Circle of Silence

THE BIGGEST STORY OF MY LIFE COULD BE HOW IT ENDS

It’s my turn to run a Campus News crew, and I’ve put together a team that can break stories wide open. And Washington Irving High has a truly great one to cover, if only we can find a lead.

A secret society has formed in our school. It announced its presence with pranks: underwear on the flagpole, a toilet in the hallway, cryptic notes. A circle of silence keeps the society a mystery. No one knows its members, agenda or initiation secrets—until a student lands in the hospital under strange circumstances.

I will blow this story wide open and stop others from being hurt…or worse. And while my ex, Jagger, might want to help, I don’t trust him yet. (And, no, not because of our past together. That is not important to this story.)

But whether you find me, Valerie Gaines, reporting in front of the camera, or a victim in the top story of the newscast…be sure to watch Campus News at 9:00 a.m. this Friday.

Henry points to the glass-enclosed case that everyone, including Mr. Wilkins, passes by every day.

“I don’t know how long it’s been there. I just noticed it,” Henry tells us.

At first, all I see are the usual trophies: WiHi’s 1994 Sectional Wrestling Trophy, 1953 City-Wide Baseball win, 2011 Girls’ Varsity Basketball champs, Debate Team Champions of 1966.

At last, though, the fakes become apparent. Once I notice them, it’s impossible not to stare at the two “added” to the case. They’re the type of trophies a little kid gets after soccer season, but the first one is more menacing than anything from a recreational center league. A thin rope loops around the girl’s neck. The other end is attached to the shelf above so that the trophy hangs. The original nameplate has been replaced with “Roving Reporter.”

The second fake is scarier. The player’s head is chopped off.

* * *

Praise for Carol M. Tanzman’s

dancergirl

“This addicting, thrilling mystery hits upon many of our worst fears.”

—Booklist

“An explosive read that will grab you from the very beginning and not let go until you’ve read the last page. I read this in one sitting.”

—Starry Sky Books blog

“A fantastic read that I could not put down.”

—The Book Barbies blog

“A page turner…. Had me hooked from the beginning straight through until the final sentence. Dancergirl had me twisted round its proverbial finger.”

—The Little Munchkin Reader blog

“The creepy atmosphere really well-done…this is a great read.”

—Paperback Treasures blog

“Tanzman created realistic, likable characters…kept me on the edge of my seat.”

—Nicole’s YA Book Haven blog

“I loved this book so much….extremely entertaining…I highly recommend this book.”

—jj iReads blog

Circle of Silence

Carol M. Tanzman

www.miraink.co.uk

For Jack, Liana and Dylan

with love and gratitude

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

What We Need Is Hatred

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Power and Liberty

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Anarchism Is the Great Liberator

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two

Chapter 12

You Have Kindled a Fire

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Power Is Pleasure

Chapter 15

Fear Is Maintained

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Power Is Not a Means

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part 3

Chapter 26

The Blood-Dimmed Tide

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Yet Understand

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea…

The words keep time with my pounding heart. Dashing, darting…hurtling forward. It’s like a nightmare. Chasing after the school bus, the train, a minivan. No matter how fast I run, I can’t get there in time. I’m left stranded, alone, surrounded by abandoned warehouses, darkened streets and smelly drunks….

This isn’t a dream. I know where I’m going. I just can’t move fast enough.

Jagger. Jags! I asked you not to do this. Begged you…

My cheeks feel wet. How did I not see the approaching storm? But the streets aren’t slick and the pitter-patter of rain does not mingle with the sound of my feet slapping against rough cobblestones.

I touch my face. Taste the droplet. Salty…

That’s when I know I’ll be too late. Instinct, ESP or maybe just plain terror breaks through. Because it’s my fault. I pushed too hard; it went too far.

Whatever terrible thing I am about to see, I could have stopped. No matter what anyone tells me, no matter who insists, “You can’t blame yourself,” I will always know, deep down, that it’s a lie.

PART ONE

SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER

1

My sweaty palm pushes the Media Center door open on the second day of senior year. The single most important class of my life is about to begin.

