a row of undies flapping in the breeze. Mostly grandpa boxers and tighty whiteys, with a few bikinis and one bright red thong. The largest pairs have letters stenciled across them. The early-morning sun shines in my face. I shade my eyes with my hand to read the message.

WiHi SUCKS MP.

“Marshall Prep,” Marci says smugly. “Told you that’s who’s doing it. The game’s tonight.”

The front door bangs open. Mr. Wilkins, the principal, strides out. Thin as a string bean and tall as a giraffe, he carries a portable microphone with an attached battery pack.

“Bell’s about to ring,” he announces. “Get to class, students.”

No one moves, not even the ninth graders. That’s because the head custodian, Mr. Orel, arrives at the same time. Hand over hand, he pulls the rope. With a squeak, the underwear sinks to the ground. There are jeers—and cheers. Depends on how you feel about undies. Or WiHi.

“Into the building,” Wilkins shouts, “or you will all be considered tardy.”

As if Mrs. Gribaldini, the attendance lady, can mark hundreds of kids late at the same time. But there isn’t anything else to see, so the herd heads off.

Phil, linebacking a path for Marci and me, runs into Bethany. Literally. Her unmistakable voice screeching, “Watch it!” alerts me to her presence.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

My sister doesn’t bother to answer the admittedly obvious question. Like the rest of the school, the prank caught me off guard.

Everyone wonders. During first period, and into second and third. Who had the bright idea? How did they do it without being caught? What happened to WiHi’s Stars and Stripes?

That’s the reason nobody cared about the year’s first Campus News broadcast.

* * *

After school, a larger than usual crowd hangs around the flagpole. I stand close and eavesdrop. Several kids place bets on how soon Mr. Wilkins will get the flag replaced. Another group argues about which pair of undies they wish would permanently replace the flag. No one’s discussing our broadcast. Not even the skateboard piece, easily the one with the most audience appeal.

Disappointed, I start for home. Henry’s at the curb, talking to someone I don’t know. She’s kind of punked out—ripped jeans, combat boots, nose ring—not at all his style. Curious, I stop beside them.

“Hey, Henry.”

“Hi, Val.” After I glance at the girl, Henry takes the hint. “Do you know Toby? She’s a junior.”

“Not really. Nice to meet you.”

She gives a sort of half nod. “Gotta go.”

“Think about it, okay?” Henry says.

Toby bestows a “you’re lower than a worm” look upon him before walking away. Ouch! I’d like to give her a good slap. How can anyone treat sweet Henry like that?

He doesn’t appear to notice. “At least she didn’t say no. If Toby joins Chess Club, we have a chance to win City.”

“That girl plays chess?”

Henry looks insulted. “It’s a popular game.”

“Sorry. I hope she joins. We’ll do a story.”

“Cool!” He glances around hopefully. “Waiting for Marci?”

“Nah. She’s got practice. I was by the flagpole. Everyone’s talking underwear.”

“It was different, that’s for sure.” He laughs. “By next week, I bet no one remembers. Something new’ll pop up. It always does.”

* * *

Never underestimate Henry’s smarts. He’s absolutely right. Very few people pay attention to the A Team broadcast the following Friday.

This time it’s inside. Third-floor corridor at the west end. Past the double doors that separate the staircase from the hallway, there’s an extra-wide water fountain. Made of chipped white porcelain, it has a pair of spouts on either end so two people can drink at the same time. Maybe in the last century, before they had water bottles and continual germ alerts, people might actually have done that. I don’t know a single person who’d stick their face into any gross WiHi water fountain no matter how thirsty they are.

It’s not the fountain people stare at. Right beside it, someone dragged over an honest-to-goodness toilet. Inside the bowl is the flag from the flagpole and a small plastic bucket, the kind little kids bring to the beach. Except it’s not mud dripping over the side of the pail—it’s streaks of blood. The words stenciled across the front jump out at me.

MP LIVES—Will U?

After a few seconds, I realize the “blood” is paint. I’m not the only one fooled. The kids who jostle for space beside me make the same initial intake of breath—followed by laughter a few seconds later.

