Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  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.

  7

  “Hey, you! News Girl!”

  Standing in a doorway, Ms. Cordingley beckons. I make my way through the crowd of kids hurtling toward second period.

  She wears a paint-smeared smock. “Thought that was you. What’s your name again?”

  “Val. Valerie Gaines.”

  She nods, although the name means nothing to her. I haven’t seen the inside of an art room since seventh grade. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. MP.”

  My heart immediately speeds up. “You found someone taking art with those initials?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why—”

  “Art History. That’s why I didn’t think of it right away. She took AP Art History last year.”

  “She?”

  “Mirabelle Portman. A junior. Do you know her?”

  Everyone knows Mira. She might be the prettiest girl at WiHi—if you like your chicks with porcelain skin, pixie haircuts and the most amazing eyes on the planet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet, which I didn’t think was an actual thing until Mira showed up.

  “I forgot about her because she barely came to class,” Ms. Cordingley says. “Took the tests, of course, aced every one.”

  “How can that be?”

  The teacher shrugs. “Her mom runs the art department at City College. Mira knows more about the contemporary scene than me—or the critic at the Times. That’s what made me think of her. The more we see of MP, the more it reminds me of found art. Some Dada, of course, and a little Banksy in the way—”

  This is not the time for an art lecture. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Cordingley, but I have to get to class. Thanks for the tip!”

  Mira Portman? She most definitely does not have that underwear/toilet/body parts kind of vibe. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps doll-like Mirabelle is a secret cutter. Or purger. Could this be a weird cry for help?

  I find Marci right before she walks into her next class. She listens without interruption. When I’m done, she nods.

  “You and I should talk to her at lunch without the others tagging along. Don’t want to scare Mira off.”

  In math, I try to imagine dainty Mirabelle dragging a toilet up three flights of steps. No way. If it is her, she had help.

  At noon, it’s my soccer-playing best friend who spots her in the crowded hallwa
y leading to the cafeteria.

  “Mira!” Marci waves. “Can we talk to you for a minute? In private.”

  Her smooth face wrinkles in confusion. “It looks important.”

  “It is,” I say.

  A pair of doors stands behind us. Beyond that, a short staircase leads to an entranceway. A second set of doors opens to the street. No one’s supposed to leave during the day, so the tiny foyer is quiet.

  “What’s up?” Mira asks.

  “You must have seen those MP things—” Marci blinks as Mirabelle laughs. “What’s so funny?”

  “I wondered if someone would think of me.”

  “You’re MP?” My voice squeaks. Did we do it? Find the right person?

  “No,” Mira says. “My initials are MP, but I’m not the person who did those stupid pranks.”

  “One of the art teachers thinks they’re, like, cool pieces.”

  Mira laughs. “Ms. Cordingley? Hasn’t a clue about contemporary art.”

  “She said that, too. Told me you know more than she does.”

  Mira’s violet eyes brighten at the compliment, but then her face falls. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t an art project.”

  “How can you tell?”

  With a graceful wave, Mira suggests we sit on the steps. “Promise you won’t say anything to anybody.” She waits for us to nod. “We don’t hang, so you guys don’t know me. I’m afraid you’ll think this is totally conceited. Everyone thinks I am, but really, I’m not.”

  Marci shakes her head. “We don’t. What does knowing you have to do with MP?”

  Mira hesitates. “Has anyone ever been in love with you? Totally, madly, completely—and you can’t stand the guy?”

  “Sure,” Marci says.

  I remain silent.

  Mira searches for the right words. “It’s possible—and I really do mean possible—that someone’s doing this to get back at me.”

  Marci’s eyes widen. “Because you dumped him?”

  Mira shakes her head. “Never got that far. I ignored him. Ignore. Present tense included.”

  “I get that!” Marci tightens her ponytail. “The reason you think it could be this dude is because the MP stuff is on the arty side, right? And there’s the initials. It’s like people who hire airplanes to skywrite, ‘Will you marry me, Louise?’ If the name isn’t there, it’s a waste.”

  Mira nods. “It sounds completely crazy but he might be trying to impress me. Or hope I’ll get in trouble. Of course, it could be a ‘who needs you?’ bitch slap.”

  “Sounds like a whole lot of effort to go through,” I say.

  “That’s why I’m not sure. But see, Ms. Cordingley came up with my name. If he wants to get me in trouble, why not do it like this?”

  Marci and I exchange a glance.

  “Who’s the guy?” I ask.

  “Uh-uh. I give you a name, it could make things worse. I’m ignoring it. Crossing my fingers that you Campus News guys find out who it is. Maybe it’s not who I think it is or the reason I said. Then I’d feel stupid, which is why I swore you to secrecy in the first place.”

  “Mira,” Marci says firmly, “you have to trust that we won’t go all whistle-blower on you. Val and I will find a way to talk to whoever it is without them knowing we spoke. If you want it to stop, you have to give us a name.”

  With a resigned sigh, Mira whispers, “Trey Lyman.”

  Marci grimaces. “You poor thing.”

  “Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with Trey?”