“Don’t look so worried, Val,” Marci tells me. “We got this covered.”

I give my best friend since eighth grade a pained look. Sunny Marci. Always seeing the bright side. Except this time, she’s especially naive. There’s no way it’s a sure thing.

Together, we move to the table Mr. Carleton assigned to us. Yesterday, he divided the class into two permanent Campus News teams. First order of business today: each crew votes for producer. The job I covet. The position I worked really hard, during both sophomore and junior years at Washington Irving High School, to get. If mine, it could propel me straight into the college of my dreams.

I steal a glance at my competition. Raul Ortega. His dark chocolate eyes take everything in. Taller by about three inches than me, he wears his hair in a brush cut that tops a solid body. Raul’s definitely the guy you want on your side in a fight. Not that he’s a hothead. On the contrary, the dude’s cool. He knows his way around TV Production almost as well as I do. Exactly the reason he might get more votes than me.

He feels my look, turns. Grins nervously. Oh yeah, Raul wants it, too. The real question is: which of us does the group want? Besides Marci Lee, the team consists of Omar Bryant and Henry Dillon. With five votes, there won’t be a tie.

Mr. Carleton takes attendance and then says, “Okay, folks, you know what to do.”

For a moment, our table is silent. Afraid that I’ll come off as either too confident or too bossy, I resist the urge to take charge. Raul’s busy giving the other two boys meaningful glances. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. Did he talk to them last night? Make them promise to vote for him?

That would totally suck.

Marci jumps in. Energetically, she tears a piece of paper into five pieces. “You all have something to write with?”

Henry whips out a pen. A classic overachiever, he skipped both second and third grades, won a national award for drawing in eighth and captains the chess team.

“I’ve got extras!”

Underneath the curtain of brown hair that covers his forehead, Henry shoots Marci puppy dog eyes. He’s been quietly crushing on her for at least a year. Quietly—since she’s dating a football player. Doesn’t matter to Henry. He’d probably faint if Marci actually kissed him.

Omar extends a well-manicured hand. “I forgot a pencil.”

“Forgot?” Marci counters. “Or never had one in the first place?”

He wriggles his eyebrows. She indulges him a laugh before handing over a slip of paper.

At first glance, Omar Bryant’s a diva. When he was eight, he put on a sparkly cape for Halloween and refused to take it off until Christmas. Didn’t care what anyone said—then or now. But dig deeper and you’ll hit the sensitive soul of a true artist. Everyone in Campus News knows he has a great eye and a steady hand. When he gets behind the lens, his focus is total.

Marci hands out the rest of the paper. Names are scribbled. Without a word, we all fold the slips into tiny squares, as if that can disguise who voted for whom. Five tiny bundles are tossed onto the table.

“I’ll count.” Carefully, Marci unfolds the first piece of paper. “Valerie Gaines.”

I keep my face neutral because that doesn’t mean much. It’s either my vote—or hers. The second paper has Raul’s name on it. So does the third.

A wave of disappointment hits. I told Marci I might not win. Not if it’s boys vs. girls—with the boys outnumbering us.

Marci gives me a cheerful look after unwrapping the fourth vote. “ValGal.”

Obviously, that’s hers. The score’s tied. Raul leans forward, triumph etched across his face. I can practically see the writing inside the final piece of paper.

Raul Ortega.

“Valerie,” Marci says.

“What?”

She waves the slip. “The last vote’s for you. You won!”

The shock on my face is genuine. As is the surprise in Raul’s eyes. Marci shoots me an “I told you” smile before prancing to the whiteboard. She grabs an orange marker and writes Valerie Gaines, B Team Producer.

Mr. Carleton nods. “Team A, you have a winner?”

Scott Jenkins raises his hand. His stick-up sand-colored hair and square jaw make him look skinnier than he actually is. Given who’s on A Team, he’s the person I’d vote for, too.

Scott’s good but I’m better. I work harder. I care more. I won’t ever let my team down.