The spot was wisely chosen. It’s near the little-used stairway that leads down to the school’s storeroom. Still, word gets out. Lots of kids take detours on the way to first period, though I don’t see a single teacher. The school’s adults are holed up in their classrooms, too busy gearing up for the day’s torturous activities to notice what’s going on.

As soon as A Team’s broadcast ends, I call a team meeting. The six of us head into the control booth for privacy. Henry and Marci are the only ones who saw the toilet, so I quickly describe it for the rest.

“This new stunt means MP isn’t Marshall Prep,” I finish breathlessly.

“You think?” Jagger says. “The game was last week. If they were behind the flagpole crap, they’d move to whichever school their football team plays next, and start punking them.”

Marci can’t do anything but agree. “Our guys killed, so why would they ever step foot on campus again?”

“Henry.” Raul, sitting in the director’s chair, swivels around. “Could the toilet be an art project? The flagpole stunt, too. Wasn’t there some kind of art thing, fada or lada—”

“Dada.” As the youngest of several geniuses in the senior class, Henry has the good sense not to show off unless specifically asked. “It made fun of the modern world. The meaninglessness of everything. They mostly targeted rich people and, like, posers. But I haven’t heard of a single teacher giving out a Dada assignment. No one at WiHi’s ever been that cool.”

Raul gives me a look. Frustration? Anger? Is he telling me he would have made a different decision when assigning stories? Chosen MP instead of clubs.

Time to suck it up, Val.

“Okay, everyone. Jagger was right. MP is obviously somebody’s initials, not a high school football team. And yes, it’s a good story.”

Voorham takes an exaggerated bow. “Hold the applause ’til the end of the magic act.”

Asswipe, Marci mouths.

I ignore both of them. “We’ll add the MP story to the next show. But what’s the angle? We have to find a good way in.”

Raul’s on it. “How about the flag? Ties both stunts together.”

The bell in my head, the one that tolls good idea, rings loud and clear. “That’ll work.”

Omar wriggles his fingers. “Hold on, sista. We’re talking five segments.”

“You’re right.” I make an instant editorial decision. “We can cut the piece I’m working on. Since the MP story was originally Jagger’s idea, he takes it if he wants. I’ll edit what he’s working on.”

“Do I get to pick my partner?” he asks.

“Unless they want to finish their segment.”

Raul’s already nodding, assuming he’s the choice. Jagger stares at Marci. She opens her mouth to protest. Without taking his eyes off her, he says, “ValGal.”

A shiver runs through me. For once, it has nothing to do with my ex-boyfriend. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Not only do I want that story—I want to report its butt off.

“Henry, change the whiteboard, please?” The teams have to list all stories on the board so there’s no duplication. “Just in case Scott gets the same idea. Jagger can pull equipment while I make sure no one messes with the toilet.”

I gallop to the third floor. Excellent! The toilet display is untouched. Not five minutes later, several sets of feet pound up the stairs. All of B Team arrives. Either nobody trusted Jagger to sign out the right equipment or everyone wants in on the action.

They’ve brought it all. Lights, stands, camera, microphone.

“Not so loud!” I warn. “We don’t want anyone to stop us.”

Quickly, the team sets up. Immediately, however, a problem surfaces. Although we’ve got an extension cord, there’s no place to plug in the lights. The hallway is too dark to get a decent image without additional illumination.

Raul turns toward the steps. “I’ll get an extra cord from the cabinet. You guys figure out where to score some power.”

Two classrooms are located around the corner. After a quick discussion, we decide to avoid teachers if we can. There is, however, a boys’ bathroom halfway down the hall.

“Do the ‘boys’ have outlets in them?” Marci asks.

“One way to find out.” Henry jogs into the bathroom, returns less than a minute later. “It’s at the far end. Raul will have to bring a bunch of cords.”

“No probs.” I pull my cell from my pocket. Like all city high schools, WiHi has a firm no-cell-phone policy, but Mr. C. lets us use ours for stuff like this.

