Circle of Silence (11 page)

“I’m holding you to the same standards,” Mr. Carleton told us.
“
Campus News
is not gonzo journalism. Not the
Grunge Report.”

The good part is I’ll be perfectly safe broadcasting a story as
long as I find one other person to verify the information in the note. That way,
I haven’t burned my source and I can’t get in trouble for not checking things
out correctly.

Then the adults at school can take over and actually
do
something about shutting MP down—instead of making
stupid announcements in the middle of class. B Team will get that story, too, so
it’s win-win.

How I find the second source, though, is what makes being a
reporter interesting—and really, really hard.

17

“I want to do a story about accidents,” I announce the
next day.

Raul perks up. “Car? Snowboards? Walking under a ladder and
then falling into a hole—”

“That’s a superstition,” Marci tells him. “Like breaking a
mirror.”

“Not superstitions!” It comes out harsher than I intend.
“Sorry, Marci, didn’t mean to yell. I want to find kids who are in the hospital
because of an accident. Any kind.”

Jagger looks at me curiously. “Isn’t that kind of…random?”

“Not really,” Omar says. “It’s like a Spotlight but with more
than one person.”

“I’m in,” Marci says. “Nice idea, Val.”

“Since when is
nice
one of a
producer’s qualities?” Jagger asks a bit too innocently. “I thought they’re
supposed to be hard-hitting, a little bossy—”

Not for the first time, Raul rides to my rescue. “If the girl
wants to do a puff piece, she can. Change it up, right, Val?”

Marci kicks me under the table just as Henry asks, “You sure
there’s anyone to interview?”

“Definitely,” Marci says. “There’s the girl who got into a bad
accident last week. Our goalie knows her—”

“Got a name?” Raul asks.

“I can find out.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll check with the attendance office,” I say.
“Who’s up for a trip to the first floor?”

Raul pops up. “I’m not afraid of Mrs. G.”

Marci smiles brightly. “Great!”

I slip my backpack over my shoulder. “Don’t bother to sign out
a camera, Raul. Gribaldini refuses to let us shoot in her office, but it won’t
matter because all we need are names. The rest of you know what you’re working
on?”

At this point in the year, we’ve got stories in all stages of
development; some ready to roll, a few half-finished, a couple just getting
started. Chairs scrape as the team scatters. Raul and I walk out of the Media
Center side by side.

“How’d you come up with the idea?” he asks.

“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand vaguely. “A ‘late at night can’t
sleep’ thought.”

“Mine always suck. I’m positive that whatever I think of at
midnight is fantastic, but in the morning, the idea doesn’t hold water.”

“Hopefully, this will!”

In the main hall, I hesitate. “Maybe we should get another note
from Mrs. Kresky so Gribaldini will talk to us.”

“Nah. I got this.” Raul strides confidently into the attendance
office. “Hey, Mrs. G. You have a minute?”

She looks up. “Raul! Nice to see you.”

Nice to see you?

I look at Raul, astonished, but he’s leaning against the
counter, explaining what we want.

He finishes up with, “It’s a ‘well-wishing for the injured’
kind of thing.”

Mrs. Gribaldini doesn’t break a sweat. Four names are inside
the Rolodex in her head. “Two freshman—Alexis Abbot and Pablo Ruiz. One junior,
Taneisha Woods, and the senior football player who got hurt in the game against
Kennedy High—”

“Tristan Hannity,” Raul says. “We’re in Lit together. Thanks.
If you think of anyone else, would you leave a note in the
Campus News
box for me?”

She actually smiles. “Will do. It’s a nice idea. Bad accidents
are tough. Now, don’t forget to say hello to your mom, Raul.”

“Back atcha for Tommy. He graduate from City yet?”

“Next year.” Gribaldini quivers proudly. “Tommy’s doing real
good.”

“I bet.” Raul gives her a warm salute. “We’ve got to get back.
Thanks for the info.”

In the hallway, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Not so hard.”

“She and my mom went to Irving together. Her oldest kid, Tommy,
used to babysit me before my grandmother moved in.”

“Bet Mrs. G. doesn’t give
you
a
hard time when you’re late.”

He laughs. “I don’t get the Voice, if that’s what you mean. How
do you want to work the piece? We could talk to Tristan first—”

“I think we should start with the freshmen. Move up from
there.”

“Sure. We still have to find out who’s in what hospital—or if
they’ve been released to their homes.”

