We enter the down staircase. “Happy?”
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because whatever’s going on, it’s making you miserable.”
Miserable is an understatement. I don’t know what to do. Jagger’s right—and wrong. His way may be the only way to get the story. But he’s wrong when he says I want it for myself. Everyone on B Team’s worked it at some point. All of us stand to benefit by cracking MP’s circle of silence. Not only B Team but the entire school, as well.
Is it wrong to keep my mouth shut about the double agent—even though I promised? Or is it worse to let a golden opportunity slip through our hands? I could insist Jagger be careful. He knows they’re unpredictable, so it’s not like it would be a surprise.
There’s something else. Jagger’s changed. Marci would argue the point, but it’s true. He wants this as much as I do. Taking it from him might be almost as harsh as what he did to me.
After dinner, another cryptic email awaits.
Tomorrow. Same place. Same time. Don’t be late or think about blowing me off. I have something really, really important to tell you.
20
Lying, spying—I’ve turned into someone I wouldn’t have recognized three months ago. I have to keep reminding myself that what I’m doing is standard operating procedure for an investigative reporter. You can’t go around telling people about a source until the story’s locked down.
I’m out of the house by six o’clock, several hours before I’m supposed to meet the double agent. Mom thinks I’m working on an English project with Marci. She has no reason to doubt me. After all, I’m the daughter who never makes waves.
Slipping into Starbucks, I check the napkin dispensers in case it’s a repeat of the other night. I’m hoping the note’s already hidden.
No such luck—but it’s early. Like all good reporters, I have a backup plan. Directly across the street is a Middle Eastern fast food restaurant. A narrow eating counter runs the length of the front window. I settle into one of the tall stools. It’s not a bad place to try to catch the double agent leaving the note. It would be easier if I could actually sit in the café, but I have to assume everyone in MP recognizes me because of the broadcasts.
Munching a falafel, I settle in for surveillance. By seven, my enthusiasm for investigative reporting starts to ebb. It’s really boring just staring out a window. I order a Coke to keep me awake, and then a sticky pistachio-covered dessert.
Finally, a little after seven-thirty, there’s some action. A kid from Irving enters the coffee shop. I recognize him because he and Bethany went to elementary school together.
I slip my dad’s small bird-watching binoculars from my backpack. I’ve been here so long, nobody notices me. I fiddle with knobs until the freshman comes into focus. He’s at a table—and he’s not alone. The dude’s talking to a girl a little older than me. When I lower the binoculars to see what they’re looking at, an open textbook comes into view.
Realization hits. This is not some secret spy meeting; it’s a tutoring session. The chick’s a college student, earning extra dough teaching high school kids just enough geometry to pass chapter tests. Disappointed, I lower the binoculars.
Only one other possibility appears. This kid is tall and his face makes a distinct impression. Jake Crenshaw. Raul interviewed him last year when the basketball team lost the city semifinals. Jake rushes into Starbucks. Before I get my binoculars focused, though, he’s out again. Too quick to order a drink—or hide a note in a napkin holder. I assume he was supposed to meet someone and was late. Or his date never showed.
At 8:40, I use the restroom—two Cokes have done their work. I check my cell. Fifteen minutes to go. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes to get to the playground, but I don’t want to be late.
I play the game exactly the way I’m supposed to. At 8:55, I walk past the playground to the Promenade itself. Concentrate on the view. Across the river, Manhattan twinkles like New York’s version of a country sky. Skyscraper and bridge lights, strung like jewels across a woman’s neck, substitute for real stars.
Sightseeing, however, is not the plan. Every few seconds, I check my cell. The instant it turns nine, my breath quickens. Just as before, no one waits for me. I pull open the gate, step into the playground.
“Stop right there,” comes the command. Again, the sound is distorted by the altered voice app. No way to recognize it.
“We’re not doing this for a second time, are we? You told me you had something important to say. Come out so we can talk!” I can almost feel the hidden head shaking. “I promise I won’t tell anyone who you are. You have my word you’ll stay anonymous.”
The request is ignored.
“Go to Heights Videography,” the Voice tells me. “Find Animal House. There’s a note inside the box.”
I stamp my foot. “This is ridiculous—”
“Do it! You’ve got fifteen minutes or it will be gone. Trust me, you don’t want that to happen.”
Outmaneuvered again.
No wonder I didn’t see him go into Starbucks. By choosing a different place, the double agent made sure to stay ahead of the curve. Here I am, thinking I’m soooo smart. If boy-genius Henry wasn’t a member of my own team, I’d wonder if it wasn’t him behind the play structure.
As I run down the street, a question occurs to me. Why does the secret agent send an email sometimes, but then make me go through all this crap to get an actual note? Unless he’s afraid the account will be hacked by someone in the group. Or his laptop has a virus. Maybe he doesn’t even have his own computer so he has to use the free one at the library. There’s no way to know.
