Читать книгу Circle of Silence - Carol Tanzman M. - Страница 16

6

At last, people pay attention to Campus News. I know this because it’s Bethany who says something at the dinner table.

The twins shoot peas at each other, using the engineering principle of spoon-as-lever. Dad is busy pointing out how advanced this is to an extremely annoyed mom when my sister clears her throat.

“Val was on TV.”

The conversation-slash-argument stops. Bethany rarely initiates a dinner topic. She can barely manage a mumbled yeah or nah when asked a question.

“Excuse me,” Mom says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear—”

“Val was on TV at school,” my sister repeats.

There’s a moment of silence as the parents try to figure out what Bethany’s complaining about. She rarely speaks my name without whining about something I’ve done—or not done.

“Campus News,” I remind them. “I’m a producer. I told you guys….”

“Right,” Dad says, except I’m pretty certain he has no idea what I’m talking about.

James sets his milk at the edge of the table. “Was it fun to see her, Bethie?”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “It’s knee. Beth-a-knee. I’ve told you a million times—”

“He’s only six,” Mom soothes, at the same time moving his glass inland to avoid catastrophe. “James, her name is Bethany.”

“Nobody calls you Jimmy,” my sister points out.

“They could. I wouldn’t care.”

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” Jesse chants, accompanying himself with his favorite percussive instrument: fork-pounding-on-plate.

Dad holds up his hand. “We get the point, Jesse. What was Val talking about, Bethany?”

In any other household, the question would be directed to me because, well, I was the one on the screen. But here? Bethany speaks and the world stops spinning. It’s like trying to get druggies to talk about where they score. You don’t dare stop ’em once they start.

“Last week someone took the flag from the front of the school and replaced it with a bunch of underwear—”

Jesse shrieks. Bethany shoots him a superior glare. He clams up.

“This week someone put a toilet in the third-floor hallway,” she continues.

“A potty?” James shouts. “Did anyone pee in it?”

Despite Bethany’s frown, he and Jesse laugh. My sister gets all huffy and refuses to say another word.

I jump in. “Sorry to disappoint, little dudes, but not a single person used it for, um, personal activities. There was a beach pail in the bowl.” For whatever reason, that seems even funnier. The boys’ whooping becomes contagious. Laughter circles the table.

“Okay, girls, don’t keep us in suspense,” Dad says, “Who’s the culprit?”

Bethany shrugs. “No one knows.”

For the first, and maybe last time in the history of the universe, I agree with her. “So far, nobody’s taking responsibility. But it makes watching Campus News interesting, right, Bethany?”

My sister stabs a French fry, deaf once more. Too bad. The truce was kind of nice while it lasted.

* * *

Neither interesting, nor nice, is how Marci sees any of it. Especially when body parts show up. Not flesh and blood body parts, though from a distance, that’s what it seems. Up close, it’s obvious they’re plastic. A department store mannequin pulled apart. An arm dangling high above the third-floor staircase railing; in a second-floor bathroom, a bald head and neck hang from a noose. An upside-down leg with a red high-heeled shoe, sticks out from a trash can at the side of the school.

Every part has the same message:

THIS COULD BE YOU.

MP.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marci gulps.

“Just that someone watches too many horror shows. Jeez, look at the crowd.” The crush of people surrounding the leg is three deep.

“Who cares about a crowd?” She tugs my arm. “Let’s go.”

“Not yet.”

I push forward to check out the leg. No tiny letters that I can see. Being this close to a cut-up body, though, even if it’s plastic, makes me feel weird. Like some kind of perv. Or maybe it’s the flash of intuition that tells me Marci’s right: MP’s not all fun and games. Underwear and kiddie pails and secret writing meant to seem cool. He might be something else. Something darker. Someone evil. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms.

When I hit the Media Center, Raul, Henry and Omar are already there, looking three shades of gloomy.

“What’s up?”

Omar tugs an earring. “Read the board. A Team’s doing an MP story.”

“What? That’s ours!”

“It’s not on our list,” Raul points out.

“How was I supposed to know he’d get all serial killer today?” A glance at the A Team table tells me this was Hailey’s doing. She can barely contain a superior smile. “I’ll take care of it!”

I make a beeline for Carleton, quietly taking attendance. “A Team cannot have the MP story. It’s ours.”

Scott Jenkins scoots over. That doesn’t surprise me. Passive-aggressive Hailey sent him to do her dirty work.

“We listed it like we’re supposed to. Mr. Carleton approved it,” he tells me.

Even though I’m furious, I keep my voice reasonable. Thanks to Bethany and Jagger, I’ve had lots of practice. “Guess you didn’t realize we were doing follow-ups, Mr. C.”

