Circle of Silence. Carol Tanzman M.

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СКАЧАТЬ me,” Mom says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear—”

      “Val was on TV at school,” my sister repeats.

      There’s a moment of silence as the parents try to figure out what Bethany’s complaining about. She rarely speaks my name without whining about something I’ve done—or not done.

      “Campus News,” I remind them. “I’m a producer. I told you guys….”

      “Right,” Dad says, except I’m pretty certain he has no idea what I’m talking about.

      James sets his milk at the edge of the table. “Was it fun to see her, Bethie?”

      “Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “It’s knee. Beth-a-knee. I’ve told you a million times—”

      “He’s only six,” Mom soothes, at the same time moving his glass inland to avoid catastrophe. “James, her name is Bethany.”

      “Nobody calls you Jimmy,” my sister points out.

      “They could. I wouldn’t care.”

      “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” Jesse chants, accompanying himself with his favorite percussive instrument: fork-pounding-on-plate.

      Dad holds up his hand. “We get the point, Jesse. What was Val talking about, Bethany?”

      In any other household, the question would be directed to me because, well, I was the one on the screen. But here? Bethany speaks and the world stops spinning. It’s like trying to get druggies to talk about where they score. You don’t dare stop ’em once they start.

      “Last week someone took the flag from the front of the school and replaced it with a bunch of underwear—”

      Jesse shrieks. Bethany shoots him a superior glare. He clams up.

      “This week someone put a toilet in the third-floor hallway,” she continues.

      “A potty?” James shouts. “Did anyone pee in it?”

      Despite Bethany’s frown, he and Jesse laugh. My sister gets all huffy and refuses to say another word.

      I jump in. “Sorry to disappoint, little dudes, but not a single person used it for, um, personal activities. There was a beach pail in the bowl.” For whatever reason, that seems even funnier. The boys’ whooping becomes contagious. Laughter circles the table.

      “Okay, girls, don’t keep us in suspense,” Dad says, “Who’s the culprit?”

      Bethany shrugs. “No one knows.”

      For the first, and maybe last time in the history of the universe, I agree with her. “So far, nobody’s taking responsibility. But it makes watching Campus News interesting, right, Bethany?”

      My sister stabs a French fry, deaf once more. Too bad. The truce was kind of nice while it lasted.

      * * *

      Neither interesting, nor nice, is how Marci sees any of it. Especially when body parts show up. Not flesh and blood body parts, though from a distance, that’s what it seems. Up close, it’s obvious they’re plastic. A department store mannequin pulled apart. An arm dangling high above the third-floor staircase railing; in a second-floor bathroom, a bald head and neck hang from a noose. An upside-down leg with a red high-heeled shoe, sticks out from a trash can at the side of the school.

      Every part has the same message:

      THIS COULD BE YOU.

      MP.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marci gulps.

      “Just that someone watches too many horror shows. Jeez, look at the crowd.” The crush of people surrounding the leg is three deep.

      “Who cares about a crowd?” She tugs my arm. “Let’s go.”

      “Not yet.”

      I push forward to check out the leg. No tiny letters that I can see. Being this close to a cut-up body, though, even if it’s plastic, makes me feel weird. Like some kind of perv. Or maybe it’s the flash of intuition that tells me Marci’s right: MP’s not all fun and games. Underwear and kiddie pails and secret writing meant to seem cool. He might be something else. Something darker. Someone evil. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms.

      When I hit the Media Center, Raul, Henry and Omar are already there, looking three shades of gloomy.

      “What’s up?”

      Omar tugs an earring. “Read the board. A Team’s doing an MP story.”

      “What? That’s ours!”

      “It’s not on our list,” Raul points out.

      “How was I supposed to know he’d get all serial killer today?” A glance at the A Team table tells me this was Hailey’s doing. She can barely contain a superior smile. “I’ll take care of it!”

      I make a beeline for Carleton, quietly taking attendance. “A Team cannot have the MP story. It’s ours.”

      Scott Jenkins scoots over. That doesn’t surprise me. Passive-aggressive Hailey sent him to do her dirty work.

      “We listed it like we’re supposed to. Mr. Carleton approved it,” he tells me.

      Even though I’m furious, I keep my voice reasonable. Thanks to Bethany and Jagger, I’ve had lots of practice. “Guess you didn’t realize we were doing follow-ups, Mr. C.”

      “No one knew,” Scott says. “It’s not on the board.”

      “We haven’t finished planning the next broadcast. That’s what today’s for.”

      The teacher holds up a pudgy hand. “Don’t fight—”

      I refuse to let Hailey get away with this. If I lose, my team will never forgive me. “Mr. Carleton. On TV, the same reporter follows a story no matter how long it takes. They don’t hand it over to whoever feels like working it that week.”

      “Puh-lease.” Scott laughs. “This is high school….”

      He continues to argue. I catch Mr. C.’s eye. With what I hope is a subtle tilt, I glance at the Emmy Award shelf. Mr. Carleton’s name is nowhere to be found. It’s the last media teacher, R. Rosenfeld, who’s listed as adviser.

      When Scott pauses to take a breath, I jump back in. “Mr. Carleton’s trying to run a professional operation. So we can move on to good media programs in college, get jobs, win awards…”

      “Val!” Mr. Carleton admonishes.

      Oops. Might have hit the award thing a little too hard.

      “But Ms. Gaines is correct.” Behind us, the room is silent. “A story should be followed by the originating reporter. Val, I didn’t realize you were continuing to investigate. If it messes up your broadcast, A Team, I’ll СКАЧАТЬ