“Don’t abuse it, folks,” he warned. “I will not go head-to-head with Mr. Kuperman if anyone cheats on a physics test!”

Raul’s reply is quick: Found 4. The instant he arrives, he, Omar and Henry gang the cords into one. They snake it along the edge of the hall and into the bathroom.

Turning to Jagger, I ask, “You know what to say for the stand-up?”

He shakes his head. I start to tell him how it could go, but he stops me before I finish a sentence. “You do it.”

“I’ll coach you. It’s not hard.”

“Uh-uh,” he says. “I don’t want to be on-camera.”

Marci puts a hand on her hip. “Why not? Campus News not cool enough for you?”

Jagger avoids looking at me. “Hit the nail on the head, Marcikins. I needed an arts class to graduate. Doesn’t mean I have to be on-camera.”

The lights go on. Henry sticks his head out of the bathroom.

“All good,” I tell him.

The boys tumble out. Raul wants to direct. Omar calls camera. Jagger and Marci reach for the headset at the same time.

“I got it first!” she says, appealing to me.

“Raul’s directing. His call.”

“Fine!” Marci throws the headset at Jagger and stalks to the opposite wall. Omar messes with my hair while I sound-check.

“Ready, everyone?” Raul asks. “In five, four, three—” He holds up two fingers. Folds down the first, then the last. My cue to start talking.

“Good morning, Horsemen and Women. I’m standing on the third floor of Washington Irving High School, in front of what might be considered a work of art. Or a prank.”

I move to the side so Omar can get a clear shot of the toilet. As I narrate, he zooms into the flag. “For the last seven days, the WiHi flagpole lost its reason to exist. Today, that purpose has been rediscovered. The flag removed last Friday can once again fly high. But the mystery deepens. Who put this thing, um, object, in the hall—”

“Cut!” Raul says. “Start again, Val.”

We shoot the stand-up two more times.

“I think we got it,” Raul says.

“Audio’s clear,” Jagger announces.

“Cool.” It’s the first all-team effort. Except for the little tiff between Marci and Jagger, I’m happy with the way it went. “Let’s get the empty flagpole. When the office finds this stuff and puts the flag back, we can reshoot the pole.”

The toilet’s gone by the end of the day. That’s all right with me because the footage Omar shot is perfect.

Over the weekend, I make a list of people to interview. Jagger doesn’t object when I suggest we start with the art teachers on Monday. Working the segment at the end of last week seems to have broken the iceberg between us. He’s quiet, focusing his attention on the camera, letting me do the interviews.

All three teachers swear it’s not a project they assigned. When I ask Ms. Cordingley, the department chairperson, if she has a student with the initials MP, she taps a charcoal pencil on the desk.

“I wondered about that myself, so I checked the rosters. No one with those initials is taking art. Not this semester.”

“Okay. If you remember someone from last year, would you leave a note in the Campus News box? I check it every day.”

In the hallway, Jagger asks, “Do you think she will?”

“Nah. But I had to suggest it. Like Carleton always says, leave no stone unturned when investigating a story.”

On our way back to the Media Center, we run into Josh Tomlin, cast in every WiHi play since freshman year. He agrees to be interviewed. No surprise there, because the kid never met an audience he didn’t like.

Jagger’s behind the lens again; I’ve got the mic.

“It’s not performance art,” Josh tells me, “because you need a performer for that. But the toilet would make an awesome prop for a play.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

Josh pauses dramatically. “Like everyone else, I wish I knew. I can’t wait to see what’s next. At least, I hope there’s something else.”

“Thanks.” I turn to the camera. “That’s what everyone wonders. Will there be anything more?”

The following day, Jagger and I interview a history teacher, Mr. Correra. An Army Reservist, he sponsors the school’s Junior ROTC program. The teacher makes it clear that he’s extremely upset at the “desecration of our national symbol, the American flag.”

For balance, I insist we find a free-speech teacher.

“That’ll be Mrs. O’Leary,” Jagger says. “Had her for ninth grade English. Old-school hippy fer sure.”