“Let’s split that part up. How about I take the two girls and
you work on the guys? Did you keep the copy of the directory they gave out in
September?”

“
I can get an extra from the
office,” Raul says.

“Cool. Let’s see what info we can find out tonight and sign out
a camera after school tomorrow. If we’re lucky, a couple of the kids might be in
the same hospital.”

“Lucky for us,” Raul says. “Not sure that’s what they’d
say.”

Embarrassed, I duck my head. Sometimes my reporter instincts
make me sound awfully cold.

* * *

The instant I get home, I check the Starbucks note. It
does say, “
She
ended up in the hospital.” I glance
at the girls’ names in my notebook. My first real lead! One of them has to be
MP’s choice to join the group.

Kids in the WiHi directory are listed by class year. You can
choose not to have your information added, though, so there’s no guarantee I’ll
find what I need. I do a quick check; to my relief, both names are there.

Downstairs, Bethany gobbles cookies before Mom gets home. That
may be the reason she’s never hungry at dinnertime—though it’s none of my
business.

“Do you know a girl named Alexis Abbot?”

She washes the cookie down with milk. “Why?”

“Can’t you just answer a simple question for once? She’s in
your grade.”

“What does she look like?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. We’re doing a
Campus News
segment about kids who’ve been in
accidents.” Bethany doesn’t say anything, so I add, “It’s a human interest
story.”

“What does that even mean? Mrs. O’Leary says all humans are
interesting.”

“Do you know Alexis or not, Bethany? She’s been absent a couple
of days.”

My sister brushes crumbs from her mouth. “I’m not Mrs.
Gribaldini. I don’t keep attendance records.”

“Why do I bother?” I snap.

Upstairs, I dial the listed phone number. After a few rings, a
sweet voice answers. “Hello.”

“Alexis? This is Valerie Gaines. I work for
Campus News
. We’re doing a human—um, a story about
WiHi students who’ve been in accidents.”

“Why?”

“Sort of like a fancy video get-well card.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “That’s nice, I guess.”

“Yeah. Can you tell me exactly what kind of accident you were
in?”

“Okay. It was right after all that rain. The streets were still
wet.” Alexis hesitates, as if afraid to relive the event. “I was riding with my
dad and some guy skidded through a red light. He smashed into my side of the
car. It’s lucky I was wearing my seat belt or I’d have hit the windshield.”

“That’s terrible!” Sympathy for her mixes with disappointment
that she’s obviously not the person I’m looking for. “You okay now?”

“I have a broken clavicle and punctured lung, but it could have
been worse.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s fine. But the guy who T-boned us had a heart attack.”

“What a nightmare. Is it all right if we come by after school
tomorrow to interview you?”

“I’m pretty banged up.”

“That’s okay. You’ll be doing people a favor. You know,
reminding everyone to wear seat belts.”

“I guess. Sure.”

“Great. Is this your cell? Are you in the hospital?”

“No. They finally let me out. I’ll give you my address.”

“If it’s the same as the one in the directory, I’ve got it. See
you tomorrow.”

I put a line through Alexis’s name. Unless I’m completely off
base, there’s only one person it could be. Eagerly, I flip the directory pages
to the
W
s and find Taneisha’s number. It goes to
voice mail.

“Hi, Taneisha. This is Val Gaines. Could you please return the
call? It’s sort of important.”

When she doesn’t call back by dinner, I try again. She doesn’t
pick up this time, either. I decide not to leave a second message and risk
scaring her off.

Luckily, it’s Bethany’s turn to scrub pots. Taking the steps
two at a time, I consider an investigative plan of action. First assumption: the
initiation happened close to WiHi. That means the ambulance would drive to a
nearby hospital. There are only two possibilities: Brooklyn Hospital and Long
Island College Hospital.

Long Island’s the obvious first choice. It’s on Hicks Street, a
few blocks south of the Heights. I call the main number and ask for Taneisha’s
room.

“Hold on, please.” After a moment, the operator declares, “We
have no Woods.”

“Has she been released? I’m a school friend and I’d like to
know if she’s all right.”

“Hold on.” A moment later, she comes back on the line. “Sorry,
dear. No Taneisha Woods admitted in the last week. Try Brooklyn Hospital.”

“Thank you.”

I find the number. The operator gives me the same “Hold on,
please” comment. Then she says, “Room 503. Do you want me to transfer you?”

My breath quickens. “That’s all right. I’d rather visit.”