The teacher heaves himself out of his chair. “Good choices, folks. Now listen up! Rule review so you can’t say you didn’t know ’em when you break ’em. Each show consists of four segments, no more, no less, interspersed with anchor ins and outs. Sixteen minutes total. Remember to look for the angle. What’s the way into the story? Teams alternate weekly broadcasts. B Team’s up first, then A.”

Which doesn’t make sense. You’d think A Team would start because, well, it’s first in the alphabet. But that’s how Mr. Carleton thinks. Roundabout. And backward.

“Last three rules. First—” he holds up an index finger “—a Question Sheet must be filled out before every interview.” Two fingers go up. “Rude behavior or fooling around in hallways when you’re shooting Will. Not. Be. Tolerated. Third. Do not open a case unless it’s on a table or the ground because equipment in said case will fall out. If it breaks, your folks pay. Trust me, they Will. Not. Be. Happy.”

Mr. Carleton, a portly African-American man, keeps his head shaved smoothly and his desk immaculate, proof positive that he’s a fan of the “less is more” theory. Tightly edited sequences, one-word sentences.

He continues with basic equipment sign-out procedures. When he’s done, he glances at the clock. “Okay, teams, with whatever time’s left, start planning your first broadcast.”

Excited, I pull out my Campus News notebook, but before anyone can say a word, the door flies open. Every head turns.

“Omigod!” Marcis hisses. “What’s he doing here?”

My heart takes a nosedive straight into my stomach.

Jagger Voorham! Pouty, rocker-boy lips, hazel eyes that change color according to his mood, and yes, supercute. Slacker Jagger crosses the room without bothering to look at anyone, including me. As if he doesn’t know I’d be front and center.

He hands Mr. Carleton a mustard-yellow Schedule Change form. The teacher frowns.

“Don’t worry, Marci,” I whisper. “Carleton’ll never let him into the class. Jags didn’t take Intro. He can’t be in Advanced.”

Resolutely, I tap the notebook and try to discuss stories for the first broadcast. But everyone’s focus is on the quiet conversation at the front of the room. Finally the teacher nods.

“B Team!” Mr. Carleton points a finger at Jagger. “New member.”

Do something, Marci mouths.

Like what? Throw myself under a bus? Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge? Drop the class?

Jagger saunters over. I look down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his existence. There’s no way I want him—or anyone else in the room—to see the tears of frustration forming hot in my eyes.

How could Jagger do this to me? My triumphant moment—ruined!

My BFF, a four-foot-eleven, barely one-hundred-pound Korean dynamo, kicks me. I don’t have to look at Marci to know what she’s thinking.

Who wants to deal with Jagger all year?

That’s the moment the bell rings. Everyone in class jumps up, as if electroshocked into obedience. Mr. Carleton gestures. “Stay a moment, Val?”

Marci glances at me, but I wave her on. Scott Jenkins smirks as he passes, knowing my team’s just been saddled with a complete neophyte. Hailey Manussian, on the other hand, shoots me a look of sheer hatred—or maybe it’s jealousy. Like most girls at WiHi, Hailey’s probably going through an if only Jagger wanted to get into my pants phase.

Backpack on shoulder, I walk to the teacher’s desk.

“I put Jagger Voorham on your team,” Carleton tells me.

The blood rushes to my cheeks at the mere mention of his name. “I noticed.”

“He can’t fit Intro into his schedule. I let him in because he’s a senior like the rest of the class. Although that doesn’t mean you let him slide. He needs to do his share. Show him the ropes, won’t you, Val?”

Despite the fact that I find it hard to breathe, I put on a tough act. “Sure, Mr. Carleton. I’ll kick his butt.”

The teacher laughs. “I bet you will.” He points to a couple of Student Emmy Awards gathering dust on the shelf above his desk. “Get those stories, girl. I’m counting on you to win us another.”

“No pressure,” I say.

His bald head gleams. “Would it be Campus News if there wasn’t?”

* * *

The last bell of the day is like a tsunami warning on a Pacific island. The halls explode as almost two thousand kids run for higher ground—which in this case means lockers and exit doors. I elbow my way down the corridor with just the tiniest bit of amazement. Even though the school was cleaned over the summer, initials are already chalked across the walls.

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.

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 h