of our national symbol, the American flag.”
For balance, I insist we find a free-speech teacher.
“That’ll be Mrs. O’Leary,” Jagger says. “Had her for ninth grade English. Old-school hippy fer sure.”
He’s right. When I ask the teacher, dressed in a long flowered skirt, dangly earrings and Earth shoes, if she thinks the flag has been desecrated, she bristles. “I found the entire toilet seat display an especially incisive metaphor for our country in these troubled times.”
“Some people are upset that the flag was stolen from the front of the school,” I tell her.
Mrs. O’Leary pauses to get her thoughts in order. “While I cannot, of course, condone taking down Irving’s American flag, sometimes dramatic measures must be taken to fight the powers that be. It should also be noted that the flag wasn’t actually stolen. Borrowed, then returned.” She smiles, proud of the way she tightroped the answer.
Jagger and I do one more interview. Tanya’s one of those peppy girls joined at the hip to her best friend. We manage to catch her alone, scurrying back from the bathroom. Before agreeing to be interviewed, she flips open her cell to use as a mirror.
“You look great,” I tell her. “Once we get rolling, introduce yourself and then tell us what you think about the flagpole and the toilet bowl.” I stick the mic in her face. Tanya giggles through her name.
“Cut! Let’s start again.”
It takes five tries before she keeps a straight face. “I’m Tanya and I’m a sophomore. I just want to say how cool this school is. The first year I was here, which was last year, WiHi had dancergirl. This year, it’s something completely different. I don’t know who’s doing all the MP stuff and I don’t care. It’s fun seeing what shows up.” She sticks up her index finger. “Irving is definitely number one!”
“Cut!” I say. “Great, Tanya, thanks.”
“Can I see it?”
“It’ll air Friday on Campus News.”
I wind the mic’s cord as Tanya trots off. “We’ve got enough, Jags. Let’s go back—”
“Uh-uh.”
“What does that mean?”
“The student interviews are one-sided. Everyone’s looking at the surface. It’s something different to break up the daily grind.” He gestures down the hall. “‘Irving’s so awesome,’ but did Tanya actually read the message on the underwear? You’d think she’d be insulted.”
“Not that I disagree, but we have to import what we shot, edit—”
“It’s my piece.” He holds up his index finger and then sticks out his thumb, turning the Irving I into an L for Lame. “I’m not going to put out only the rah-rah view. We need to find an outcast or two. See what they think.”
I’m kind of impressed with the way Slacker Jagger’s fighting to get what he wants—although there’s no way I’ll tell him that.
“Fine. I’ll text Raul and get him to bring us another camera. He can start importing this while we find—” I make an O with my fingers “—outcasts.”
Jagger groans. “Tell me you are not that dorky.”
“I’m not,” I repeat dutifully. “Usually.”
He laughs. “Come on, I know where to find the peeps we need.”
We gallop to the basement level. At the back of the school, an exit opens into the yard. Raul catches up to us at the door and we switch cameras. Jagger leads the way outside. Except for the gym class on the field, no one’s around.
“Not much time before the bell rings,” I tell him.
“So move it.” Around the corner, on the far side of the building, a group of kids smoke forbidden cigs. The outlaws. The haters. The kids who ignore the rest of us. One of them glances over, sees we’re not teachers and returns to his smoke.
Jagger moves to a pimply dude sitting by himself. “Liam. I’m helping out a friend. Can she ask a couple of questions about the flag stuff going on? She’s with Campus News.”
He gets the finger for his trouble—and gives it right back.
“Such cooperation,” I mumble. “Like any of these guys will go on camera. You won’t even do it.”
“He was a bad choice,” Jagger admits. “The only screen Liam cares about is a computer screen. Someone else will talk.”
I’m not so sure. Two kids stamp out their butts and shuffle into school without acknowledging our presence. Another pretends not to hear. I might as well be in my bedroom, talking to Bethany for as much good as this does.
I’m about to tell Jagger to give it up for the day when someone finally agrees to be interviewed.
The kid definitely fits Jagger’s idea of an outlaw. He’s got the tats, the earrings, the unwashed hair. He tells me he’ll go on camera but won’t say his name. I shrug. His choice.
Anonymous starts to talk as soon as I give the cue. “I didn’t see the toilet bowl. But I don’t know what all this crap’s about. Who gives a shit?”
The bell rings. Anonymous takes off.
I laugh. “Happy, Jags? We can use it if I cut the last line.”
“Do we have to? It was very poetic. Toilet, crap, shit. Mrs. O’Leary would love the use of extended metaphor.” Jagger hands me the camera, the headphones, the mic. “You don’t mind bringing the equipment back, do you? I have class on the first floor and I gotta finish the homework.”
And he’s gone. Leaving me alone, holding everything myself.
* * *
After school, the Media Center is quiet. I set up at one of the computers to start editing.
Carleton walks over. “Faculty meeting today, Val.”
I groan. “Can I stay? Please. We want to add the new segment for Friday’s show. I haven’t begun to cut it.”
He sighs. “Okay. But don’t go broadcasting that I’ve left you alone. I’ll be back to lock up at four-thirty if Wilkins can keep to the schedule. Do. Not. Leave. Someone’s got to stay with the equipment.”
No problem. Jagger and I shot a ton, so paring it down to four minutes will be a challenge.
I play the first several minutes of raw footage. Hit Stop. Rewind. Click through frame by frame. Something bothers me. It’s not just the obsessiveness of the image. The precise fold of the flag. The way it’s looped exactly equidistant from either end of the porcelain tank. It isn’t the positioning of the toilet, either, placed in such a way that it can’t be seen from the main hall. Or the pail—wait! That’s it. Inside.
I stare at the overhead shot Omar took at the last minute. The entire pail can be seen resting in the bowl. Inside, across the bottom rim, tiny letters look like decoration. Then again, it might be a message. A secret note. Maybe a signature…
I blow up the frame as large as I can. Can’t make out anything except s o r. There’s not a first name I can think of with those letters. Last names, sure. Mr. Sorren, the history teacher. One of the outlaws I recognized at the side of the school. Craig Sorestsky.
But s o r doesn’t have to be a name. It could be part of a word. Sore…sorrow…sorry. Hmmm. They’re sorry. You’ll be sorry.
Something in my gut—reporter’s instinct?—tells me that’s correct. Someone’s going to be sorry.
“What are you doing here?”
I jump at the sound. A Team’s Hailey Manussian stands behind me. Her perfectly round face, completely surrounded by dark wavy hair, looks irritated.