He’s right. When I ask the teacher, dressed in a long flowered skirt, dangly earrings and Earth shoes, if she thinks the flag has been desecrated, she bristles. “I found the entire toilet seat display an especially incisive metaphor for our country in these troubled times.”

“Some people are upset that the flag was stolen from the front of the school,” I tell her.

Mrs. O’Leary pauses to get her thoughts in order. “While I cannot, of course, condone taking down Irving’s American flag, sometimes dramatic measures must be taken to fight the powers that be. It should also be noted that the flag wasn’t actually stolen. Borrowed, then returned.” She smiles, proud of the way she tightroped the answer.

Jagger and I do one more interview. Tanya’s one of those peppy girls joined at the hip to her best friend. We manage to catch her alone, scurrying back from the bathroom. Before agreeing to be interviewed, she flips open her cell to use as a mirror.

“You look great,” I tell her. “Once we get rolling, introduce yourself and then tell us what you think about the flagpole and the toilet bowl.” I stick the mic in her face. Tanya giggles through her name.

“Cut! Let’s start again.”

It takes five tries before she keeps a straight face. “I’m Tanya and I’m a sophomore. I just want to say how cool this school is. The first year I was here, which was last year, WiHi had dancergirl. This year, it’s something completely different. I don’t know who’s doing all the MP stuff and I don’t care. It’s fun seeing what shows up.” She sticks up her index finger. “Irving is definitely number one!”

“Cut!” I say. “Great, Tanya, thanks.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’ll air Friday on Campus News.”

I wind the mic’s cord as Tanya trots off. “We’ve got enough, Jags. Let’s go back—”

“Uh-uh.”

“What does that mean?”

“The student interviews are one-sided. Everyone’s looking at the surface. It’s something different to break up the daily grind.” He gestures down the hall. “‘Irving’s so awesome,’ but did Tanya actually read the message on the underwear? You’d think she’d be insulted.”

“Not that I disagree, but we have to import what we shot, edit—”

“It’s my piece.” He holds up his index finger and then sticks out his thumb, turning the Irving I into an L for Lame. “I’m not going to put out only the rah-rah view. We need to find an outcast or two. See what they think.”

I’m kind of impressed with the way Slacker Jagger’s fighting to get what he wants—although there’s no way I’ll tell him that.

“Fine. I’ll text Raul and get him to bring us another camera. He can start importing this while we find—” I make an O with my fingers “—outcasts.”

Jagger groans. “Tell me you are not that dorky.”

“I’m not,” I repeat dutifully. “Usually.”

He laughs. “Come on, I know where to find the peeps we need.”

We gallop to the basement level. At the back of the school, an exit opens into the yard. Raul catches up to us at the door and we switch cameras. Jagger leads the way outside. Except for the gym class on the field, no one’s around.

“Not much time before the bell rings,” I tell him.

“So move it.” Around the corner, on the far side of the building, a group of kids smoke forbidden cigs. The outlaws. The haters. The kids who ignore the rest of us. One of them glances over, sees we’re not teachers and returns to his smoke.

Jagger moves to a pimply dude sitting by himself. “Liam. I’m helping out a friend. Can she ask a couple of questions about the flag stuff going on? She’s with Campus News.”

He gets the finger for his trouble—and gives it right back.

“Such cooperation,” I mumble. “Like any of these guys will go on camera. You won’t even do it.”

“He was a bad choice,” Jagger admits. “The only screen Liam cares about is a computer screen. Someone else will talk.”

I’m not so sure. Two kids stamp out their butts and shuffle into school without acknowledging our presence. Another pretends not to hear. I might as well be in my bedroom, talking to Bethany for as much good as this does.

I’m about to tell Jagger to give it up for the day when someone finally agrees to be interviewed.

The kid definitely fits Jagger’s idea of an outlaw. He’s got the tats, the earrings, the unwashed hair. He tells me he’ll go on camera but won’t say his name. I shrug. His choice.