“No one knew,” Scott says. “It’s not on the board.”

“We haven’t finished planning the next broadcast. That’s what today’s for.”

The teacher holds up a pudgy hand. “Don’t fight—”

I refuse to let Hailey get away with this. If I lose, my team will never forgive me. “Mr. Carleton. On TV, the same reporter follows a story no matter how long it takes. They don’t hand it over to whoever feels like working it that week.”

“Puh-lease.” Scott laughs. “This is high school….”

He continues to argue. I catch Mr. C.’s eye. With what I hope is a subtle tilt, I glance at the Emmy Award shelf. Mr. Carleton’s name is nowhere to be found. It’s the last media teacher, R. Rosenfeld, who’s listed as adviser.

When Scott pauses to take a breath, I jump back in. “Mr. Carleton’s trying to run a professional operation. So we can move on to good media programs in college, get jobs, win awards…”

“Val!” Mr. Carleton admonishes.

Oops. Might have hit the award thing a little too hard.

“But Ms. Gaines is correct.” Behind us, the room is silent. “A story should be followed by the originating reporter. Val, I didn’t realize you were continuing to investigate. If it messes up your broadcast, A Team, I’ll allow three pieces this week. No grade penalty.”

Scott slumps over to Hailey. If looks could kill, he’d be heading straight for death row. I feel for him, but I’m glad it’s not me who lost the argument.

Mr. Carleton lowers his voice. “Don’t let me down, Val.”

“I won’t!”

The team piles into the director’s booth.

“Way to get back what’s ours, sista!” Omar hoots.

Henry and I fist-bump. Raul gives a short nod. Over in the corner, Jagger yawns. If I expected props from Voorham, I’m a fool. His short attention span hasn’t increased by much in a year. Screw him.

“Let’s get organized. Jagger and I stay on the story since I just made a big deal about it. But we need help.”

“I’ll anchor,” Raul suggests. “Frees me up to do whatever’s needed.”

“Right on. I have all the footage shot and half-edited on the College Application story we didn’t air last time. If someone wants to finish that, it’s an easy second segment.”

Marci speaks up. “I’ll do it. MP creeps me out.”

Omar grins. “All mannequins are creepy. But naked ones are waaay better.”

I roll my eyes. “The rest of us split into groups. Omar and Raul. Henry, me and Jagger.”

“You don’t need three people,” Henry says. “I’ll help Marci.”

“That’s sweet,” she tells him, “but we’ve got a week.”

For a moment, he looks disappointed. Immediately, though, Henry cheers up. “We need more stories. I’ll stay here and think of a couple easy ones. Marci can help me shoot next week.”

“Fine. Whatever. Got to get going,” Raul urges.

The team piles into the main room, ignoring the resentful looks Scott and the rest of his team send our way. I head for the equipment cabinet. “Marci, sign it out for us?”

“Aye-aye, ValGal.” She salutes.

Expertly, I flip a case onto a table and pull the camera. “Jags and I shoot the yard. Raul, you and Omar get the inside stuff.”

* * *

Outside, at least, the plastic leg is untouched. Jagger and I set up in front of the trash can.

“You’re awfully quiet,” I tell him.

Jagger shrugs. “What’s there to say? Either you were going to get the story back—or not.”

“Don’t you think we should follow up? You’re the one who wanted it in the first place.”

He plugs the headphone into the camera. “All I said was that it would be a good story. Especially since Campus News is usually so lame—”

“Thanks a lot.” I whip the mic cord out of the way. “Why are you even in the class if that’s what you think? You could have taken Mechanical Drawing or the Fine Art of Cooking Crap or whatever that class is called.”

Jagger gestures to the trash can. “Ready?”

“No. Me and Campus News might be lame, but you’re…awful. A terrible person. You hang out with me all summer. Then the night of Sonya’s party, I’m stuck babysitting the twins, so I say, ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t go.’ Every other boyfriend in the universe would tell me, ‘I’ll keep you company.’ Not you. When I finally show up, you and Dawn Chevananda are tonguing like crazy.” All the hurt bottled up inside gushes out. “You never said a word. Ever. Don’t you think I’m owed an apology? An explanation.”

A curtain lifts and his Tortured Soul look appears. Last year, whenever that happened, it made me want to hold him tight, tell him it would be okay, whatever it is.

“What’s wrong?” I would whisper.

“Nothing,” he’d always say.

So I’d let it go, thinking I was crazy. Or believing that my hugs—and kisses—would banish whatever problem he was having. Until I found out I wasn’t enough at all.

