LITMIR.BIZ

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push forward to check out the leg. No tiny letters that I can see. Being this close to a cut-up body, though, even if it’s plastic, makes me feel weird. Like some kind of perv. Or maybe it’s the flash of intuition that tells me Marci’s right: MP’s not all fun and games. Underwear and kiddie pails and secret writing meant to seem cool. He might be something else. Something darker. Someone evil. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms.

      When I hit the Media Center, Raul, Henry and Omar are already there, looking three shades of gloomy.

      “What’s up?”

      Omar tugs an earring. “Read the board. A Team’s doing an MP story.”

      “What? That’s ours!”

      “It’s not on our list,” Raul points out.

      “How was I supposed to know he’d get all serial killer today?” A glance at the A Team table tells me this was Hailey’s doing. She can barely contain a superior smile. “I’ll take care of it!”

      I make a beeline for Carleton, quietly taking attendance. “A Team cannot have the MP story. It’s ours.”

      Scott Jenkins scoots over. That doesn’t surprise me. Passive-aggressive Hailey sent him to do her dirty work.

      “We listed it like we’re supposed to. Mr. Carleton approved it,” he tells me.

      Even though I’m furious, I keep my voice reasonable. Thanks to Bethany and Jagger, I’ve had lots of practice. “Guess you didn’t realize we were doing follow-ups, Mr. C.”

      “No one knew,” Scott says. “It’s not on the board.”

      “We haven’t finished planning the next broadcast. That’s what today’s for.”

      The teacher holds up a pudgy hand. “Don’t fight—”

      I refuse to let Hailey get away with this. If I lose, my team will never forgive me. “Mr. Carleton. On TV, the same reporter follows a story no matter how long it takes. They don’t hand it over to whoever feels like working it that week.”

      “Puh-lease.” Scott laughs. “This is high school….”

      He continues to argue. I catch Mr. C.’s eye. With what I hope is a subtle tilt, I glance at the Emmy Award shelf. Mr. Carleton’s name is nowhere to be found. It’s the last media teacher, R. Rosenfeld, who’s listed as adviser.

      When Scott pauses to take a breath, I jump back in. “Mr. Carleton’s trying to run a professional operation. So we can move on to good media programs in college, get jobs, win awards…”

      “Val!” Mr. Carleton admonishes.

      Oops. Might have hit the award thing a little too hard.

      “But Ms. Gaines is correct.” Behind us, the room is silent. “A story should be followed by the originating reporter. Val, I didn’t realize you were continuing to investigate. If it messes up your broadcast, A Team, I’ll allow three pieces this week. No grade penalty.”

      Scott slumps over to Hailey. If looks could kill, he’d be heading straight for death row. I feel for him, but I’m glad it’s not me who lost the argument.

      Mr. Carleton lowers his voice. “Don’t let me down, Val.”

      “I won’t!”

      The team piles into the director’s booth.

      “Way to get back what’s ours, sista!” Omar hoots.

      Henry and I fist-bump. Raul gives a short nod. Over in the corner, Jagger yawns. If I expected props from Voorham, I’m a fool. His short attention span hasn’t increased by much in a year. Screw him.

      “Let’s get organized. Jagger and I stay on the story since I just made a big deal about it. But we need help.”

      “I’ll anchor,” Raul suggests. “Frees me up to do whatever’s needed.”

      “Right on. I have all the footage shot and half-edited on the College Application story we didn’t air last time. If someone wants to finish that, it’s an easy second segment.”

      Marci speaks up. “I’ll do it. MP creeps me out.”

      Omar grins. “All mannequins are creepy. But naked ones are waaay better.”

      I roll my eyes. “The rest of us split into groups. Omar and Raul. Henry, me and Jagger.”

      “You don’t need three people,” Henry says. “I’ll help Marci.”

      “That’s sweet,” she tells him, “but we’ve got a week.”

      For a moment, he looks disappointed. Immediately, though, Henry cheers up. “We need more stories. I’ll stay here and think of a couple easy ones. Marci can help me shoot next week.”

      “Fine. Whatever. Got to get going,” Raul urges.

      The team piles into the main room, ignoring the resentful looks Scott and the rest of his team send our way. I head for the equipment cabinet. “Marci, sign it out for us?”

      “Aye-aye, ValGal.” She salutes.

      Expertly, I flip a case onto a table and pull the camera. “Jags and I shoot the yard. Raul, you and Omar get the inside stuff.”

      * * *

      Outside, at least, the plastic leg is untouched. Jagger and I set up in front of the trash can.

      “You’re awfully quiet,” I tell him.

      Jagger shrugs. “What’s there to say? Either you were going to get the story back—or not.”

      “Don’t you think we should follow up? You’re the one who wanted it in the first place.”

      He plugs the headphone into the camera. “All I said was that it would be a good story. Especially since Campus News is usually so lame—”

      “Thanks a lot.” I whip the mic cord out of the way. “Why are you even in the class if that’s what you think? You could have taken Mechanical Drawing or the Fine Art of Cooking Crap or whatever that class is called.”

      Jagger gestures to the trash can. “Ready?”

      “No. Me and Campus News might be lame, but you’re…awful. A terrible person. You hang out with me all summer. Then the night of Sonya’s party, I’m stuck babysitting the twins, so I say, ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t go.’ Every other boyfriend in the universe would tell me, ‘I’ll keep you company.’ Not you. When I finally show up, you and Dawn Chevananda are tonguing like crazy.” All the hurt bottled up inside gushes out. “You never said a word. Ever. Don’t you think I’m owed an apology? An explanation.”

      A curtain lifts and his Tortured Soul look appears. Last year, whenever that happened, it made me want to hold him tight, tell him it would be okay, whatever it is.

      “What’s wrong?” I would whisper.

      “Nothing,” he’d always say.

      So I’d let it go, thinking I was crazy. Or believing that my hugs—and kisses—would banish whatever problem he was having. Until I found out I wasn’t enough at all.

      “This is not the time to get into it, Val.” Footsteps sound behind us. Immediately, Jagger’s expression changes. Frustrated, he points to the leg. “Start talking or the bell will ring before we get a single shot off. Then you’ll really be pissed.”

      Like I’m not now—but he’s right. Mr. Orel heads straight for us, trash bag in hand. Stalking to the garbage can, I glare at the camera. To add to my rage, Jagger counts down as if he’s been in TV Production forever.

      “In five, four, three…”

      * * *

      Later that evening, after the twins are asleep, Mom calls me into her bedroom.

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