Time to suck it up, Val.
“Okay, everyone. Jagger was right. MP is obviously somebody’s initials, not a high school football team. And yes, it’s a good story.”
Voorham takes an exaggerated bow. “Hold the applause ’til the end of the magic act.”
Asswipe, Marci mouths.
I ignore both of them. “We’ll add the MP story to the next show. But what’s the angle? We have to find a good way in.”
Raul’s on it. “How about the flag? Ties both stunts together.”
The bell in my head, the one that tolls good idea, rings loud and clear. “That’ll work.”
Omar wriggles his fingers. “Hold on, sista. We’re talking five segments.”
“You’re right.” I make an instant editorial decision. “We can cut the piece I’m working on. Since the MP story was originally Jagger’s idea, he takes it if he wants. I’ll edit what he’s working on.”
“Do I get to pick my partner?” he asks.
“Unless they want to finish their segment.”
Raul’s already nodding, assuming he’s the choice. Jagger stares at Marci. She opens her mouth to protest. Without taking his eyes off her, he says, “ValGal.”
A shiver runs through me. For once, it has nothing to do with my ex-boyfriend. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Not only do I want that story—I want to report its butt off.
“Henry, change the whiteboard, please?” The teams have to list all stories on the board so there’s no duplication. “Just in case Scott gets the same idea. Jagger can pull equipment while I make sure no one messes with the toilet.”
I gallop to the third floor. Excellent! The toilet display is untouched. Not five minutes later, several sets of feet pound up the stairs. All of B Team arrives. Either nobody trusted Jagger to sign out the right equipment or everyone wants in on the action.
They’ve brought it all. Lights, stands, camera, microphone.
“Not so loud!” I warn. “We don’t want anyone to stop us.”
Quickly, the team sets up. Immediately, however, a problem surfaces. Although we’ve got an extension cord, there’s no place to plug in the lights. The hallway is too dark to get a decent image without additional illumination.
Raul turns toward the steps. “I’ll get an extra cord from the cabinet. You guys figure out where to score some power.”
Two classrooms are located around the corner. After a quick discussion, we decide to avoid teachers if we can. There is, however, a boys’ bathroom halfway down the hall.
“Do the ‘boys’ have outlets in them?” Marci asks.
“One way to find out.” Henry jogs into the bathroom, returns less than a minute later. “It’s at the far end. Raul will have to bring a bunch of cords.”
“No probs.” I pull my cell from my pocket. Like all city high schools, WiHi has a firm no-cell-phone policy, but Mr. C. lets us use ours for stuff like this.
“Don’t abuse it, folks,” he warned. “I will not go head-to-head with Mr. Kuperman if anyone cheats on a physics test!”
Raul’s reply is quick: Found 4. The instant he arrives, he, Omar and Henry gang the cords into one. They snake it along the edge of the hall and into the bathroom.
Turning to Jagger, I ask, “You know what to say for the stand-up?”
He shakes his head. I start to tell him how it could go, but he stops me before I finish a sentence. “You do it.”
“I’ll coach you. It’s not hard.”
“Uh-uh,” he says. “I don’t want to be on-camera.”
Marci puts a hand on her hip. “Why not? Campus News not cool enough for you?”
Jagger avoids looking at me. “Hit the nail on the head, Marcikins. I needed an arts class to graduate. Doesn’t mean I have to be on-camera.”
The lights go on. Henry sticks his head out of the bathroom.
“All good,” I tell him.
The boys tumble out. Raul wants to direct. Omar calls camera. Jagger and Marci reach for the headset at the same time.
“I got it first!” she says, appealing to me.
“Raul’s directing. His call.”
“Fine!” Marci throws the headset at Jagger and stalks to the opposite wall. Omar messes with my hair while I sound-check.
“Ready, everyone?” Raul asks. “In five, four, three—” He holds up two fingers. Folds down the first, then the last. My cue to start talking.
“Good morning, Horsemen and Women. I’m standing on the third floor of Washington Irving High School, in front of what might be considered a work of art. Or a prank.”
I move to the side so Omar can get a clear shot of the toilet. As I narrate, he zooms into the flag. “For the last seven days, the WiHi flagpole lost its reason to exist. Today, that purpose has been rediscovered. The flag removed last Friday can once again fly high. But the mystery deepens. Who put this thing, um, object, in the hall—”
“Cut!” Raul says. “Start again, Val.”
We shoot the stand-up two more times.
“I think we got it,” Raul says.
“Audio’s clear,” Jagger announces.
“Cool.” It’s the first all-team effort. Except for the little tiff between Marci and Jagger, I’m happy with the way it went. “Let’s get the empty flagpole. When the office finds this stuff and puts the flag back, we can reshoot the pole.”
The toilet’s gone by the end of the day. That’s all right with me because the footage Omar shot is perfect.
Over the weekend, I make a list of people to interview. Jagger doesn’t object when I suggest we start with the art teachers on Monday. Working the segment at the end of last week seems to have broken the iceberg between us. He’s quiet, focusing his attention on the camera, letting me do the interviews.
All three teachers swear it’s not a project they assigned. When I ask Ms. Cordingley, the department chairperson, if she has a student with the initials MP, she taps a charcoal pencil on the desk.
“I wondered about that myself, so I checked the rosters. No one with those initials is taking art. Not this semester.”
“Okay. If you remember someone from last year, would you leave a note in the Campus News box? I check it every day.”
In the hallway, Jagger asks, “Do you think she will?”
“Nah. But I had to suggest it. Like Carleton always says, leave no stone unturned when investigating a story.”
On our way back to the Media Center, we run into Josh Tomlin, cast in every WiHi play since freshman year. He agrees to be interviewed. No surprise there, because the kid never met an audience he didn’t like.
Jagger’s behind the lens again; I’ve got the mic.
“It’s not performance art,” Josh tells me, “because you need a performer for that. But the toilet would make an awesome prop for a play.”
“Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”
Josh pauses dramatically. “Like everyone else, I wish I knew. I can’t wait to see what’s next. At least, I hope there’s something else.”
“Thanks.”