What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.
Jean Genet
MP LOG
Six drops of blood. Oh yeah, they looked cool on the page. Real red. One drop for each of us. We sat in a circle and pricked our fingers. Even the chicks did it. Then we mixed them together for a blood oath. Watching each other’s backs is the only way to survive.
This school is such bullshit, man. Ask anyone what they think and they’ll say it blows. But the truth is, everyone’s a phony. They say one thing, but then they join a team or sign up for some club they know is stupid. Not to mention sucking up to the teachers. MP’s not gonna suck up to anyone.
Phantom and I are in charge because we thought it up. Everyone picked names. I’m Skeletor. There’s Hell Girl, Frankenstein, Ghost Face and Zombie. We memorized the oath because that’s how I want to start every meeting. Always a good idea to remind people of a sworn blood oath.
Then we talked about what’s next. I explained my theory that you never do your best stuff first. Everyone agreed: start small and work up to some serious shit.
See, we’re really not the same as the other kids at school. When we say WiHi sucks, we mean it.
I cannot wait to see their shocked faces when it all goes down.
4
Every member of TV Production focuses on the monitor. It’s the Wednesday before the first broadcast. Presentation Day. The team has to show Mr. Carleton what we have so he can sign off on each segment.
Henry and I ate lunch in the Media Center for almost a week to work on the opening graphics. They’re heavily Photoshopped, with a bit of anime that Henry, bless his overachieving little soul, created.
When they finish running, we get the thumbs-up from Carleton. Next, Marci runs the football segment, which includes an interview with Phil. A few cheerleaders go on—and on—about school spirit. Then the senior-class president, Greg Martin, makes the pitch about the hot dog stand.
“An Irving dog is a deserving dog, dawgs,” his on-screen image tells us.
“Lame!” Jagger grumbles.
“But it’s in sync. And loud enough. Although the piece is a little slow, Marci,” Mr. Carleton says. “Can you edit the girls? And that tight end?”
“Linebacker,” Marci corrects. “As long it gets done in class. I can’t stay after school.”
I nod at my best friend, remembering our pact at Tony’s. Whatever you can’t finish, I will.
Next, it’s Raul’s turn. Eagerly, he clicks into the skateboarding piece. The thing starts crazy and keeps on going. Jagger’s on a board, doing some amazing tricks. A sweet bank to the ledge before he blasts a kick flip looks pretty spectacular on the screen. Then the point of view shifts so it seems like the viewer’s skating.
“Dude!” A Team’s leader, Scott Jenkins, looks a little green with envy—or worry. “Where’d you get the music?”
“GarageBand, bro,” Jagger says. “Put it together last night.”
“Now, that’s tight!” Scott murmurs.
I try not to gloat. Score one for the newbie—and the team stuck with him.
Mr. Carleton is not as impressed. “Camera work’s good, boys. But it’s a little light on specifics. For example, where’s the park located? Hours. The boring information that actually constitutes news.”
Raul laughs. “Don’t sweat it, Mr. C. I’m planning a voice-over under the last trick.”
“You could end with a visual,” I suggest. “Didn’t I see footage of the entrance sign in an earlier version?”
“I cut it because I thought we were long, but sure, I can go out on it. Along with the voice-over. Would that be okay, Mr. Carleton?”
The teacher nods. “What else do you have, Val?”
“Spotlight and club news. Omar, you’re up.”
He plays his interview with Mrs. Fahey. It’s the least interesting thing we’ve got, but it’s short. Still, it’s the kind of piece Carleton loves because it puts the administration in a good light.
“Great job, Omar, although her audio’s a little low. I’ll show you how to boost it when we’re done,” the teacher tells him.
I tap Jagger. “Ready?”
He shakes his head. “I was helping Raul.”
“You were supposed to work on the clubs—”
“No worries, Val.” Raul tries not to yawn. “It’ll get done.”
Is he making the point that he’d be a more laid-back producer than me? Or am I paranoid and he’s just trying to help?
Carleton stands. “Good start, folks. Valerie, you’re shooting anchor tomorrow, right? Plus keeping track of time.” He claps his hands. “B Team, you know what you have to do.
“A Team, I better see some equipment signed out. You’re on the hot seat next week.”
The class scatters. Scott’s group huddles at their table. There’s always some degree of rivalry between the two teams. If Scott wants to put in the effort, he and his team can definitely give me a run for the money. I won’t find out how seriously they want to compete until their broadcast airs next week.
“Bring it, A Team,” I whisper before moving to the computer Henry’s staked out as his own. “Do you want to write anchor stuff or should I?”
“You do it,” he says. “I’m not happy with the last two seconds of the opening.”
“Looked fine to me.”
Henry shakes his head. “Color’s not tracking….”
I leave him to his screen. No sense wasting class time writing material, because I can do that at home. There are more important things to worry about.
Raul and Jagger are working on the skateboard voice-over.
“Can I see what you have on the clubs?” Jagger hesitates, so I get in his face. “Let me explain how Advanced works, Voorham. Points are taken from everyone if we don’t run four segments. That’s why there’s a producer. It’s about the team, not any one person. I’m supposed to work with anyone who needs help.” I look to Raul. “You guys shot stuff, right? And imported?”
Importing footage to the computer takes forever. It’ll help a lot if they’ve gotten that far.
“Yeah, we digitized.” Raul stretches. “I got this, Jags. Can you find it for her?”
Jags? Don’t tell me Raul’s fallen under the Voorham spell. I’m pretty sure they never said a word to each other before last week.