I barrel into Heights Videography, with its huge collection of hard-to-find-videos, startling the guy stocking the shelf.
“Where’s your comedy section?” I ask breathlessly.
He straightens. “Oh, hey, Val!”
“Charlie!” Charlie Liu’s taken every film class Mr. Carleton teaches. You’d think film and Campus News kids would hang together, but it’s art vs. journalism. They’re pretty much lone wolves who want to do everything themselves. We’re team players. At least, most of the time.
“Didn’t know you work here,” I say.
“That’s because you’re not a member. You can’t take out a flick unless you join. Do you want—”
“No!” He looks surprised by my outburst. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. I’m doing research for a Campus News story and I need to see the Animal House box.”
“You didn’t have to come all the way here. Go online and check IMDB—”
“Charlie! The comedy section?”
He points. “Just trying to help.”
“I know. Thanks.”
I walk to the correct aisle. It’s not hard to find the movie. A small envelope is inside the box. I check to make sure Charlie isn’t watching before slitting it open. My hand shakes as I read three short sentences that change everything.
The second initiation is going to be way more dangerous than the first. I am not kidding. You HAVE to find a way to stop it.
21
“This is ridiculous,” I mumble.
I’ve been up and down the block three times, trying to work up the guts to climb the steps that lead to a buzzer with Voorham printed underneath. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. It’s just that I haven’t been here for over a year.
I also n
eeded to rehearse what to say. Find the right words to convince Jagger that he absolutely, positively can’t have anything to do with the initiation.
It’s the wind that finally drives me to the apartment building. Gusts of cold air shoot wickedly off the East River and set my teeth to chattering. Despite gloves, the tips of my fingers are freezing.
A light glows behind the shade of an upper window. Jagger’s room. Instead of ringing the bell, though, I text him. Banished long ago from my cell, I still know the number by heart.
I’m downstairs. Need to talk.
His reply is brief: K.
He buzzes me in. Thunder, a gray tabby with Z-shaped stripes, tries to slip past, but I’m on it.
“Not so fast, missy! Thought I forgot about you?” I give the cat a cuddly squeeze. “She’s getting fat, Jags.”
“I guess. You look cold, Val.”
I wonder if he watched me walking back and forth. “I’ve been outside for a while. I’ve got something to tell you.”
He lifts his cell. “So you said.”
Despite the weather, he’s wearing a white tee and torn jeans. I can pretty much bet that he combed his hair before buzzing me in, though. He looks good—which will only make the conversation that much harder.
“In private?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Come on.” Jagger leads the way through the living room and into his bedroom. He’s got a laundry basket full of dirty clothes, band posters taped to the walls and a bunch of Little League trophies. The kind you get just for being on the team.
I busy myself with my jacket. Fold it neatly across the back of the desk chair I know he never uses. I turn the chair so that it faces into the room. Jagger seems amused as he lounges across his bed.
“Want a baseball bat to hit me with if I get out of line?” he asks.
“This is serious.”
“If you’ve come to tell me not to join MP again, you’re wasting your breath.”
“Jags—”
“Val! You’re the one who’s always going on and on about ‘the story.’”
“But what if ‘the story’ puts you in danger?”
That gets his attention. “What are you talking about?”
“What if I have information that the initiation MP is planning isn’t so innocent? That it could put you in…what’s the expression?”
“Harm’s way?” he suggests.
“Exactly.”
“Do you know that for sure?” When I nod, he asks the obvious follow-up question. “How did you find out?”
“What if I told you that it’s a protected source?” On the street, I’d rehearsed the answer several times.
“I’m on your side,” he snorts. “You’re supposed to share info with me—not hide it.”
I wind the fringes of my scarf around my hand. “Can’t you just trust me?”
“Oldest line in the book.”
“You should know!”
He punches the blanket. “Honestly, if this is still about us breaking up—”
“We didn’t break up. You ditched me.”
He gives me a wounded look. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
I refuse to get sucked into Tortured Soul world. “This isn’t the time to talk about it.”
“Then when is?” His voice rises.
“How about right after it happened? You didn’t even look at me for weeks after, asshole.”
“I know.” He balls a pillow into his stomach. “I hate myself, Val. It was an asshole thing to do.”
That’s the moment Thunder darts into the room. Jagger gets up to shoo her out but then decides to let the cat stay. He closes the door. “Did you ever meet my dad?”
The change in direction takes me by surprise.
“No. Your folks were already divorced by the time we…got together. He’d already moved out.”
