Circle of Silence

Standing in a doorway, Ms. Cordingley beckons. I make my way through the crowd of kids hurtling toward second period.

She wears a paint-smeared smock. “Thought that was you. What’s your name again?”

“Val. Valerie Gaines.”

She nods, although the name means nothing to her. I haven’t seen the inside of an art room since seventh grade. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. MP.”

My heart immediately speeds up. “You found someone taking art with those initials?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why—”

“Art History. That’s why I didn’t think of it right away. She took AP Art History last year.”

“She?”

“Mirabelle Portman. A junior. Do you know her?”

Everyone knows Mira. She might be the prettiest girl at WiHi—if you like your chicks with porcelain skin, pixie haircuts and the most amazing eyes on the planet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet, which I didn’t think was an actual thing until Mira showed up.

“I forgot about her because she barely came to class,” Ms. Cordingley says. “Took the tests, of course, aced every one.”

“How can that be?”

The teacher shrugs. “Her mom runs the art department at City College. Mira knows more about the contemporary scene than me—or the critic at the Times. 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.”