Circle of Silence by Carol M. Tanzman

him.
    Jagger shrugs. “What’s there to say? Either you were going to
get the story back—or not.”
    “Don’t you think we should follow up? You’re the one who wanted
it in the first place.”
    He plugs the headphone into the camera. “All I said was that it
would be a good story. Especially since Campus News is usually so lame—”
    “Thanks a lot.” I whip the mic cord out of the way. “Why are
you even in the class if that’s what you think? You could have taken Mechanical
Drawing or the Fine Art of Cooking Crap or whatever that class is called.”
    Jagger gestures to the trash can. “Ready?”
    “No. Me and Campus News might be
lame, but you’re…awful. A terrible person. You hang out with me all summer. Then
the night of Sonya’s party, I’m stuck babysitting the twins, so I say, ‘Doesn’t
mean you can’t go.’ Every other boyfriend in the universe would tell me, ‘I’ll
keep you company.’ Not you. When I finally show up, you and Dawn Chevananda are
tonguing like crazy.” All the hurt bottled up inside gushes out. “You never said
a word. Ever. Don’t you think I’m owed an apology? An explanation.”
    A curtain lifts and his Tortured Soul look appears. Last year,
whenever that happened, it made me want to hold him tight, tell him it would be
okay, whatever it is.
    “What’s wrong?” I would
whisper .
    “Nothing,” he’d always say.
    So I’d let it go, thinking I was crazy. Or believing that my
hugs—and kisses—would banish whatever problem he was having. Until I found out I
wasn’t enough at all.
    “This is not the time to get into it, Val.” Footsteps sound
behind us. Immediately, Jagger’s expression changes. Frustrated, he points to
the leg. “Start talking or the bell will ring before we get a single shot off.
Then you’ll really be pissed.”
    Like I’m not now—but he’s right. Mr. Orel heads straight for
us, trash bag in hand. Stalking to the garbage can, I glare at the camera. To
add to my rage, Jagger counts down as if he’s been in TV Production forever.
    “In five, four, three…”
    * * *
    Later that evening, after the twins are asleep, Mom
calls me into her bedroom.
    “What did Bethany tell you I did now?”
    She laughs. “I don’t know. What did you do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Good.” Mom looks pleased. As if by using Advanced
Interrogation Techniques she’s managed to get something out of me. “I’m the one
who wants to ask a question. About your sister.”
    “Go ahead.” I sit on the queen-size bed, the blanket a lumpy
mess from the twins’ postbath read-aloud.
    “Does Bethany have a boyfriend?”
    “What? No!” That would be horrible. I haven’t had a boyfriend
since Jagger. How could she?
    “You sure?” Mom asks.
    “Not really. How would I know? It’s not like Bethie talks to
me. Ever.”
    “That’ll change when you get older. Blood’s thicker than
water.” Mom gets her canny Interrogation look again. “Maybe you’ve seen her with
someone at school.”
    “Mother! Are you asking me to spy on my sister?”
    She appears dutifully shocked. “Of course not. I was just
wondering.”
    I prop up the pillows. “Now I’m curious. Why are you
asking?”
    Mom laughs. “No big deal. Bethie wants to go clothes shopping.
Asked if I knew where to get cute shirts.”
    “She said, ‘cute shirts’? Not tan shirts? Or baggy cargo pants?
Boring brown sneaks…?”
    “You don’t need to go on, Valerie. But yes, that’s why I’m
asking.”
    The idea that Bethany has a boyfriend boggles my mind. “If I
find out anything, Mom, you’ll be the first to know.”
    Or not. Hoodie on, I wade through the dirty clothes and the
rest of the junk Bethany’s tossed all over the floor. Grabbing my cell, I open
the window beside my bed and climb onto the fire escape, pulling the pane back
down so she can’t hear me. I have a private nest out here—three-inch camping mat
and sleeping bag rolled up in a waterproof bag. It works great until the