Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  Next, A Team talks to kids who “saw it all.” Of course, by Tuesday, half the two thousand kids at WiHi claim to have been there. No one wants to admit that they didn’t go to the most exciting party of the year.

  For a Community Story, the captain of Engine Company 224 makes a plea for fire safety. The entire broadcast is well done.

  “You got it together so fast,” I tell Scott after the Wednesday presentation. “Impressive.”

  “Thanks. Of course, there isn’t anything you guys kept from us, is there?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He gives me a shrewd look. “There was fresh paint on one of the basement walls. Not on the fire side. I wondered why.”

  I keep cool. “Did you ask Omar?”

  “He said someone puked in the corner. He tried to wash it, then decided he should paint that section of the wall. Something about getting rid of the smell.”

  “So that’s what happened,” I say.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

  I wait until Scott goes back to his team before casually wandering over to our table. Omar’s filling out a Question Sheet for his next story.

  “You should have told me what you said to Scott,” I whisper. “I could have blown it.”

  Omar puts down his pen. “What are you talking about?”

  I repeat the conversation. Omar shakes his head. “He didn’t ask about the paint.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “I would have made up something better than barf!” Omar snorts, then nudges me. Across the room, Scott’s grinning at us. It’s kind of creepy, actually, but I simply return the smile as if nothing’s wrong.

  Faking a yawn, Omar turns so no one on A Team can read his lips. “I do believe Scotty boy knows we’re keeping something from him.”

  “You think?” I turn, too. “Do you feel bad about it?”

  “Not really. I’m not the one who just lied.”

  “Okay, good. Then I don’t feel bad, either.” I tap the Question Sheet. “All’s fair in love, war and journalism, right?”

  “Pretty sure that’s what Carleton would say,” Omar tells me.

  “I’m not going to ask.”

  “Neither am I, sista. Neither am I.”

  * * *

  Exactly twenty-four hours later, Henry drags the entire team out of class.

  “Wait up!” Raul says. “Do we need equipment?”

  Henry smacks his forehead. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

  We sign out what’s needed and gallop down to the main hall. Henry points to the glass-enclosed case that everyone, including Mr. Wilkins, passes by every day.

  “Don’t know how long it’s been there. I just noticed it,” Henry tells us.

  At first, all I see are the usual trophies: WiHi’s 1994 Sectional Wrestling trophy, 1953 Citywide Baseball win, 2011 Girls’ Varsity Basketball champs, Debate Team champions of 1966. There are awards and proclamations: Washington Irving High School Community Service Award, Irving High Certificate of Excellence for Most AP Classes Offered in a NYC School, Best High School Attendance. Several times.

  At last, though, the fakes become apparent. Once I notice them, it’s impossible not to stare at the two “added” to the case. They’re the type of trophies a little kid gets after soccer season, but the first one is more menacing than anything from a recreational center league. A thin rope loops around the girl’s neck. The other end is attached to the shelf above so that the trophy hangs. The original nameplate has been replaced with “Roving Reporter.”

  The second fake’s scarier. The player’s head is chopped off.

  Raul whistles. “Right next to the office. That’s bold.”

  “No stenciled letters but…broken-off body piece, hanging neck.” Omar’s eyes narrow. “Anyone see a pattern?”

  “First they target Val, now me,” Marci moans.

  “Why would you think—oh, soccer!” Henry smacks his forehead for the second time. “How could I forget you’re captain of the girls’ team?”

  “Cocaptain,” I automatically correct. “But it doesn’t mean MP’s after you, Marci. A rec center trophy is the easiest thing in the world to find. Sidewalk sales, flea markets. They’re in half the bedrooms in the city.”

  She doesn’t look the least bit soothed. “We should tell Mrs. Fahey. Or Wilkins.”

  “No!” comes the choir of voices.

  “Anyone remember Punk’d?” Jagger gestures down the hall. “Let’s set up a camera in secret and tape people’s reactions.”

  “No one will notice. Henry did but that’s because he’s Henry.” Marci manages a tiny smile. “Detail-oriented.”

  “If one of us stands here and stares at the case, everyone that passes will, too,” Jagger declares.

  “Count me out! It’s sick. Like voodoo dolls but without the pins.” Marci’s eyes widen. “What if MP is a coven? That could explain the bird in Val’s locker! They needed, like, eye of newt for some kind of witchy spell. But who knows what a newt is, or where to get one? So they killed a sparrow instead. Then they decided, waste not, want not and hung it in Valerie’s locker to scare her off.”

  “Not sure about the voodoo hoodoo,” I say, “although I agree MP’s trying to frighten us. But as long as I’m in charge, Campus News will keep reporting until we find out exactly who’s doing this.”

  “Cool!” Jagger says. “Are we going to shoot this by getting surprise reactions? Because I’m tired of the old ‘stand here and talk about it’ interview.”

