Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  “Omigod, I totally forgot.”

  My face feels flushed. It’s not only that I failed to remember that Raul asked me to the movies. This is precisely the moment I should tell him what Jagger and I are doing.

  I don’t say a word. Two people sneaking around the garden doubles the danger. If we get caught, Jagger will never forgive me.

  “I’m so sorry, Raul. I can’t go tonight.”

  He tries not to look crushed. “Mañana?”

  How can I do this to him? I have to explain. But right now Red Hook awaits.

  “Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll call you after lunch and we’ll work it out.”

  He lights up like a Fourth of July sparkler, which makes me feel even worse. I suck so much.

  * * *

  At the bus stop, it’s an easy switch from guilt to worry about not getting into position in time. When the bus finally comes, it’s crowded. I pull my beanie over my hair and slide into the last empty window seat. With my face turned to the street, the hope is that no one recognizes me. Any of the people riding the bus could be MP, getting to the initiation before it’s scheduled to start. Exactly the way I am.

  By the time the bus crosses under the highway, all the high school kids have gotten off. At Coffey Street, I press the yellow strip lining the window. The driver pulls to the curb, brakes hissing in protest. The afternoon is blustery but not too cold. Pillowy clouds skip across the sky. They don’t linger, and neither do I.

  The street is rough, built of hard cobblestone. It’s one of the strangest things about Brooklyn. For some reason, the city never got around to laying asphalt in this part of town. Walking around Red Hook is like stepping into another century. Rocky streets, old-school brick buildings. The air smells of the sea, salty and fresh. A bell clangs, seagulls screech.

  The flagpole is easy to spot. Tall, like a ship’s mast, it’s surrounded by grass. An American flag flies at the top; a second one, with a nautical theme, flaps on a crossbeam.

  Head down, I move into the garden. Three large juniper bushes provide sufficient cover while giving me the view I need. Past the flagpole, the narrow path widens into a semicircle overlooking the river. Maritime Park. Benches are set every few feet along the fence. The Statue of Liberty is so close I can see her copper-turned-green teeth.

  Not a single person is there—which means I made it in time. Now comes the hard part. Jagger had me promise not to call or text. With nothing else to do, I put in my earbuds and set the music low so I can still hear the world in a vain attempt to calm my nerves. I read tags on plants. Sit on the side of a planter, and then stand to stamp my feet. The afternoon is not getting warmer.

  Time drags—and drags. I amuse myself by trying to figure out the initiation ahead of time. Maybe they’ll make Jagger climb the flagpole. Or ask him to tightrope-walk the ledge over the East River….

  Low laughter gets my attention. Finally! Somebody’s shown up. My heart beats fast. Carefully, I peek around the plant. False alarm. A couple of fishermen, dressed in bulky coats and earflapped hats, carry buckets and poles. I’ve never understood why anyone would eat fish caught in the dirty East River, but it doesn’t seem to bother the men. Casting poles into the water, the two settle onto a bench, content to watch the sun sink into the horizon.

  This is definitely a problem. MP missed the opportunity for an audience-free initiation. It’s a huge mistake, something that’s never happened before. If anything, the group overplans. That’s why they haven’t gotten caught.

  The second problem is mine. Unless MP shows up soon, my camera will flash when I take pictures. If I disable the flash, it won’t pick up faces. That means the visuals won’t be clear enough for Campus News.

  Ten minutes after five.

  Where are they?

  My stomach burns with tension. Nothing adds up. At least one MP member, if not all of them, should be here. No one except the double agent, perhaps, would want to miss a moment of the initiation. Why isn’t Jagger by the flagpole? If the ceremony’s been called off, he’d let me know. I didn’t miss a call, didn’t get a text.

  5:15, 5:17, 5:20… Something’s definitely wrong.

  Leaving the safety of the garden, I circle the small park as fast as possible without calling attention to myself. Jagger is not here.

  Did I lose him?

