Carol Tanzman - Circle of Silence

Our kitchen, living and dining rooms are on the ground level. Three bedrooms take up the second floor. That means Bethany and I share, as do our six-year-old-twin brothers, Jesse and James. They think it’s the best thing since the invention of the Oreo cookie; I’d live on the fire escape if Mom would let me.

Right now my sister’s wearing earbuds. I know she sees me because I’m standing over her bed. Still, she pretends she doesn’t.

I lift the buds. “Dinnertime.”

“Not interested.”

“Bethany, if you don’t eat, Dad will start in on how you’re so skinny and Mom will get crazy about anorexia—”

“I’m not anorexic,” she whines.

“I know. You eat plenty after everyone goes to sleep.”

“That’s when I’m hungry.”

“Tell it to the parents. Right now it’s your turn to set the table. If I end up doing it, you wash the pans, whether you eat or not. It’s pot roast. Emphasis on pots.”

“I hate pot roast.” Bethany swings her long, thin legs across the bed, kicking me in the shins before I can jump aside.

“Jerk,” I mutter.

“Asshole,” she says.

I start toward my sister like I’m gonna kick her butt. She takes off, which was my plan all along. Slamming the door, I throw myself onto my bed, next to the window and as far from my sister’s as I can get it.

Bethany Ann Gaines. Her long brown hair is barely wavy, as if even her follicles can’t be bothered to curl right. She inherited Dad’s straight teeth, though, never needing braces the way I did. But now I have a perfect smile and Mom’s auburn hair, just red enough to give me natural highlights. I keep it shoulder length like my fave TV reporter, Channel 5’s Emily Purdue.

It’s not only looks that separate us. Bethany is, well, boring. It would be totally cool to have a sister who scribbled angry poetry on the edges of her homework. Or a computer whiz who didn’t have to ask me how to do every little thing. I’d even take a boy-crazy chick with awesome taste in clothes—but that’s not her.

Then there are the twins. Jesse and James—my dad’s not very funny joke—live up to their collective fugitive name by constantly getting into one mess after another. The amount of screaming, yelling and arguing that goes on in this house would send shy Henry to the loony bin for sure.

There is, however, one advantage to a large family that only-child Marci can never claim. As long as I make decent grades (I do) and don’t get into trouble (I don’t), nobody’s in my business. It’s not that my folks don’t care. With the chaos of four kids and two jobs, the parents are overwhelmed.

Which is the reason no one knew how destroyed I was last year. Perversely, I stare at the ceiling and tick off Jagger’s traits. Egotistical, manipulative and extremely charming. Pretty much a lethal combination. He has this way of talking to you like you’re the only person in the world—

My cell rings.

“What do you think MP stands for?” Marci asks.

“Not Marci Lee. Why? Who’s MP?”

“Phil called. After practice, he and the guys saw those two letters chalked all over the place.”

Phil Colletti is Marci’s boyfriend. He’s a linebacker; she’s the cocaptain of the soccer team. They make an interesting couple—the Italian giant and the Korean imp—but there you go. Brooklyn diversity in all its glory.

“I saw those initials, too,” I say. “Chalked on the wall near the nurse’s office.”

“Got to be Marshall Prep. That’s who the football team plays first.”

“Okay. Why are you so upset?”

“Coming into our school, punking us before the game like that is so insulting.”

“It’s actually kind of lame, Marci.”

“Not really. They got into the third floor without anyone seeing. It’s bold.”

My reporter instinct kicks in. “Let’s do a story.”

“Hell no. We are not giving Marshall the satisfaction of knowing it bothers us.”

“Okay, then what—”

The door pounds. Jesse. Or James. “Mom said she told you to come right back down!”

“Gotta go. Call you later.” Sneaking quietly across the room, I pull the door and stretch my arms. “Gotcha!”

James shrieks. “You scared me!”

“Dinnertime!” My zombie laugh echoes. “You, little man, look good enough to eat!”

James wriggles out of my grasp and runs down the steps, screaming. I chase him, laughing insanely. Dad, pulling off his tie, steps out of his bedroom. “What on earth is going on?”

From the kitchen, Jesse cries, “I want to play, too—”

Crash. The sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the house.

“Jesse Gaines!” Mom yells. “Why can’t you be more careful?”

“You got milk all over me!” Bethany shouts. “Stupid idiot!”

Jesse wails. James laughs. Dad thunders. Drama at the Gaines Family Zoo. Drama at WiHi. Two days into the first semester and already it’s obvious the year’s going to be a wild ride.

3

The Media Center isn’t set up like a regular classroom. The only “desks” are two round tables in the middle of the room. A row of computers, loaded with editing software and graphics programs, line the back wall. On the east side, there’s a mini-TV newsroom. Somebody, some year, painted the front of the school on a backdrop—a very realistic, to-scale depiction. The station’s call letters, WiHi, are printed at the bottom. The station’s weekly anchorperson sits at an oval table directly in front of the painting.

Mr. Carleton keeps the equipment in several large, locked cabinets on the opposite wall. Cameras, microphones, headsets, lights. Sign-out sheets are clipped to a board. Next to the cabinets, two small glass-fronted rooms were carved out. One is the sound booth, the other the control room.

Attendance taken, B Team settles at our table. I open my Campus News notebook and wet my lips nervously. “Ideas?”

Marci speaks first. “I could interview the football team about their chances for the year.”

I glance at my List of Possible Stories. Next to the line that says Football/school spirit/hot dog stand, I’d penciled in Marci’s name.

“Excellent. Since it’s the first game, can you add a bit about school spirit? And don’t forget the senior hot dog stand. Money goes to prom.”

She nods. “Can I work with Omar?”

Advanced TV Production works in teams of two. One person interviews, holding the mic, while the other runs the camera, wearing a headset to check sound quality. They switch roles for the second person’s assignment.

“You’re on, sista. But it’s a lot of setups,” Omar says. “Anyone got something easy for my segment?” His eyes flicker toward Raul as if he’s the one in charge.

I jump in quick. “How about a Spotlight? There’s that new assistant principal.”

Raul laughs. “Mrs. Fairy?”

“Fahey,” I correct.

“Like anyone’s gonna call her that,” Jagger snorts.

“Snap!” Omar gives me the wriggly eyebrows. “Spotlight works, Val. Always a good idea to kiss up to the new administration.”

Two down. Time to take on the monster. “How about anchoring, Jagger? It’s not hard—”

“Nah,” he interrupts. “I don’t want to be on camera.”

Of course. I should have told him not to anchor. “Then what’s your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t anchor, you have to shoot and edit a piece. Do you have an idea?”

His eyes turn thunderstorm-gray. “Didn’t know I had to think of one.”

Omigod. Why is he even in this class?

Trying not to appear flustered, I glance at Henry. “What if you take the anchor position for the first broadcast? That way, you’ll have time to help with the opening graphics.”