  An argument ensues. I make the point that punking people is not close to professional reporting. The boys, however, think it’s a great way to cover the story.

  “Henry found it,” Jagger says. “He should do the piece any way he wants.”

  Henry’s hair flops up and down as he agrees. It makes him look like a Muppet—and how do you tell a Muppet no?

  “Okay, the guys win. Marci and I will go back to the Media Center and work on something else.”

  She links arms with me. “Help me edit the story on the new locator app in Yearbook. Carleton’s gonna tell me it’s long because I never know what to cut—and now I’m too upset to concentrate.”

  As we climb the steps, I wonder if the message in the trophy case is being sent to her…or me. If dead birds don’t scare you off, threatening your best friend might.

  As always with MP, you have to read between the lines. Or rope. Of course, I could be wrong. As if everything MP does is for my benefit. I burst out laughing, startling Marci.

  I’ve been hanging around self-centered Jagger way too long.

  * * *

  The next day, Mr. Carleton calls me to his desk.

  “This was in my box.” He hands over a summons to the principal’s office. “Take your crew. I’m pretty sure Mr. Wilkins has something to say.”

  “He wants to do an interview? The note doesn’t say that.”

  “A little birdie told me.” Mr. Carleton grimaces. “Sorry. Bad choice of clichés. I ran into Mrs. Fahey in the parking lot. She and Wilkins had a meeting after they saw the trophy case yesterday.”

  Carleton’s right. The principal has us set up in his office. He looks straight into the camera and announces, “I’ve been very tolerant of these pranks up to now, but really, this has to stop. Any student with information or knowledge regarding MP must come to me. All tips will be kept secret.”

  We air the piece. Not a single person at Washington Irving High
School tells him a thing. On the contrary, Wilkins does MP a favor by making them seem even cooler.

  * * *

  A few days after the interview airs, a metal box about the size of a physics textbook appears. It’s chained with a bike lock to one of the basketball poles at the back of the school. Just like with the trophies, there’s no fanfare. No flyers or hanging underwear to announce its appearance. That way the administration won’t discover, and then confiscate, the box. Because of the Wilkins interview, the news is kept extrasecret, whispered from kid to kid.

  Check out the basketball court in the backyard.

  It makes every person who finds the box seem special. Gives the message stenciled across the top all the more appeal.

  TELL US WHY YOU WANT TO JOIN.

  PLACE APPLICATION IN SLOT.

  The slot they’re talking about is obvious. It’s a slit cut into the metal lid—but there aren’t any applications that anyone can see.

  As soon as we hear about it, Omar and I go out, equipment in hand. The instant we get close, though, the few people staring at the box move directly in front of it. Protecting MP. Or rather, protecting the evidence that MP exists.

  “What are you looking at?” someone yells.

  Omar keeps walking. “Don’t say anything, Val. Do not stare. You don’t want to make a scene or give them anything to get crazy about. They probably think we’ll get Wilkins to confiscate the box.”

  “We wouldn’t—”

  “I know that,” Omar says.

  The hostile glares following our retreat means he’s right.

  During lunch, I return to the yard but stand off to the side. No camera, no crew. I don’t want to call attention to myself. It’s not the box I’m interested in, or the people checking it out. I want to see if I can figure out who’s in MP. I’m hoping that someone is watching from afar the way I am.

  No one is. As much as I’d like to, I can’t stand here all day. First quarter is just about over and teachers are going crazy giving tests. Keeping up first-semester senior grades helps with college admission, the guidance counselor told us last year. Reluctantly, I head back inside. The instant the last bell of the day rings, I rush back out, but the box is gone.

  The next morning, I’m in the main office, picking up the daily announcement sheet from the Campus News box, when a couple of boys walk in. Definitely freshmen, they check the stacks of paper lined up across the counter.

  “Can I help you?” Mrs. Kresky asks.

  One of the boys mumbles, “Do you have the application form?”

  “Working papers are in guidance. Fill out both sides, make sure you get a parent’s signature, bring in proof of birth and a doctor’s note,” she rattles off in a single breath. “You have to be fourteen as of the day you fill it out.”

  The boys flee. I’m fairly certain it’s not work permits they’re looking for. As if MP would leave applications with Mrs. Kresky. Or guidance. Or any other school office.

  Several days later, the box appears once more. It’s chained to the side fence instead of the basketball pole. This time, though, it vanishes by lunch, leaving Campus News as much in the dark as ever.

  You have kindled a fire which all the waters of the ocean cannot put out, which seas of blood can only extinguish.

  THOMAS W. COBB

  MP LOG

  It’s like I said. Once we start to fuck with the power ladder and give people choices, you can’t predict what they’ll do.