  I check my cell one last time to make sure I didn’t miss a message. That’s when something clicks. The locator app in Yearbook! When Marci did the story, the entire team accepted the app to try it out. Did Jagger turn his off?

  I don’t have internet access with my lame-ass cell, although Jagger does. What I do have is my iPod. All it needs to connect to the internet is wireless. But of course, whenever you really want it, there’s no signal. As I’m moving toward Coffey Street, my mind makes one of those leapfrog jumps: Coffey—coffee. Artists have to have their coffeehouses. Every one of them has wireless. There must be some kind of café in the neighborhood.

  I dash down the rapidly darkening street, oblivious of any danger hidden in doorways or shadows. Up ahead, there’s a lighted window. An old-man bar. Probably been there since the dawn of time. Not a chance in hell they’ve got internet.

  Keep looking.

  My instincts pay off at the next corner. A neon light flashes Open. Exposed brick on the walls, curved steel tables. A hipster restaurant that almost certainly has Wi-Fi.

  A couple with matching nose rings drink beer and give each other kissy-kissy eyes. Neither bothers to look over as I barrel through the door. The only other customer is a guy at a small table in the back. He stares at his open laptop, so it’s a good bet I’m right.

  Connection never looked so sweet. In less than ten seconds, the iPod gets me to Yearbook.

  “Can I help you?” The waitress has jet-black hair, many earrings and amazing tats running down her arms.

  “I need your wireless for a sec. My, um, boyfriend and I got separated—”

  “Bastard!” she says. “Cheating on you, huh?”

  “I’m just lost.”

  She grins, not buying it for a second. “Go ahead. But don’t stand in the middle of the aisle.” She points to an empty table. “Over there.”

  The chair scrapes as I pull it out. I press the iPod and it relights. Scrolling down, I look for Jagger’s name—yes! His app is enabled.

  “Find him?” the waitress asks.

  I look up. “Four eighty-two Van Brunt.”

  She crinkles her nose, glances at the clock behind the bar. “It’s all warehouse down there. The workers are gone for the day. By five it’s dead….”

  I’m already out of the chair. “Thanks.”

  “Be careful. Red Hook’s not a place to wander around by your lonesome. Especially at night.”

  I raise a hand—I’ll be okay—and scoot outside. It’s almost six o’clock. A whole hour since Jagger was set to meet MP. Sixty minutes in which I was supposed to stop whatever’s happening. My stomach churns so much I want to puke. Ignoring the feeling, I dash down the uneven street, past drunks and the occasional homeless person camped out in the doorway of an empty building.

  Jagger. Jags! I told you not to do it. Begged you…

  A bunch of thuggish-looking guys hang around the edge of an alley. They notice me at the same time. It’s precisely the kind of group that’s best avoided by crossing the street before you get very close.

  I’m in too much of a panic. Ignoring their catcalls, hoping they’re too high to
chase me, I careen past them.

  A block later, I reach Van Brunt. Frantic, I glance at buildings, but the numbers are hard to read. Several precious seconds are wasted figuring out that they’re higher to the right. Toward the river.

  Peeling paint in doorways, overflowing garbage cans. This part of the Red Hook is especially sketchy. A graffiti mural proclaims SOME WALLS ARE INVISIBLE.

  Decrepit apartment buildings glare at me from behind cracked sidewalks. Empty factories bounce my footsteps so that it continually sounds like I’m being followed. I touch my face, wipe away the salty droplets that run down my cheek.

  The occasional apartment building dotting the street ends. Now there are only warehouses. One or two stories. Flat roofs. Some are in use during the day. Those buildings are cleaned up, brightly painted signs announcing the products sold. The rest are abandoned, windows mortared tight with cinder blocks.

  474, 478, 480. There! A red dot, with a black 482 stenciled inside the circle, tells me I’ve arrived.

