Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  “Get caught cutting?” she growls.

  If students ditch, they get sent to her for the old “this goes on your permanent record” threat. Only at WiHi, it’s not a threat. You’d think she could pull up your record on a computer, but the public school system hasn’t changed since paper was invented. Gribaldini makes you watch while she waddles to one of the file cabinets lined up against the back wall, stiff marines eager to serve. Slowly, she pulls out the right folder. Writes on it with black marker so that for the rest of eternity, everyone will know what a terrible person you are.

  “We’re with Campus News.” I nudge Jagger and he waves the camera. “We’d like to ask some questions.”

  She sniffs. “I don’t let anyone take my picture.”

  Good move on her part, as it probably saves lots of lenses from cracking.

  “We don’t have to shoot it if you don’t want. I have a note from Mrs. Kresky. It says you should answer our questions.”

  Mrs. G. is all about notes. She holds out a pudgy hand, reads the message carefully. Gives a put-upon sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’re the person at school who keeps the locker list. So if someone loses their combo, they come to you, right?”

  Disdain drips from her lips. “I see what this is about. You should have told me up front, instead of wasting time with all those camera shenanigans. Forgot your combination, did you? You’re supposed to keep the numbers in a safe place.”

  “I do. But we were wondering. Did anyone come to you this week and ask for a combination? We’re doing a story about…” My voice falters. I can’t think fast enough.

  “Student responsibility,” Jagger says quickly. “How many kids at school forget stuff like locker combos. Or the opposite. Someone’s sick and asks their best friend to get their science book from the locker. But they forget to give them the combo—”

  “I do not give out locker combinations without a note from the main office,” Mrs. G. sniffs.

  “We’re not accusing you,” I say quickly. “We just want to know if anyone asked this week.”

  She looks at us suspiciously, trying to figure out what we’re up to. To her way of thinking, students are always up to no good. Subtly, I glance at the note in her hand.

  “You’re Gaines, right? The older one. Valerie Jane.”

  Man, she’s good. “Yes.”

  “Well, Valerie Jane, nobody asked about any locker. Yours, his, anyone else’s. Now get back to class or I’ll write you up. And I’ll be more than happy to get into it with Mrs. Kresky.”

  Before she can reach for the phone, Jagger and I beat a hasty retreat. Out in the hallway, he pokes me. “I didn’t know your middle name is Jane. Jane Gaines? How very Dr. Seussical.”

  “Could be worse. Together, the twins are Jesse James Gaines.”

  “You should call yourself Janey Gainey instead of ValGal.” Jagger goes high-pitched. “This is Janey Gainey, Channel 5 News, reporting from—wherever I’m reporting from.”

  I smack his arm as we enter the Media Center. The bell rings, but no one on the team moves.

  “Anything with Gribaldini?” Raul asks hopefully.

  “She insisted no one asked about my locker. What about you?”

  “Marci told us what Shirley said. Mr. Orel gave us the same info.”

  “Tracy and Lawrence swear they don’t know your combo,” Henry says. “They wanted to know why, so I just said someone put something in there. Didn’t tell them what.”

  Everyone looks disappointed. Score so far: MP 4, Campus News 0.

  11

  Music pulses all the way out to the street, making the small brick row house that Omar lives in easy to find. Underneath the stoop, three steps lead to the basement. A tidal wave of sound, heat and dancing bodies hits me the instant I push the unlocked door. The party’s epic. A Halloween night that falls on a Saturday cannot be beat.

  Costumes are the usual mix of comic book characters, assorted sluts and various types of hideous ghouls. Even without their masks, I’m pretty sure I’d have no idea who half these people are. Word got out. Masquerade Party on Remsen. Wear a mask, BYOB and you’re in.

  Omar stole the idea from some TV show. Maybe a movie. Either way, the place is decorated in 99 Cent Store chic. Streamers and strands of plastic beads fall from the ceiling. A row of squat candles line the folding table, holding bowls of chips and pretzels. Carved pumpkins, waxy light flickering through cutout teeth and weirdly shaped eyes turn the basement into a New Orleans vamp fantasy.

  Omar and Jagger spent an entire class period creating a playlist. The crowd is anonymous—and amped. I told Marci and Phil not to wait for me as I had to shepherd Jesse and James, dressed as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, around the neighborhood for their annual greedy haul.

  Bethany was supposed to come, too, but she bailed at the last moment.

  “I’m going trick-or-treating with a friend,” she announced.

  Mom’s eyebrows rose. Before she could ask who the friend is, my sister started to whine. “I don’t see why I can’t stay out past ten. Val doesn’t ever have to be in until midnight.”

  “I’m a senior. When you’re seventeen—”

  “Everyone else in the world gets to stay out later,” she said, pouting.

  “Ten-thirty,” Mom said. “Not a minute after.”

  Bethany grinned in triumph and scurried out before Mom changed her mind.

  “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, you know,” I informed my mother.

  She bit the thread from the needle. “Call the boys, Val. Hats are done.”

  The kids came running, so cute in their fat little costumes. The truth is I don’t mind taking them around. The twins always give me their Special Darks, so it’s win-win.