  When I turned the box upside down, all kinds of stuff fell out. We didn’t actually expect anything because there weren’t applications. It was just one more way to mess with people’s heads. But the truth is, you can’t stop a good idea.

  It wasn’t only letters stuffed into the box. One of those folded-up origami birds was there. An unused napkin. Even a five-dollar bill.

  At first, everyone in MP laughed and said, “Stupid fools. We aren’t gonna take anyone new into the group.” But then I said, “Hold on. Here’s an opportunity to prove that we are not like the people at the top of the ladder. That we’re better than they are. We evolve.”

  Zombie looked confused.

  “It’s about change,” I said. “That’s the cornerstone of tactical thinking in combat, business and anything else interesting. The other side can’t predict what’ll happen next or how far we’ll go. Transformation keeps them off balance so we can ascend.”

  We split the applications into two groups. No and maybe. The first one chosen for the maybe pile wrote:

  No one knows. I started cutting again. But this time, I’m better at it. I know how to keep it secret. Not like last time. So if you choose me, I can keep any secret you want.

  The blue origami bird had one word stenciled on each wing. It was the same kind of writing we use for MP, but way smaller.

  Pick Me.

  The chicks went crazy for this one because of the last lines.

  Dear MP,

  I am a junior, age 16, and like to try new things. If MP is fun, I want to join. If it is work, I don’t need any more of that. My mom puts a lot of pressure on me to get straight A’s. It’s hard right now because I don’t get Chem. I have to go to tutoring every Wednesday, so if you meet on Wednesdays, I can’t do it. It would have to be another day. Oh, on Thursdays I have Leadership and Mondays I am in Student PETA. We try to save strays, but sometimes we can’t. If you want a stray, just let me know. Cat or dog, whichever you want, I’ll find you a cute one. I promise.

  This was the opposite. Real short.

  i wake up in the morning, never look in the mirror. i bet u don’t either.

  Scribbled across the crumpled napkin someone wrote:

  Hey, fool! Who wants to be in your stupid groop? Ha ha. Just kidding. Me.

  And this one.

  freEks! My tribe. I gotta know you cuz I know all the freEks in skewl. Let me in. I know I act like I don’t want to join anything but I’m down with this. Its kewl. Friend me up, dudes.

  This one was my personal fave:

  You need to step it up. Read the anarchist’s cookbook. Yeah, it’s old school, but the shit in there works. Word. That’s something MP should think about. If I join, we could have some serious fun.

  As if I haven’t stepped it up. But, man, there were good choices. Right before we voted, Zombie asked, “How do we know if we want them in forever? A piece of paper doesn’t tell us everything. Maybe they aren’t right for MP.”

  Ghost Face said, “How about we do an interview like for a job. Let them prove they’ll fit in.”

  Frankenstein nodded. “We can wear our masks again so the person doesn’t recognize us. After they leave, we vote. In or out.”

  That’s when I got this amazing idea. I said, all casual, so no one would know how excited I was, “Once we choose, we’ll have an initiation.”

  “What kind of initiation?” Hell Girl asked.

  “Whatever it is,” I said, “it won’t be lame.”

  13

  There’s something sad about a rainy November night. That’s when the last autumn leaves, plucky survivors desperately clinging to their branches, give up and flutter to the ground. I vow that will not happen to me. I’m determined to get to the bottom of a story wrapped in mystery, confusion and obvious attempts to make me stop.

  “Val?” Bethany asks. “You up?”

  “I am now.”

  Over in her
bed, my sister leans an arm under her cheek so that she’s half facing me. “You know those stories you’re doing? The ones about MP? Did you find out anything yet? Like who they are?”

  I sit straight up “Why? Did you hear we did?”

  Outside, a crack of thunder. Inside, Bethany shakes her head. “I just remembered that box that showed up last week. The one that said put an application in if you want to join.”

  “You didn’t drop your name in there, did you?” I ask.

  “No!” She looks surprised—and then disappointed that she hadn’t considered it. “I figured you have to be a senior or at least a junior.”

  “There’s something weird about them, Bethany. Something dangerous.”

  Her mouth falls open. “There wasn’t anything explosive in the box, was there? Why didn’t you tell me? I stood really close—”

  “Don’t get carried away. Nothing blew up.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” she snaps. “What’s so dangerous about them?”

  “You know the story about the bird we did?” I ask.

  Although Campus News aired the footage, Mr. Carleton insisted we leave out exactly whose locker it was. “For your protection, Val. You don’t want anyone else to get ideas.”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Bethany tells me.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not a smart idea to hang out with anyone who kills animals.”

  “I like animals, Val. Don’t you know that?”

  “Most people do.” I sigh. “Bethany, if you never listen to a word I say after tonight, that’s okay. But until Campus News learns that MP isn’t some weird cult like we think it is, don’t get fooled into thinking they’re cool.”