  My breath comes in shallow gasps. A sharp pain stabs my side. The dilapidated building takes up the entire block. Windows run the length of the warehouse, every single one covered by metal sheeting. A steel door is surrounded by cinder blocks. Graffiti squiggles decorate it, ARSON spelled out in red paint.

  If Jagger’s in the building, he didn’t get in from this side. I follow the sidewalk to the end of the block. The yard, littered with hulking pieces of machinery and Dumpsters, is surrounded by fence. Spiky metal circles loop across the top. Anyone attempting to climb over it would get their clothes—and skin—torn to shreds.

  How did he get inside?

  Rounding the corner, I come across a chain threaded between the fence and a gate. It’s locked with a thick padlock. Frustrated beyond all reason, I kick the gate. The chain rattles and I realize it’s not as tight as it could be. There’s some give. I push hard, widening the gap between the gate and the fence. It’s just big enough to squeeze through.

  The yard is silent. No one talks, laughs—or screams. Still, this feels like the right spot. The emptiness, along with a sense of decay, is the type of place MP would love.

  A streetlamp gives off a semibright, orangey light. It helps as I pick my way around broken glass and empty cans. Something brushes my leg. Cat? Rat? Caught by surprise, I stumble and crash into a piece of machinery. The clang echoes loudly.

  Rising quickly, I limp into the shadows, staying frozen. To my relief, no one comes to look for me. When I’m sure it’s safe, I sneak to the building’s edge. Somewhere, somehow, there has to be a way in. I check each window, looking for a loose metal covering. Crumbled bricks. An actual hole into the building.

  There! At the far end a small, unobtrusive door is set into the wall. The padlock’s broken. Not only that, but the door itself is ajar—as if someone entered hurriedly and didn’t bother to pull it shut.

  Carefully, I inch the door inward. I don’t shout for Jags in case I’m paranoid and everything’s going fine. Instead, I slip inside. The place is pitch-dark with that musty, rat-poop smell peculiar to closed-up buildings.

  There isn’t a sound. Did I miss the entire initiation?

  Stepping forward, I turn my head. There! At the far end, a beam of light spills across the floor.

  “Jagger?” I whisper.

  No reply.

  “Anyone here?” My panicked voice, now uncontrollably loud, echoes off brick walls.

  The need to find him overwhelms me. Moving forward, I stumble over something soft. Using my cell as a light, I see that it’s a backpack. Jagger’s backpack.

  “Jags!”

  My feet pound as I head for the cone of floor light. Scooping up the flashlight, I swing it around. The next sound I hear is an unearthly scream that practically shatters my throat. Then—absolute silence. Mouth open, I stand frozen in horror.

  Jagger dangles in front of me, swinging gently, a rope around his neck.

  25

  I have no sense of the time. The waiting room is quiet at last. Everyone’s left to go…somewhere. EMTs, Jagger’s mother, the doctors. Even a pair of cops. One of them didn’t look very old. You’d think maybe he’d get it—but it was like talking to a brick wall.

  “It wasn’t attempted suicide,” I said fiercely. “It was MP. They’re a secret group at school. They made him do it.”

  The young cop, Officer Chen, showed me a piece of paper that an EMT guy found on the warehouse floor. Instructions for Pass Out, downloaded from the internet, complete with a diagram of someone “hanging.”

  “Did Mr. Voorham tell you he was into this?” Chen asked.

  I shake my head. “He wasn’t. Like I told the EMT guys, it was an initiation into the group. They’re like a club, but no one knows who’s involved. They call themselves MP. We were working on a story for Campus News. Jagger was undercover—” The cops exchange skeptical glances. “It’s true! That’s how I found him. You have to figure out who’s in MP. Stop them before someone else gets hurt….” My voice cracks at the thought of Jagger lying in the ICU. Barely alive.

  Mom shows up minutes after the police leave, Bethany at her side.

  “I can’t believe it,” my sister keeps repeating. “How could this happen to someone from school? Someone you know?”

