Carol Tanzman - Circle of Silence

Marci stands in front of her locker, fiddling with her lock.

“Maybe you should try your new combination,” I tell her. “That’s last year’s.”

She frowns as she searches her backpack for the combo paper the homeroom teachers hand out. “Why can’t they let us keep the same lockers every year?”

“The mysteries of WiHi are…mysterious, Marci.”

The metal door pops open. She switches a book and we head down the steps. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask at lunch. What did Carleton want?”

“We’re supposed to show Jagger the ropes.”

“Not we. You’re the one who knows everything. I only take TV so we can hang.” She lowers her voice. “Think you can get him to switch Jagger to A team?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“The guy’s a killer. Broke your heart and scattered the pieces without a second thought.”

Ouch. Rip the scab right off the wound, why don’t you?

Outside, the afternoon sun makes me blink. At least, that’s what I tell myself. September in Brooklyn Heights is like an iPod on shuffle. Summer weather, fall weather, and everything in between. This week it’s end-of-summer-with-hints-of-autumn. That means it’s too nice to have been stuck in school obsessing about Jagger Voorham for the past five hours.

“Mr. Carleton gave me permission to kick his butt if he screws up,” I tell her.

“Like that’ll help. He was my dialogue partner in French III, remember? I wanted to murder the kid, but I swear Mademoiselle Reynaud’s in love with him. Two-faced dog if ever there was one.”

“Jagger or Mademoiselle Reynaud?”

The French teacher is ninety years old and mean as a pit bull. She’s been teaching so long they’re thinking about naming the language hall bathrooms after her. Or maybe just a stall.

“You know who I mean,” Marci sniffs.

I do—and I’m just as pissed off as she is. Why does Jagger have to ruin twelfth grade the way he did eleventh? For months, we were lip-locked and then one night, he finds someone else to soothe his tortured soul. Or whatever that stupid cliché is. The fact that I wasn’t enough for him, that I didn’t even know I wasn’t enough, left a cavernous hole deep inside me.

“I can ask Mr. Carleton to switch him,” Marci pleads. “I don’t mind.”

I shake my head. “Scott’ll never take him. Plus, Mr. C. specifically asked me to help.”

“Worse and worse,” she mumbles softly.

“I heard that! You’re not helping, Marci.”

“Sorry! It’s just…I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Again? I almost laugh. Watching Jagger walk into the Media Center made it clear that the hurt had never gone away. It just got buried inside the hole at the center of my life.

“I’ll just have to deal with it. With him. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

My best friend shakes her head. “Not exactly the choice I was going for!”

2

Tony’s Pizzeria is a Heights institution. Old-school booths with Formica tables, cracked leather seats and the best pizza in a town known for excellent pies. It’s on Montague, Brooklyn Heights’ main street, in between Moving Arts Dance Studio and an antique shop.

Marci waits in line while I scout a table. The place is packed with WiHi’s hungriest. I zero in on a couple of newbies. I can tell they’ve just launched their high school career because they have that haunted how did I survive the second day of ninth grade? look—damn! Bethany!

My sister started WiHi yesterday, too. Mom made me promise I’d walk her home all week.

I hit my cell. Bethany has the same lame one I do because my parents get a “two for the price of one” deal. It’s not hard to imagine my sister staring at the caller ID while she decides whether or not to answer.

She does—an instant before it goes to voice mail. “What do you want?”

“Are you at your locker? I—”

“I’m home. Did you really expect me to wait?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me? What if I’m searching every inch of WiHi—”

“You’re not. You’re at Tony’s. With Marci.”

The surrounding din has sold me out. “How was your second day?”

“How do you think?”

The line goes dead. I give the freshmen the evil eye, as though one of them were my pain-in-the-butt sister. They look terrified, finish eating quickly and stumble away. Less than ten seconds later, Marci maneuvers over, juggling two slices and a couple of lemonades.

“A little help?” she asks.

“Sorry.” I grab the cups before she drops one.

Marci slides into the booth. “Okay, Valerie, spill. What’s the matter?”

I don’t even ask how she knows something’s wrong. “Bethany. She hung up in my ear.”

Marci reaches for the jar of hot pepper flakes. “At least your sister hates someone besides me.”

“Bethany doesn’t hate you.”

“Does, too,” she insists.

“Does not.” My best friend cocks an eyebrow. “Well, not more than she hates anyone else,” I concede.

Folding my pizza in half, I shove it in my mouth. Tony’s slow-simmered sauce, gooey melted cheese and crisp crust instantly improve my mood. “You know, he’ll make a great anchor.”

Marci chokes. “Jagger? Val—”

“It’s my job as producer to use the resources of the team wisely,” I say primly.

She rolls her eyes. “Right. Oh, and congratulations.”

There’s something so self-satisfied about the way it comes out that it makes me suspicious. “Fess up, Marci. How were you so sure I’d win?”

She busies herself with the pizza, shaking oregano over the slice. “Because you deserve it. Because you’re the best—”

The light dawns. “Because you talked Henry into voting for me. Marci Lee! That’s cheating.”

“Riigght. Like Raul didn’t get there first.”

I sit back into the wine-red banquette. “Are you sure? I mean, okay, I thought I saw him give the boys a look.”

Marci nods. “Me, too. I think he spoke to them after class yesterday. Before I talked to Henry. So I don’t feel the teensiest bit bad about it.”

“What did you say—wait. Let me guess. You hit him with your killer smile and told him how much it would mean if your best friend got chosen producer.”

She finishes chewing. “It’s not as if you don’t deserve it. Henry knows that.”

“So you didn’t have to promise him a date?”

“Valerie Gaines! You should kiss my cute little Asian feet right now, not yell at me.”

She’s right. I hoped I’d win because more people wanted me to be producer than Raul. Without Marci watching my back, I’d be wallowing in despair at this very moment.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She leans across the table. “The right person got the job, Val—as long as you stay focused. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

I cross my heart. A double sign—of promise and of locking it up tight.

“Excellent.” Marci grins. “And I promise that as long as I don’t have to miss soccer practice or a game, I’ll do anything you want.”

“I’ll cover for you in TV whenever you need it.” I tip my lemonade toward hers.

“Always and forever,” Marci replies, evoking our longtime sisterly vow with a return tap of her glass.

“Exactly the reason Bethany hates us.”

* * *

A little after six o’clock, I barge into the bedroom.

“Mom sent me up here to tell you it’s time to eat,” I inform my sister.

The Gaines family, all six of us, live in a three-story brick row house. We occupy the first two floors. My parents rent the top apartment to a succession of young professionals, none of whom seem able to hold on to their jobs for very long.