“This is not the time to get into it, Val.” Footsteps sound behind us. Immediately, Jagger’s expression changes. Frustrated, he points to the leg. “Start talking or the bell will ring before we get a single shot off. Then you’ll really be pissed.”

Like I’m not now—but he’s right. Mr. Orel heads straight for us, trash bag in hand. Stalking to the garbage can, I glare at the camera. To add to my rage, Jagger counts down as if he’s been in TV Production forever.

“In five, four, three…”

* * *

Later that evening, after the twins are asleep, Mom calls me into her bedroom.

“What did Bethany tell you I did now?”

She laughs. “I don’t know. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” Mom looks pleased. As if by using Advanced Interrogation Techniques she’s managed to get something out of me. “I’m the one who wants to ask a question. About your sister.”

“Go ahead.” I sit on the queen-size bed, the blanket a lumpy mess from the twins’ postbath read-aloud.

“Does Bethany have a boyfriend?”

“What? No!” That would be horrible. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Jagger. How could she?

“You sure?” Mom asks.

“Not really. How would I know? It’s not like Bethie talks to me. Ever.”

“That’ll change when you get older. Blood’s thicker than water.” Mom gets her canny Interrogation look again. “Maybe you’ve seen her with someone at school.”

“Mother! Are you asking me to spy on my sister?”

She appears dutifully shocked. “Of course not. I was just wondering.”

I prop up the pillows. “Now I’m curious. Why are you asking?”

Mom laughs. “No big deal. Bethie wants to go clothes shopping. Asked if I knew where to get cute shirts.”

“She said, ‘cute shirts’? Not tan shirts? Or baggy cargo pants? Boring brown sneaks…?”

“You don’t need to go on, Valerie. But yes, that’s why I’m asking.”

The idea that Bethany has a boyfriend boggles my mind. “If I find out anything, Mom, you’ll be the first to know.”

Or not. Hoodie on, I wade through the dirty clothes and the rest of the junk Bethany’s tossed all over the floor. Grabbing my cell, I open the window beside my bed and climb onto the fire escape, pulling the pane back down so she can’t hear me. I have a private nest out here—three-inch camping mat and sleeping bag rolled up in a waterproof bag. It works great until the weather turns November nasty. I’ve got a few weeks of privacy until then.

Marci is horrified when I repeat Mom’s conversation. “You cannot sell out your own sister if she doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Even if the sister in question is Queen of the Sloths. What’s that thing your mom says?”

“Blood’s thicker than water?”

“Yeah.” Marci pauses. “I don’t actually think she’s right, but—”

“Don’t worry. You’re more my sister than Bethany will ever be.”

Marci giggles. “Okay. So maybe she is right. Which means you can’t rat Bethie out.”

“I’m not saying I’ll tell on her. I only said that to appease Mom.”

“SAT word!” Marci moans. “You’re not studying, are you?”

“You kidding? I’ve got enough on my plate.” Last-chance SAT is in a week—and then we start to apply to colleges. Neither of us wants to think about that, so I return to the discussion at hand. “It would be the ultimate revenge if Bethie has a boyfriend.”

“Because you don’t?”

“Yeaaah.”

“I hope she does.”

“Hey! Who’s BFF are you?”

“Yours,” Marci says. “Maybe this will get you to pay attention. I’m pretty sure Raul has the hots for you.”

“Very funny. He thinks I’m doing a terrible job. That the team would be better off if he was producer.”

“He told you that?”

“Not exactly. I can tell by the way he looks at me.” I remember his half-assed nod in the director’s booth.

“What about you? Do you like him?”

“I guess. Sure. He’s cute, but it’s not like I ever thought of him as boyfriend material.”

She pounces. “Then who do you think of as boyfriend material? If you even breathe the J name—”

“Don’t worry. I went off on him today.”

“Hallelujah!” Marci breathes. “What did he say?”

The elm in front of our brownstone has begun its yearly transformation. Yellow leaves, like shots of gold, shimmer between the green.

“He didn’t say squat, actually. You know Jagger. Doesn’t care about anyone—or anything—except his own butt.”

“That’s what I told you. The guy never changes. Pretty on the surface, devil below. Maybe it’s good he’s in TV. Lets you see him as he really is.”

Instead of answering, I contemplate the tree. For years, I assumed that leaves were naturally green. Then I discovered that chlorophyll, running through veins in the leaf, masks their true colors. Underneath, leaves are more beautiful than the surface allows us to see.

The nagging thought that Marci’s wrong—that what’s going on with Jagger isn’t that he’s shallow but that there’s something hidden deep inside—keeps me up half the night.