Jagger strolls to a computer at the far end. Damn. Now it’s just the two of us. He’s wearing an emerald-colored tee today, tight enough to make even his skinny body look buff. I wonder if he realizes how that particular shade brightens the specks of green in his eyes—
Stop thinking about him. Concentrate on the job….
Pulling up a chair, I view the raw footage. The problem’s fairly obvious. There’s no focus. No angle into the story—and not a lot of time to get one. Part of that’s my fault. It was too big an assignment for someone new to the game. It also didn’t help that the boys got so into the skateboard story, neither of them cared about this one.
“Run it again,” I mutter.
The second time through, I see a way to make it work. “Mind if I do a little editing?”
“Knock yourself out,” Jagger says.
We switch chairs. “The interview with Mr. Sorren on his new European history club isn’t bad, but he goes on too long.” Jagger and Raul interrupted his class when they walked in. As the video camera pans the room, I see my sister sitting by herself. I’ll never hear the end of it if Bethany gets
into the piece looking like a friendless twerp. The first thing I do is cut her out.
See how I protect you? Bethany wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, so I won’t mention it. But somewhere, on a huge whiteboard in the sky, someone’s keeping track of my good deeds. At least I hope so.
I fast-forward to a student interview. One of Jagger’s skater friends asks, “Why join anything?”
“Might be able to use this kid as a segue….” I want to try an editing trick one of last year’s seniors used. Repeat a tiny section, in this case, “Why join anything?” between the interviews. It can give a piece momentum so it doesn’t feel all over the place.
“Jagger, get the Weekly Bulletin and scan the Club Schedule into the computer. You know how to do that, right? Then blow it up, print it back out and we’ll shoot it….”
The class ends before we’re close to finishing, but at least I have a plan. “I might be able to get a rough edit done during lunch.” I glance guiltily at Mr. Carleton. I’m not supposed to do Jagger’s work—but it’s crunch time. It’ll take too long to teach him the ins and outs of editing before the Friday broadcast.
“You’re allowed to eat in here?” Jagger asks.
“As long as we don’t spill anything on the equipment. You’re supposed to sit at one of the tables, but no on actually does.”
“Should I meet you in the cafeteria?”
No! No—
“I brought a sandwich.”
“Then I’ll come after I get through the line,” he tells me.
Omigod, omigod, omigod…
“Sure,” I mumble.
“Val?” His touch is light but every fingertip tingles against my skin. “Thanks for helping.”
He takes off. I walk to the B Team table for my backpack, trying to figure out his game. Did Jagger take the class because he thought it would be easy? That he’d be able to slack off while I do all his work? If so, he’s in for a very rude awakening.
* * *
At the lockers before lunch, Marci has to relay every detail about last night’s fight with her dad. Usually, I don’t mind listening, but right now there’s no time. Luckily, Phil shows up halfway through the replay. She turns to him for the kind of comfort I can’t give. A sloppy lip-lock.
Released from best-friend duty, I burst into the Media Center. Mr. Carleton waves. Feet on desk, coffee in hand, he’s watching something on his computer.
“Anyone from the team show up?”
He shakes his head. “Not even Henry.”
I glance at the clock. Jagger’s probably stuck in the lunch line. It’s why I bring a sandwich every day. Pulling up the piece, I continue editing where I left off, working quickly. It’s not until the bell rings that it occurs to me that Jagger stood me up.
Unbelievable! How can I possibly fall for his B.S. again? Instead of being hurt, I’m furious—at both him and myself.
At the end of the day, I head directly for the V row of lockers. Jagger always leaves school as soon as he can, and I want to catch him before he does. Laura Hernandez, she of the considerable rack and raven hair, hovers close to him, chatting a mile a minute. Instead of fighting for airspace, I shout from across the hall.
“Yo! Voorham!” He glances over, waves. “Talk to you? Alone?”
Jagger saunters over, probably so Laura and I are sure to notice how good he looks in his black jeans—front and back. I move to the gap in front of the band room. “What happened to lunch at the Media Center?”
His eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean? You blew me off.”
“Are you kidding?” His crap might work on someone else but not me. Not anymore. “I might have been a little late, but I asked Carleton. He said no one from the team showed.”
“I never talked to him,” Jagger tells me. “I peeked into the room, saw you weren’t there, so I waited in the hall. After a while I figured you forgot.”
“I wouldn’t forget—”
He puts up a hand to still my protest. “Let’s not fight! It’s just one of those crossed-wire situations. Not like it hasn’t happened before.” He waits for me to nod reluctantly before asking, “Did you work on the piece?”
“Yes. But there’s still plenty to do.”
“What about music?”
“I was a little busy editing, Voorham. By myself.”
He ignores the dig. “I don’t have anything that’ll work on the iPod, but there’s a couple thousand songs on my laptop.”
From across the hall, Laura yells, “Jagger! Coming back today or what?”
He looks annoyed and lifts a “one second” finger. “Don’t worry, Val. I’ll go home right now and find something good. How about I bring a bunch of choices tomorrow so you can pick what’s best?”
Forget flowers or chocolate. Jagger knows the way into this girl’s heart. No matter how well it’s edited, a driving beat goes a long way toward disguising boring footage.
“Okay.” I sigh. “It’ll run at least two and a half minutes, so make sure the music’s long enough.”
He gives me the patented Jagger grin before going back across the hall. Laura immediately starts talking as if he never left. I know I should get to the Media Center, but I’m glued to the spot. Did Jagger tell the truth and lunch was just a missed connection? Is he really eager to create a sound track to brighten up the club segment? Or is listening to music a perfect excuse to make out with Laura Hernandez on that extremely comfortable bed he has?
That thought is what finally gets me to move away.
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, windo
ws 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.
Circle of Silence Page 3
