Circle of Silence. Carol Tanzman M.
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I change clothes three times—nothing’s right. I want to look good, but not as if I’m trying hard. In my dreams, not only does the show go off without a hitch, but people come up and talk to me about it. How Campus News is way better than last year. Or the year before.
Part of that’s true. The show, airing in its usual first-period time slot, looks good. But not one single person at WiHi pays attention to the closed-circuit feed in any of the classrooms. I know this because everyone’s talking about The Prank.
Even the TV Production teams.
It had to have been set up early in the morning. Or, I suppose, late last night. By the time I got to WiHi, all straight-ironed and looking good, a crowd had gathered at the front. Everyone’s focus was up.
Is something happening on the roof? A jumper? Fire?
Nothing’s there. Still, windows on all three floors are open as wide as safety latches will allow. Less than a foot, so even an idiot can’t fall out. Faces pressed to panes watch…something.
Phil stands near the iron statue of the school’s namesake. Washington Irving. Although he created the Headless Horseman character, our statue has a head. I’m not sure it improves the guy’s appearance, though.
I figure Marci must be standing next to the BF, so I make my way over. Amazing how predictable people are. “What’s going on?”
She points to the flagpole. “Look at that!”
“Holy crap!”
I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now. The flag is gone, replaced by a row of undies flapping in the breeze. Mostly grandpa boxers and tighty whiteys, with a few bikinis and one bright red thong. The largest pairs have letters stenciled across them. The early-morning sun shines in my face. I shade my eyes with my hand to read the message.
WiHi SUCKS MP.
“Marshall Prep,” Marci says smugly. “Told you that’s who’s doing it. The game’s tonight.”
The front door bangs open. Mr. Wilkins, the principal, strides out. Thin as a string bean and tall as a giraffe, he carries a portable microphone with an attached battery pack.
“Bell’s about to ring,” he announces. “Get to class, students.”
No one moves, not even the ninth graders. That’s because the head custodian, Mr. Orel, arrives at the same time. Hand over hand, he pulls the rope. With a squeak, the underwear sinks to the ground. There are jeers—and cheers. Depends on how you feel about undies. Or WiHi.
“Into the building,” Wilkins shouts, “or you will all be considered tardy.”
As if Mrs. Gribaldini, the attendance lady, can mark hundreds of kids late at the same time. But there isn’t anything else to see, so the herd heads off.
Phil, linebacking a path for Marci and me, runs into Bethany. Literally. Her unmistakable voice screeching, “Watch it!” alerts me to her presence.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
My sister doesn’t bother to answer the admittedly obvious question. Like the rest of the school, the prank caught me off guard.
Everyone wonders. During first period, and into second and third. Who had the bright idea? How did they do it without being caught? What happened to WiHi’s Stars and Stripes?
That’s the reason nobody cared about the year’s first Campus News broadcast.
* * *
After school, a larger than usual crowd hangs around the flagpole. I stand close and eavesdrop. Several kids place bets on how soon Mr. Wilkins will get the flag replaced. Another group argues about which pair of undies they wish would permanently replace the flag. No one’s discussing our broadcast. Not even the skateboard piece, easily the one with the most audience appeal.
Disappointed, I start for home. Henry’s at the curb, talking to someone I don’t know. She’s kind of punked out—ripped jeans, combat boots, nose ring—not at all his style. Curious, I stop beside them.
“Hey, Henry.”
“Hi, Val.” After I glance at the girl, Henry takes the hint. “Do you know Toby? She’s a junior.”
“Not really. Nice to meet you.”
She gives a sort of half nod. “Gotta go.”
“Think about it, okay?” Henry says.
Toby bestows a “you’re lower than a worm” look upon him before walking away. Ouch! I’d like to give her a good slap. How can anyone treat sweet Henry like that?
He doesn’t appear to notice. “At least she didn’t say no. If Toby joins Chess Club, we have a chance to win City.”
“That girl plays chess?”
Henry looks insulted. “It’s a popular game.”
“Sorry. I hope she joins. We’ll do a story.”
“Cool!” He glances around hopefully. “Waiting for Marci?”
“Nah. She’s got practice. I was by the flagpole. Everyone’s talking underwear.”
“It was different, that’s for sure.” He laughs. “By next week, I bet no one remembers. Something new’ll pop up. It always does.”
* * *
Never underestimate Henry’s smarts. He’s absolutely right. Very few people pay attention to the A Team broadcast the following Friday.
This time it’s inside. Third-floor corridor at the west end. Past the double doors that separate the staircase from the hallway, there’s an extra-wide water fountain. Made of chipped white porcelain, it has a pair of spouts on either end so two people can drink at the same time. Maybe in the last century, before they had water bottles and continual germ alerts, people might actually have done that. I don’t know a single person who’d stick their face into any gross WiHi water fountain no matter how thirsty they are.
It’s not the fountain people stare at. Right beside it, someone dragged over an honest-to-goodness toilet. Inside the bowl is the flag from the flagpole and a small plastic bucket, the kind little kids bring to the beach. Except it’s not mud dripping over the side of the pail—it’s streaks of blood. The words stenciled across the front jump out at me.
MP LIVES—Will U?
After a few seconds, I realize the “blood” is paint. I’m not the only one fooled. The kids who jostle for space beside me make the same initial intake of breath—followed by laughter a few seconds later.
The spot was wisely chosen. It’s near the little-used stairway that leads down to the school’s storeroom. Still, word gets out. Lots of kids take detours on the way to first period, though I don’t see a single teacher. The school’s adults are holed up in their classrooms, too busy gearing up for the day’s torturous activities to notice what’s going on.
As soon as A Team’s broadcast ends, I call a team meeting. The six of us head into the control booth for privacy. Henry and Marci are the only ones who saw the toilet, so I quickly describe it for the rest.
“This new stunt means MP isn’t Marshall Prep,” I finish breathlessly.
“You think?” Jagger says. “The game was last week. If they were behind the flagpole crap, they’d move to whichever school their football team plays next, and start punking them.”
Marci can’t do anything but agree. “Our guys killed, so why would they ever step foot on campus again?”
“Henry.” Raul, sitting in the director’s chair, swivels around. “Could the toilet be an art project? The flagpole stunt, too. Wasn’t there some kind of art thing, fada or lada—”
“Dada.” As the youngest of several geniuses in the senior class, Henry has the good sense not to show