Anonymous starts to talk as soon as I give the cue. “I didn’t see the toilet bowl. But I don’t know what all this crap’s about. Who gives a shit?”

The bell rings. Anonymous takes off.

I laugh. “Happy, Jags? We can use it if I cut the last line.”

“Do we have to? It was very poetic. Toilet, crap, shit. Mrs. O’Leary would love the use of extended metaphor.” Jagger hands me the camera, the headphones, the mic. “You don’t mind bringing the equipment back, do you? I have class on the first floor and I gotta finish the homework.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me alone, holding everything myself.

* * *

After school, the Media Center is quiet. I set up at one of the computers to start editing.

Carleton walks over. “Faculty meeting today, Val.”

I groan. “Can I stay? Please. We want to add the new segment for Friday’s show. I haven’t begun to cut it.”

He sighs. “Okay. But don’t go broadcasting that I’ve left you alone. I’ll be back to lock up at four-thirty if Wilkins can keep to the schedule. Do. Not. Leave. Someone’s got to stay with the equipment.”

No problem. Jagger and I shot a ton, so paring it down to four minutes will be a challenge.

I play the first several minutes of raw footage. Hit Stop. Rewind. Click through frame by frame. Something bothers me. It’s not just the obsessiveness of the image. The precise fold of the flag. The way it’s looped exactly equidistant from either end of the porcelain tank. It isn’t the positioning of the toilet, either, placed in such a way that it can’t be seen from the main hall. Or the pail—wait! That’s it. Inside.

I stare at the overhead shot Omar took at the last minute. The entire pail can be seen resting in the bowl. Inside, across the bottom rim, tiny letters look like decoration. Then again, it might be a message. A secret note. Maybe a signature…

I blow up the frame as large as I can. Can’t make out anything except s o r. There’s not a first name I can think of with those letters. Last names, sure. Mr. Sorren, the history teacher. One of the outlaws I recognized at the side of the school. Craig Sorestsky.

But s o r doesn’t have to be a name. It could be part of a word. Sore…sorrow…sorry. Hmmm. They’re sorry. You’ll be sorry.

Something in my gut—reporter’s instinct?—tells me that’s correct. Someone’s going to be sorry.

“What are you doing here?”

I jump at the sound. A Team’s Hailey Manussian stands behind me. Her perfectly round face, completely surrounded by dark wavy hair, looks irritated.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I tell her.

“Door’s not locked. Where’s Carleton?” She glances around the room suspiciously, as if Mr. C. and I are having a secret rendezvous behind the anchor desk.

“Faculty meeting.”

“He let you stay?”

I shrug the obvious answer. “He’ll be here by four-thirty. Come back then if you want to talk to him.”

She glances past my shoulder. “What’s on your screen?”

I click it closed. “Something I’m working on.”

Hailey gives me a stony stare. “You think you’re so clever, ValGal. Best friend’s on your team, so producer vote goes your way. Got the hot guy, too, because Carleton thinks you’re the only girl in class who knows how to do stuff. I know everything you know—and more.”

She stomps off. Hailey hasn’t liked me ever since I screwed up a science lab in seventh grade—getting us both a shitty grade—but you’d think she’d be over it by now. That rant was on the vicious side. Even Bethany doesn’t hate me that much. At least, I don’t think she does.

I return to editing, but my mind’s all over the place. As soon as Carleton enters, I head for the office. Mrs. Kresky gets Mr. Orel on the walkie-talkie. The custodian’s mopping the language hallway.

“Mr. Orel. Remember the toilet and pail on the third floor? Were you the person who took it away?”

Not a rhythmic beat of mop swishing is missed. “One of the younger janitors carried it down.”

“Where’d he put it?”

“Trash bin. Pickup was this morning.”

“The pail, too?”

My disappointment must show because Mr. Orel stops cleaning. “Yes. But don’t fret. The flag’s fine. Ever since the incident, I take it down as soon as school ends. Come tomorrow morning, it’ll be flying high.”

“That’s great,” I tell him. What I’m thinking is: Some reporter. Why didn’t I notice the letters on the pail before today?