“Visiting hours end at eight, so you’d better hurry if you want
to see her tonight.”

It’s 7:15. From the Heights, it will take two trains to get
there. There’s no way I’ll make it. “What time do they begin tomorrow?”

“Eleven to eight every day.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up, quite pleased with my investigative skills.

* * *

“I hate hospitals,” Raul says.

“Me, too!” For no reason whatsoever, we’re whispering. It seems
appropriate as we cross a reception area filled with puke-colored chairs. None
of the people hanging around the lobby look even the tiniest bit happy. Raul and
I take our place at the counter in front of a sign that states Visitor Sign-In
Here.

“Can I help you?” a pleasant lady asks.

“Yes, we’re visiting Taneisha Woods. Room—”

“Five oh three.” She looks up from the computer. “Over
fourteen?” Raul and I nod, too nervous to be insulted that she can’t tell we’re
almost eighteen. “Sign in and I’ll give you a badge. Red line to the
elevator.”

I stick the visitor tag on my jacket. The red line starts
parallel to the yellow and green lines but then veers into its own corridor. It
leads to a wide elevator. When the doors whoosh open, we hesitate. A male nurse
stands beside a rolling bed. An old person lies on it, covered by a white
blanket. He’s hooked to a tube attached to a standing pole and liquid-filled
bag.

“Plenty of room,” the nurse says cheerfully.

Without a word, Raul and I step inside. At the third floor, the
nurse says, “Getting out,” and competently pushes the bed/person/tube affair
into the hall. Raul lets out a relieved breath. On five, the doors open once
again. A sign on the wall has arrows.

“503 is to the left,” I announce.

Raul looks more and more uncomfortable. “She knows we’re
coming, right?”

“Not exactly. Taneisha didn’t return my call, so I got the room
number from the hospital operator last night.”

“Oh. I didn’t catch that. Maybe you should go in first. Make
sure that, um…”

I understand. Nobody wants him barging into the room if
Taneisha is not ready for visitors. “I’ll get you when we’re ready.”

He puts the camera case down gratefully, leans against the wall
to the left of room 503. “I’ll be right here.”

Softly, I knock on the open door. “Taneisha? Can I come
in?”

A woman’s voice answers, “Of course. Neish, you didn’t tell me
a friend was coming to visit.”

Each of the two beds that take up most of the room has a
curtain that can be pulled to create privacy. An older lady in the first one is
asleep. On the far end, by the window, a woman, probably Mrs. Woods, sits on yet
another puke-colored chair. Taneisha’s hospital blanket is rumpled. Her short,
straightened hair is uncombed, and she’s got on one of those blue-and-white
cotton hospital gowns.

The instant Taneisha sees me, she puts down the
Masters of the Universe
comic she’s reading. A series
of thin scars on her left arm, like tiny railroad tracks, peek out from under
the loose, short sleeve of the nightgown.
She’s a
cutter, I realize, although I’m not sure if that relates.

Taneisha notices my glance, and immediately pulls the blanket
up to her neck.

I give her my camera-ready grin. “Hi, Taneisha. I’m Valerie
Gaines from
Campus News.
”

“I know who you are,” she mumbles. “What do you want?”

“Neisha!” her mom scolds. “That’s not polite—”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Woods.” Taneisha’s mom is as rumpled as the
blanket. Clothes wrinkled, face creased with exhaustion, she looks as if she’s
been sleeping in the chair for days. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was
coming. But I’m here now, so if you want to take a break or go to the cafeteria
or something, I’ll be glad to keep her company.”

Before her daughter can protest, Mrs. Woods nods gratefully.
“That would be wonderful. Just a few minutes. Be right back.” She mouths
Thanks
before hurrying out of the room.

Taneisha glares. “Really. What do you want?”

“To ask a few questions.
Campus News
is doing a piece on accidents and we’d like to include you.”

Taneisha shakes her head. “I don’t want to be in it.”

“It’s like a video get-well card. Isn’t that cool?”

“No. Can you go now?”

I lean over. “Taneisha, I know you got hurt because of MP—”

She rears into the hospital pillow as if I slapped her. “Why
would you say that?”

“I can’t tell you how I know, but—”

“You don’t know anything. I was doing something stupid right
after it rained and I slipped and fell. That’s all. That’s it—”

“I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. I just need to
know the truth.”

“Get out!” she screams. “Now!”

The lady in the other bed stirs. “Something wrong, honey? Push
the button.”