“People say I look exactly like him when he was my age. Sound like him, too. My grandma still can’t tell the difference on the phone.” Jagger sits on the edge of the bed. “It’s not only physical things that remind people of him. It’s the attitude. The jokes. For years, I watched him turn on the charm whenever it suited him. Somehow, I picked that up. It’s like I channel him even when I don’t want to.”
Sensing Jagger’s distress, Thunder jumps into his lap. It takes about a minute or so before Jagger speaks again.
“After he left, my mom found out about all the women he’d been cheating with. Not just the last one. I swore I’d never be like that.” He blinks. “It got pretty bad, Val. I came home after school one day and found her unconscious. She’d taken too many pills. I had to call an ambulance….”
“God, Jagger, I’m sorry. She’s okay now, right?”
“Yeah. She still refuses to date, but at least she figured out a way to move past him.” He pushes the cat away. “That night at the party, I swear it was Dawn who came on to me, not the other way around. Yes, I was drunk, but the truth is I could have stopped it. Stopped her. I wasn’t that far gone.”
He takes a breath, lets it out.
“And then I felt so…sick when you showed up. Here I go promising myself I’ll never be like Dad—and the first opportunity I have, I fucking blow it. That’s why I couldn’t face you. When I finally got the guts to apologize, it was too late. You refused to talk to me. I even begged your sister to ask you to call me.”
“You came to the house?”
“Video Arcade. She was by herself. I walked over to the machine she was playing, but she wouldn’t look at me. She barely even responded. I figured she heard from you how much of a jerk I am.”
“No one at home knew what happened, Jags.”
He nods, understanding that the deeper the pain, the more we suffer in silence. “It was a mistake, Val. I knew it then. I know it now. Can you forgive me? Please?”
“Yes—if you promise not to join MP.”
“Are you kidding me?” He stares as if trying to figure out what the hell I’m hiding. “I’ve just been completely honest with you. Don’t I deserve the same? If you want me to stay away from them so badly, give me the real reason. I know there’s something you’re not telling.”
Agitated, I walk to the window. Pull up the shade, stare at the street. Screw the double agent! Jagger has a right to know.
I turn to him warily. “This has to be between us.”
“Sure.”
“Say it.”
He lifts a hand. “I promise to keep my mouth shut. Feel better?”
“Not really. And you won’t after I tell you what I found out.”
He stays quiet as the story spills out. It’s actually a relief to unload it all: the playground, the hurried run to Starbucks, the visit to Taneisha.
“That’s why you wanted to do the accident piece,” Jagger interrupts. “I knew it had to be something other than being nice.”
“I couldn’t figure out any other way to find the injured kid.”
He shakes his head. “But she didn’t cop to it. You don’t know for sure Taneisha’s the one who went through the initiation.”
“You didn’t see her face when I mentioned MP. Honestly? It’s her.”
Jagger drums his fingers against his knee. “Let’s say you’re right. It doesn’t mean I’ll get hurt. Taneisha slipped off a ledge. I won’t.”
“What if they make you do something else? Something more dangerous.”
“Valerie!” Jagger knows me all too well. “What are you
leaving out?”
“I’m getting to it.” I reach into my pocket, unfold the second note. “Someone in MP doesn’t agree with what’s going on. But he’s afraid to tell anyone. You’d be an idiot not to pay attention.”
He scans the page. “You have no idea who’s leaving these?”
I shake my head, so frustrated I want to scream. “I get messages telling me what time to meet, but it’s a B.S. email address. I’ve replied. No one answers.”
Jagger moves the pillow. “Sit. Please. You’re making me nervous walking around like that.”
“Promise you won’t go through with it,” I say softly.
He shakes his head. “I can’t, Val. Especially now.”
“Why now?”
He leans close, as if afraid the walls will hear. “What’s to stop MP from choosing another person? Someone without a friend to warn him not to join. Don’t you see? It would be irresponsible to drop out now.”
I give a rueful snort. “Since when are you this concerned with responsibility?”
“Since when do you not want to get the story?”
He’s right. I want the story so much it’s like a splinter under my fingernail, bugging me practically every waking hour. Still… “I couldn’t stand to see you get hurt, Jagger. And that’s for real.”
He pulls me close. “Me, neither. We’ll be smart. We’ll make a plan.”
I catch the “we.” Despite everything, my heart soars. “What are we going to do?”
“Right now?” he whispers into my ear. “I could think of a few things—”
I push him away. “Jags!”
“Just kidding!” He holds up a hand. “The deal is I meet the group first. They can reject me if they don’t like me for whatever reason.”
“Fancy that.”
He laughs. “As long as Marci ain’t in the group, I’m golden.”
“How do you know they won’t do the initiation that day?”
He shrugs. “No way to tell for sure. But if they wait, they keep me in suspense. MP is all about controlling the situation.”
Circle of Silence Page 15
