The French teacher is ninety years old and mean as a pit bull. She’s been teaching so long they’re thinking about naming the language hall bathrooms after her. Or maybe just a stall.
“You know who I mean,” Marci sniffs.
I do—and I’m just as pissed off as she is. Why does Jagger have to ruin twelfth grade the way he did eleventh? For months, we were lip-locked and then one night, he finds someone else to soothe his tortured soul. Or whatever that stupid cliché is. The fact that I wasn’t enough for him, that I didn’t even know I wasn’t enough, left a cavernous hole deep inside me.
“I can ask Mr. Carleton to switch him,” Marci pleads. “I don’t mind.”
I shake my head. “Scott’ll never take him. Plus, Mr. C. specifically asked me to help.”
“Worse and worse,” she mumbles softly.
“I heard that! You’re not helping, Marci.”
“Sorry! It’s just…I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Again? I almost laugh. Watching Jagger walk into the Media Center made it clear that the hurt had never gone away. It just got buried inside the hole at the center of my life.
“I’ll just have to deal with it. With him. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
My best friend shakes her head. “Not exactly the choice I was going for!”
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 ma
king 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!”
Circle of Silence Page 2