Circle of Silence by Carol M. Tanzman Page B

That’s what made me think of her. The
more we see of MP, the more it reminds me of found art. Some Dada, of course,
and a little Banksy in the way—”
    This is not the time for an art lecture. “Sorry to interrupt,
Ms. Cordingley, but I have to get to class. Thanks for the tip!”
    Mira Portman? She most definitely does not have that
underwear/toilet/body parts kind of vibe. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps
doll-like Mirabelle is a secret cutter. Or purger. Could this be a weird cry for
help?
    I find Marci right before she walks into her next class. She
listens without interruption. When I’m done, she nods.
    “You and I should talk to her at lunch without the others
tagging along. Don’t want to scare Mira off.”
    In math, I try to imagine dainty Mirabelle dragging a toilet up
three flights of steps. No way. If it is her, she
had help.
    At noon, it’s my soccer-playing best friend who spots her in
the crowded hallway leading to the cafeteria.
    “Mira!” Marci waves. “Can we talk to you for a minute? In
private.”
    Her smooth face wrinkles in confusion. “It looks
important.”
    “It is,” I say.
    A pair of doors stands behind us. Beyond that, a short
staircase leads to an entranceway. A second set of doors opens to the street. No
one’s supposed to leave during the day, so the tiny foyer is quiet.
    “What’s up?” Mira asks.
    “You must have seen those MP things—” Marci blinks as Mirabelle
laughs. “What’s so funny?”
    “I wondered if someone would think of me.”
    “You’re MP?” My voice squeaks. Did we do it? Find the right
person?
    “No,” Mira says. “My initials are MP, but I’m not the person who did those stupid pranks.”
    “One of the art teachers thinks they’re, like, cool
pieces.”
    Mira laughs. “Ms. Cordingley? Hasn’t a clue about contemporary
art.”
    “She said that, too. Told me you know more than she does.”
    Mira’s violet eyes brighten at the compliment, but then her
face falls. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t an art project.”
    “How can you tell?”
    With a graceful wave, Mira suggests we sit on the steps.
“Promise you won’t say anything to anybody.” She waits for us to nod. “We don’t
hang, so you guys don’t know me. I’m afraid you’ll think this is totally
conceited. Everyone thinks I am, but really, I’m not.”
    Marci shakes her head. “We don’t. What does knowing you have to
do with MP?”
    Mira hesitates. “Has anyone ever been in love with you?
Totally, madly, completely—and you can’t stand the guy?”
    “Sure,” Marci says.
    I remain silent.
    Mira searches for the right words. “It’s possible—and I really
do mean possible —that someone’s doing this to get
back at me.”
    Marci’s eyes widen. “Because you dumped him?”
    Mira shakes her head. “Never got that far. I ignored him.
Ignore. Present tense included.”
    “I get that!” Marci tightens her ponytail. “The reason you
think it could be this dude is because the MP stuff is on the arty side, right?
And there’s the initials. It’s like people who hire airplanes to skywrite, ‘Will
you marry me, Louise?’ If the name isn’t there, it’s a waste.”
    Mira nods. “It sounds completely crazy but he might be trying
to impress me. Or hope I’ll get in trouble. Of course, it could be a ‘who needs
you?’ bitch slap.”
    “Sounds like a whole lot of effort to go through,” I say.
    “That’s why I’m not sure. But see, Ms. Cordingley came up with
my name. If he wants to get me in trouble, why not do it like this?”
    Marci and I exchange a glance.
    “Who’s the guy?” I ask.
    “Uh-uh. I give you a name, it could make things worse. I’m
ignoring it. Crossing my fingers that you Campus
News guys find out who it is. Maybe it’s not who I think it is or the
reason I said. Then I’d feel stupid, which is why I swore you to secrecy in the
first place.”
    “Mira,” Marci says firmly, “you have to trust that we won’t go
all