Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  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 loca
ted 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 the
n 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.