  After I dropped them home, it was on to Omar’s, six-pack in a paper bag. Everyone knows which bodegas in the neighborhood “forget” to card, so it’s easy to score. Now I make my way to the tables at the back of the basement. Twist the cap off a bottle, hide a second one behind a pumpkin for later and put the rest in the ice-filled trash can.

  “Lookin’ good, Val.” Omar is dressed as the Tin Man, with a silver mask and a matching triangular hat atop his head.

  “How’d you know it’s me?” I shout.

  He points to my head. Right. The cat half mask I found at the drugstore covers the top part of my face but not my auburn hair. Once I found the mask, the rest of the costume was easy. Black shirt, black leggings, shiny belt, homemade tail safety-pinned to the back.

  Omar points. “Dance?”

  I gesture with the beer. “Just got here.”

  Dancing is not something I’m good at. I’d much rather hold up a wall and watch the crowd. Omar boogies back into the thick of things and I amuse myself trying to figure out who’s who.

  Marci would be easy to spot even if I didn’t know she came dressed as Wonder Woman. She and Phil have staked out a spot on the make-out couch. No surprise there. Ever since last year, going to a party with Marci is pretty much going it alone.

  Jagger’s near the chips, talking to some girl in a dark kimono and a pale mask. It’s not the half-white/half-black Phantom of the Opera mask he wears—more appropriate than he can imagine—but the tight black jeans that gives him away. But if Laura Hernandez is wearing the Sexy Pirate Wench costume and tiny bandit mask I noticed when I came in, who’s the manga Hell Girl?

  I could walk over and check it out, but why tort
ure myself? Resolutely, I turn toward the center of the room. Some chick that’s probably Zombie Hailey is totally trashed, grinding hips with…Trey Lyman? I search for Mira to see if I’m right. Either her costume’s really good or this is not her kind of scene. I don’t see anyone who could possibly be her.

  I do catch sight of Raul. He told the team he was coming as a Thief. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, but it’s the handkerchief tied across half his face, which doubles as both costume and mask, that makes me laugh.

  Watching him dance with a Fairy Godmother is the real surprise. Seriously, the dude can move. Raul comes across as a guy’s guy, a cross between a shortstop and a cop. But on the dance floor, he’s different. He moves effortlessly, completely in sync with the music. When the handkerchief slips down to his neck, the look of joy on his face is contagious. A gaggle of girls crowd next to him, showing off their stuff. No wonder Marci’s been trying to push me into his arms. Muscles rippling, he’s easy on the eyes.

  The song ends. The music segues from house to metal, sending the crowd into jumping spasms of joy. Raul vanishes into the wild frenzy at the center of the room.

  “Meow, Cat Girl.” The guy standing next to me wears a skeleton mask underneath a hooded blue sweatshirt. “Want…?” The rest of the sentence is drowned out by a barrage of “Woot-woots.”

  “What?” I yell.

  “Dance!”

  Even if I wanted to, the guy’s sweaty BO is not particularly attractive. I point to my ear, shake my head.

  “Can’t hear,” I mouth.

  Peeling away, I push across the room. If I can find Henry, I’ll hang with him. Or I might check to see if Jagger’s still talking to Hell Girl. A sixth sense, however, tells me to turn around. Skeleton Face is giving me the finger. Honestly. WiHi guys are such jerks.

  Raul taps my shoulder. “…party!”

  “Loud!” I yell.

  He nods. “Your costume’s…”

  The rest of the sentence is lost, although I smile in the hope that it’s a compliment. We stand for a moment, checking out the crowd. Drunk Fairy Godmother appears, waving her magic wand and dousing us with sparkles.

  Raul laughs good-naturedly. As he brushes off his shirt, Fairy Godmother tugs at him for a dance. He shrugs at me and I wave him away.

  My beer’s gone. Nothing’s left in the ice-filled trash can, although my stashed bottle is still behind the pumpkin. Armed with the fresh drink, I wander about. The room’s hot, the air thick. Smoky. Cigs. Weed…

  Somebody pulls my tail, safety-pinned to the back of my belt.

  “When’d…here!” Jagger shouts into my ear.

  “Half an hour?”

  He pushes his mask up over his hair, grabs my beer. I know his tricks. Given half a chance, Jagger will drain it in two seconds. I pull it back.

  He coughs, eyes watery. “…some air?”

  Before I can nod, there’s some kind of commotion behind us. Holy shit! It’s not cigarettes making Jagger’s eyes burn. It’s smoke!

  A set of streamers dangling from the low ceiling is on fire. The group closest to the flames push away. But with music pumping and kids dancing, no one gets very far.

  Screams penetrate the chaos. “Every…out! Fire! Fire!”

  A moment of delay before true panic sets in. The crowd surges forward. I struggle not to get trampled. In the crush for the door, Jagger and I are separated. Wildly, I look to my left. It’s not Jags I see but Omar. Silver hat flashing, he’s racing toward the fire. Something’s in his hands….

