Circle of Silence by Carol M. Tanzman

for
Harvard, so why would she have any part in hanging a dead bird? And Lawrence
must have OCD. He has not one, but two boxes of antibacterial wipes in his
locker, as well as a stock of mini hand sanitizers. If Lawrence heard Phil
mention maggots, he’d have dropped out of school by now. Still, I plan to have
someone from the team interview them.
    Leave no stone unturned.
    On my sister’s side of the room, the steady rise and fall of
the blanket tells me she’s asleep. I sneak over to the computer. A second
message from MP awaits.
    Like the present? Stop putting us on the news. You don’t want
to be responsible for more dead birds. Or worse.
    I take my time typing a reply.
    I asked for a meeting and you ignored me. I’m asking again. If
you’re too scared to meet in person, perhaps it’s chickens, not sparrows that
should be on your flyers.
    “Val?”
    “Why are you sneaking up behind me, Bethany?”
    “I’m not,” my sister says. “I called your name three times, but
you didn’t hear.”
    That’s probably true. Years ago, I learned to tune out the
chaos in the house, especially when I’m concentrating. In an effort to shield
the computer from Bethany’s prying eyes, I stand in front of the screen.
    “What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.
    “Nothing. Sending an email. Go back to bed.”
    “You know I can’t sleep until every light in the room is out.
Including the computer.”
    Honestly! What did I do in a previous life to deserve the Queen
of Lame in this one?
    “One second!” I mutter.
    No chance to reconsider. With a pounding heart, and the click
of a finger, my message to MP flies through the Net.

10
    The scoop is humongous, outrageous, crushing. While
we’re busy spinning our MP wheels, A Team’s next broadcast rocks the house.
Literally.
    They did an entire show about the Battle of the Bands going
down Saturday night. On the whiteboard, Scott listed each segment differently so
Mr. C. wouldn’t catch on until too late. News story about the show itself,
Spotlight on one of the bands, Community story about a benefit concert (that
just happens to feature the third band—with their youth-obsessed thirty-year-old
lead singer), and a fourth story he listed as Informational. Like anyone at WiHi
doesn’t know about death metal bands. Even if you live in a cardboard box under
the Brooklyn Bridge, you’d have some sense of what they’re about. The leader of
Impaled on a Stick mumbled something about mutilation and necrophilia before
Scott cut it off.
    Even worse, after really short interviews, each band played. Hailey told Mr. C. that it wouldn’t be fair if
one band performed and not the others because it was a battle and they couldn’t
tip the vote. So what we basically got was a sixteen-minute music video. Forget
applause. The hoots echoing down the hall are proof positive that A Team jumped
way ahead of us in terms of popularity.
    Jagger slaps Scott on the back. “Freakin’ tight, man. How’d you
mic Impaled so they sounded so good?”
    Hailey gives me a gotcha, bitch grin. I walk over, smile sweetly. “Nice job. A little narrow in scope, but
hey…if you don’t have a lot of ideas, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
    “Look who’s talking.” She stares so hard that her eyes cross.
“I bet you made it all up.”
    “Made what up?”
    “MP. You needed an interesting story, so you got your friends
to put up stuff around school.”
    The accusation is so shocking I can’t even speak. That only
seems to confirm Hailey’s belief.
    She lets out a breath. “Of course! How clever. MP! Marci and
Phil!” She turns.
    “Scott—”
    I grab her. “Shut up! I would never fake a story. Not in a million, trillion years. So don’t go spreading rumors
that aren’t true.”
    Before she can respond, Raul comes over. “Sorry, Hailey, we
need Val.” He pulls me toward the director’s booth. “What was that all
about?”
    “Nothing. Hailey’s an idiot. What’s up?”
    “Henry’s got