“What do you think MP stands for?” Marci asks.
“Not Marci Lee. Why? Who’s MP?”
“Phil called. After practice, he and the guys saw those two letters chalked all over the place.”
Phil Colletti is Marci’s boyfriend. He’s a linebacker; she’s the cocaptain of the soccer team. They make an interesting couple—the Italian giant and the Korean imp—but there you go. Brooklyn diversity in all its glory.
“I saw those initials, too,” I say. “Chalked on the wall near the nurse’s office.”
“Got to be Marshall Prep. That’s who the football team plays first.”
“Okay. Why are you so upset?”
“Coming into our school, punking us before the game like that is so insulting.”
“It’s actually kind of lame, Marci.”
“Not really. They got into the third floor without anyone seeing. It’s bold.”
My reporter instinct kicks in. “Let’s do a story.”
“Hell no. We are not giving Marshall the satisfaction of knowing it bothers us.”
“Okay, then what—”
The door pounds. Jesse. Or James. “Mom said she told you to come right back down!”
“Gotta go. Call you later.” Sneaking quietly across the room, I pull the door and stretch my arms. “Gotcha!”
James shrieks. “You scared me!”
“Dinnertime!” My zombie laugh echoes. “You, little man, look good enough to eat!”
James wriggles out of my grasp and runs down the steps, screaming. I chase him, laughing insanely. Dad, pulling off his tie, steps out of his bedroom. “What on earth is going on?”
From the kitchen, Jesse cries, “I want to play, too—”
Crash. The sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the house.
“Jesse Gaines!” Mom yells. “Why can’t you be more careful?”
“You got milk all over me!” Bethany shouts. “Stupid idiot!”
Jesse wails. James laughs. Dad thunders. Drama at the Gaines Family Zoo. Drama at WiHi. Two days into the first semester and already it’s obvious the year’s going to be a wild ride.
3
The Media Center isn’t set up like a regular classroom. The only “desks” are two round tables in the middle of the room. A row of computers, loaded with editing software and graphics programs, line the back wall. On the east side, there’s a mini-TV newsroom. Somebody, some year, painted the front of the school on a backdrop—a very realistic, to-scale depiction. The station’s call letters, WiHi, are printed at the bottom. The station’s weekly anchorperson sits at an oval table directly in front of the painting.
Mr. Carleton keeps the equipment in several large, locked cabinets on the opposite wall. Cameras, microphones, headsets, lights. Sign-out sheets are clipped to a board. Next to the cabinets, two small glass-fronted rooms were carved out. One is the sound booth, the other the control room.
Attendance taken, B Team settles at our table. I open my Campus News notebook and wet my lips nervously. “Ideas?”
Marci speaks first. “I could interview the football team about their chances for the year.”
I glance at my List of Possible Stories. Next to the line that says Football/school spirit/hot dog stand, I’d penciled in Marci’s name.
“Excellent. Since it’s the first game, can you add a bit about school spirit? And don’t forget the senior hot dog stand. Money goes to prom.”
She nods. “Can I work with Omar?”
Advanced TV Production works in teams of two. One person interviews, holding the mic, while the other runs the camera, wearing a headset to check sound quality. They switch roles for the second person’s assignment.
“You’re on, sista. But it’s a lot of setups,” Omar says. “Anyone got something easy for my segment?” His eyes flicker toward Raul as if he’s the one in charge.
I jump in quick. “How about a Spotlight? There’s that new assistant principal.”
Raul laughs. “Mrs. Fairy?”
“Fahey,” I correct.
“Like anyone’s gonna call her that,” Jagger snorts.
“Snap!” Omar gives me the wriggly eyebrows. “Spotlight works, Val. Always a good idea to kiss up to the new administration.”
Two down. Time to take on the monster. “How about anchoring, Jagger? It’s not hard—”
“Nah,” he interrupts. “I don’t want to be on camera.”
Of course. I should have told him not to anchor. “Then what’s your plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t anchor, you have to shoot and edit a piece. Do you have an idea?”
His eyes turn thunderstorm-gray. “Didn’t know I had to think of one.”
Omigod. Why is he even in this class?
Trying not to appear flustered, I glance at Henry. “What if you take the anchor position for the first broadcast? That way, you’ll have time to help with the opening graphics.”
He nods. “I could do that.”
Thank goodness for Henry. “Cool. That leaves Raul with Jagger.”
Jagger leans forward. “Why can’t you and me be together?”
My heart jumps—until I realize he’s playing me. Or is he? The sudden intensity in his eyes is confusing. It seems so…honest. The next instant, though, I catch myself.
Do not fall for the Voorham charm the very first day!
Omar, fanning his face with mock envy, raises his voice. “Hooking up during Campus News! That allowed, Mr. Carleton?”
The teacher, sitting with A Team, glances at us. “Whatever you say, Omar. As long as Work. Gets. Done.”
Great. First day in charge. Jagger’s making a fool of me, and Mr. C. thinks we’re screwing around.
“Producer doesn’t take a specific assignment the first week, Voorham.” My voice has a frosty edge. “Except for directing anchor stuff and making sure everything else works out.”
Raul must think I can’t handle Jagger, because he jumps in. “Val’s right. You’re with me. How about doing something on the new skateboard park down by the river?”
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Community story! Carleton’ll love it,” I tell him.
Raul smiles. At the same time, Jagger looks a bit…disappointed. Or maybe he’s pissed that he didn’t get his way.
I glance at Marci to see if she’s paying attention, but she’s filling out the Question Sheet for the football story.
Quickly, I get back to work. “That leaves only one segment to figure out.” After checking my list again, I make a decision. “After-school clubs. It’ll be good for the ninth graders.”
Jagger snorts. “Clubs? I’d rather do something about MP.”
Omar glances at him curiously. “Who’s that?”
“Haven’t you seen the initials chalked around school?” Jagger asks. “Got to be a tagger.”
Marci