  The claustrophobic squeeze of people behind, in front and to the side overwhelm me. It’s as scary as fire. The wave inches forward. At last, I stumble outside. Arm scratched, chest heaving, I tumble to the sidewalk and take deep, appreciative gulps of fresh air.

  Outside it’s chaos, too. People mill about, talking on cells, yelling for friends.

  “Valerie? Val…” Jagger lurches toward me. “You okay?”

  “Omigod. Yes. You?”

  Sirens cut off his answer. Marci and Phil, together with Henry, rush up.

  “Val—”

  “Marci! Thank God. Are Omar and Raul out, too?”

  Heads shake. No one’s seen them. The arrival of four red trucks accompanied by earsplitting sirens and tire squeals seems quick. Someone must have called while the rest of us were fighting for the door. Firemen pile out. In a rapid but organized sequence, one group attaches a hose to the hydrant as a second team heads for the building.

  “Basement!” people yell.

  My heart pounds. Several men scurry up the steps and pound on the front door. At the same time, three guys aim for the basement. One of them pulls the hose. I find myself clinging to Jagger as the firemen make their way into the building.

  After what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds, Omar and Raul are escorted from the basement. The last ones out.

  “Over here!” Marci yells.

  The pandemonium is still monumental, so she runs to them. Omar, in earnest conversation with a fireman, stays. She does manage to drag Raul back with her. He reeks of smoke, but I don’t care.

  I move to give him a hug. “We were so worried when we didn’t see you out here, Raul.”

  He squeezes back, muscles tight against my shirt.

  The rest of the group clamors to find out why he and Omar got out of the basement so late. As I step aside, Marci gives me a quick, approving nod. For the first time, I seriously consider that she might have a point. Paying more attention to Raul could be a good thing. Nothing can ever happen if you don’t give it a chance.

  Just as that thought crosses my mind, I catch sight of Jagger. He glances away quickly, as if he doesn’t want me to notice he’s been watching.

  My heart lurches. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous.

  * * *

  My cell rings. Surfacing from what feels like an underground cave, I squint at the sunlight, then my cell. Not quite noon.

  “Omar! Are you in trouble?”

  “Whatchu think, sista?”

  “But you saved everyone!”

  The thing I’d seen in his hands as he rushed toward the flames was a fire extinguisher. By the time Engine Company 224 arrived, he and Raul had put the fire out.

  Omar laughs drily. “Got a couple of points from Dad for not being the wuss he usually thinks I am—but not enough.”

  “Grounded?”

  “Oh yeah. But I didn’t call to bitch. I have to show you something. Can you come over?”

  “When?”

  “Soon as you can.”

  * * *

  Even with the basement door propped open, the burned smell is nasty. Omar does not look like himself. He isn’t wearing a single scarf or ounce of jewelry. Instead, he’s got on dirty jeans, an old shirt, work gloves and a dorky pair of boots. Lumpy trash bags, buckets and sooty sponges fill the room.

  Raul holds a mop.

  “Didn’t know you were here, too,” I tell him.

  “Stopped by half an hour ago. Just wanted to make sure everything was cool.”

  “That’s nice of you.” Remembering my thoughts after last night’s hug, I shoot him an extra-warm smile.

  He shrugs modestly. “I’m a nice guy. I was helping Omar fold tables when we found it.”

  “Found what?”

  Omar points to the corner. The words are spray-painted across the bottom of the wall.

  MP was here, suckers.


  “Holy shit!” I cry. “They came to the party!”

  Omar cocks an eyebrow. “At least one of them.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Anyone from school could have written that,” Raul points out. “It’s not their regular writing.”

  “Oh, come on! Stencils take time,” I say. “People would notice. Damn. Why didn’t we think about this before? Of course MP would come to a masked party. It was the perfect place to hide in plain sight—” The next thought takes my breath away. “Omigod! Do you think one of them started the fire? On purpose?”

  Omar blinks. “That would explain how it happened. I’m not dumb. I didn’t hang decorations near any of the candles. So, really, how did it start?”

  “People were smoking. Somebody with a match or lighter wasn’t paying attention and whoosh—fire’s lit.” Raul shakes his head. “It’s a big leap, guys. How do you go from hanging underwear to pyromania?”

  “Don’t forget the dead bird,” I say. “Okay, maybe it started as a joke. A sick prank that got out of control. Someone in MP was fooling around, lit a streamer and didn’t realize the whole mess would go up.”

  Raul picks up the water bucket he’s using to mop. “I still think it was an accident. No one at WiHi is that stupid—or that evil—to burn down a house with everyone inside.”

  PART TWO

  NOVEMBER

  12

  A Team puts together a broadcast on the fire.

  “Your crew can’t do it because it’s a conflict of interest,” Scott tells me after listing it on the whiteboard. He looks surprised when I don’t argue.

  “Go for it!”

  Hailey interviews Omar, who “neglects” to mention what he found on the wall. Even though she and Scott shot footage of the basement, they don’t see the writing. That’s because Omar painted over the words so that his parents wouldn’t see them. He took a few decent pictures before he did it though, in case we need them for a future broadcast.