Circle of Silence. Carol Tanzman M.

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      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 then 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.

      The kid definitely fits Jagger’s idea of an outlaw. СКАЧАТЬ