  “Are you kidding? Trey Lyman in love with you?” Marci shivers. “The guy’s had a creepy little mustache ever since fifth grade. Real hair, too, not some little pencil line.”

  “Oh, come on. How would you even know that?”

  “I went to P.S. 27 with him. Before I knew you, Trey and I rode the magnet bus together. Boogers came out of his nose and milk bubbled from his mouth every morning. Nobody would sit next to him.”

  “Thank you!” Mira exclaims. “At least I’m not the only one grossed out.”

  “That was elementary school,” I point out.

  “It’s hard to get the picture out of your head,” Marci says.

  Mira nods vigorously. “I met him at Hebrew school. Same boogers. Same milk. He never said a word to me until last year, but I always knew he liked me.”

  “Okay, Mira, thanks for the tip,” I say. “Trey will never know we’ve talked.”

  * * *

  After soccer practice, Marci and I walk to her house. She lives at Cadman Towers on the nineteenth floor. A corner deck overlooks downtown Brooklyn. Daylight saving time hasn’t ended yet, so the late afternoon’s infused with a last gasp of warmth. We settle on lounge chairs, a bag of chips and Marci’s laptop on our knees.

  “I need new boots,” she tells me. “Brown. Mom said if I find a good deal, she’ll buy them.”

  Marci’s idea of a good deal is on the loose side. Ten dollars off counts as a major sale. It doesn’t take long before we bookmark at least ten pairs, not one less than two hundred bucks.

  “You didn’t find any you like?” she asks.

  “Are you kidding? The only way I get new boots is if I find them at the discount place on Fourth Avenue. In the sale bin. We have twins, Marci. They need new shoes, like, every other month!”

  She brightens. “Why don’t you tell your mom to buy them two, or maybe three, sizes too big? They can grow into them. Money saved goes to you.”

  I throw the bag of chips at her. “You’d make a terrible older sister.”

  “I guess.” She shuts the laptop. “I was thinking about something all through practice. How are we supposed to interview Trey and not tell him we talked to Mira?”

  “How should I know? It sounded good at the time.”

  “Do you have any classes with him?” she asks.

  “Uh-uh. You?”

  She shakes her head. “Maybe one of the guys. Gym or something. They could propose a ‘girls who won’t give you the time of day’ story.”

  I reach over and grab the chips. “Cuts Jagger out.”

  Defiantly, she grabs them back. Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows arch. “Send Raul. I’m pretty sure he can relate!”

  Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that have held him captive.

  EMMA GOLDMAN

  MP LOG

  I’ve been thinking about how modern man is completely tied down by rules and regulations. It’s not like back in the day when you could do what you want when you want. Now all decisions are made by people you can’t influence or talk sense to. It’s exactly the same at WiHi. We’ve got to eat when they say and stand when they say and sit where they say and even get permission to take a shit.

  MP has got to start changing things. That’s what I told the rest of the group. We’re the only ones willing to show the world it can be done. We should start with Campus News. Block them from broadcasting stories about us. Once that stops, once we break the power ladder in this school, it can’t be put back together. It can’t be controlled.

  Phantom said, “It’s cool to be on school news because nobody knows who we are. Everyone wonders about us.”

  I said, “Uh-uh, we need to control the informational flow. When we’re ready, then we’ll tell them what we want them to say. That shows our strength. Our priorities. Our total command of the situation.”

  Phantom’s face had a skeptical look, but Ghost Face said, “Skeletor’s right. That Campus Ne
ws girl is the type who won’t stop unless we make her. If she finds out who we are, the school might break us up.”

  Ghost Face glanced at me while saying it. I’m pretty sure she likes me, not like most of the stuck-up bitches at this school.

  “How are we supposed to stop her?” Phantom asked, all pissed off because people were on my side.

  Hell Girl came up with an idea. I have a better one, but sometimes you’ve got to let chicks think they’re smart if you want to keep them in check. If Hell Girl’s plan doesn’t work, we’ll go for mine. Like I always say, save the best for last.

  Once we got that out of the way, we started planning the next prank. That’s what we call the stuff we do. Phantom read some old book about people doing pranks. It’s part of the reason we’re MP. In the summer, when we thought up the idea, Phantom wanted us to be the Merry Pranksters. I said, “No. We can’t copy from that book exactly. We could maybe use the initials, MP, but it’s got to mean something else—” That’s when the idea came to me. “Masked Pranksters! All the people we ask to be in it can pick their own names from comic books or manga or even horror movies and then we’ll get masks.”

  “What for?” Phantom asked me.

  “We’re going to need them. People feel freer behind a mask.” Free to do whatever’s needed.

  8

  “Whoa!” Marci whispers as we exit the third-floor staircase.

  The hall looks like the East Village with concert announcements plastered across construction site walls. The only difference is that the papers taped to lockers aren’t blasting info about the latest indie band. The flyers, if that’s what they are, repeat the same words, over and over.

  JOIN US.

  Underneath the stenciled letters, a small group of birds gather. The drawing doesn’t have many details. Hatch marks create messy feathers; darker lines make up legs and heads. Something about them looks cool, though, despite the fact that the picture is crude.