  “Take her home, Mom,” I beg. “Please! She’s not helping. Marci’s coming. She’ll be with me.” When Mom hesitates, I wave my cell. “I’ll call if I need you. I promise. I can’t leave right now. I have to stay a little longer….”

  After they’re gone, I sink into a hospital chair, completely numb. Finally, a voice pulls me out of the fog. “Omigod, Val, he tried to kill himself!”

  Marci puts her arms around me, but I shake her off. “He didn’t! I’ve been trying to tell people that all night. It was Pass Out—”

  “What?”

  I wet my lips. My mouth can barely form words anymore. “It’s that choking game. You know, to get high—”

  “Are you kidding?” Marci’s voice squeaks in disbelief. “Jagger can get weed whenever he wants!”

  The clomping of feet is jarring as Raul, Henry and Omar rush into the room.

  “We checked with the nurse,” Raul says. “He’s still not awake….”

  “Omigod.” Tears, which have been coming and going all night, break through again. “Omigod, omigod…”

  Omar settles on one side of me, Marci on the other. Henry looks ready to sob along with me.

  Raul stands, uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be any place but in a room full of hysterical people. He offers to find water. My best friend digs into her backpack and pulls out a pack of tissues. She hands them out to everyone. Raul returns with paper cups filled with water. As I drink, Marci relays what little I told her to the guys.

  Omar twists his ring nervously. “That doesn’t sound like Jagger.”

  Henry nods in agreement.

  “What I don’t understand is how you found him, Val,” Raul says. “How did you know where to go?”

  Yet again, tears overflow. How to begin? Where? The story’s so awful…

  “Let’s leave,” Raul suggests. “Jagger’s mom is here. The nurses won’t let anyone else into the room tonight, so it’s not as if we can see him. We’ll come back tomorrow. Early. Hopefully, Jagger will be awake by then.”

  Marci nods. “We can go to my house. My folks will be asleep by the time we get there. It’ll be quiet….”

  The team surrounds me in th
e subway, then circles protectively as the elevator rises nineteen floors to Marci’s apartment. It isn’t until we settle in the living room that I notice the stares. They can’t help it. I found Jagger in an abandoned warehouse in Red Hook. I called the cops. They know there’s a story—if only I can pull myself together to tell them.

  They wait as patiently as they can until I start. From the beginning. The emails, the secret meetings. The way Jagger put an application into the MP box without telling anyone, got accepted and made me promise to keep quiet.

  The walk to the flagpole, the long wait, the frantic search. In halting sentences, I explain what happened after I saw Jagger swinging on the rope. The way I rushed forward, pushing him up toward the ceiling. Hoping the rope would loosen and he’d wake up. After a couple of seconds when nothing changed, I realized I’d have to get him down myself. The rope was tossed over a ceiling pipe and then attached to a radiator. It took a superhuman effort to release Jagger and let him hang again. I ran to the wall, untied the end hooked to the radiator. Jagger crumbled to the floor the instant it loosened.

  The team sits silently, horrified.

  “I’m not exactly sure what happened next,” I mumble. “I called 911, got the rope off his neck…but it’s kind of a blur.”

  Marci’s mascara etches black lines down her cheeks. I look at her oddly, not sure how that happened, until I realize she’s crying.

  “Lucky you were there,” Henry mutters.

  Omar is furious. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us. It was stupid—”

  “Don’t yell,” Marci says sharply. “She’s been through enough—”

  “I begged him, Omar. I swear. Begged, yelled, pleaded. Tried everything to stop him.”

  “Then it was even stupider to keep quiet. We all would have been there—”

  “And done what?” It’s Henry who comes to my defense. “Hide next to Val in the garden? Wave a bunch of branches in front of our faces like that army in Macbeth? If MP had shown up at the flagpole, it would be obvious what was going on the instant they saw five of us trying to cram behind a bunch of plants.”