PUFFIN
an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, a Penguin Random House Company
First published 2020
Text copyright © 2020 by Tanya Lloyd Kyi
Cover design: John Martz
Cover images: googly eyes © MirageC/Getty Images; wall © Katsumi Murouchi/Getty Images
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Me and Banksy / Tanya Lloyd Kyi.
Names: Kyi, Tanya Lloyd, 1973- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190110481 | Canadiana (ebook) 2019011049X | ISBN 9780735266919 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735266926 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8571.Y52 M42 2020 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939213
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One: Say Fromage
Chapter Two: Security Check
Chapter Three: Excavations
Chapter Four: Lunch Special
Chapter Five: The Quick Flip
Chapter Six: The Aftermath
Chapter Seven: The Two-Legged Species
Chapter Eight: Protest Riot Rodent
Chapter Nine: Mob Mentality
Chapter Ten: On the Record
Chapter Eleven: Shadows and (Red) Light
Chapter Twelve: True Love?
Chapter Thirteen: Mud Masks
Chapter Fourteen: Secret Society
Chapter Fifteen: Trespassing and Treason
Chapter Sixteen: Normal People
Chapter Seventeen: McFluffikins
Chapter Eighteen: Caught
Chapter Nineteen: Showtime
Chapter Twenty: Brave New World
A Note About Cyber Bullying
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
For Matthew, my anti-authoritarian son.
The bad artists imitate, the great artists steal.
—PABLO PICASSO
—BANKSY
—DOMINICA RIVERS
CHAPTER ONE
SAY FROMAGE
GRANDMA GEORGINA and I sit on the patio at La Patisserie, where she treats Mom and me to brunch every Sunday. My mother is late.
“She inherited my looks but your grandfather’s brains.” George sighs.
Grandma Georgina prefers me to call her George, especially in public. She says the word grandma nullifies the hundreds of dollars per month she spends on salon coloring, and there’s no sense wasting cash on an unnecessary label.
“I’ve got something special for you,” she says, pulling her leather shoulder bag onto her lap. Every week, she brings me a different book from her gallery’s gift shop.
I hand back last week’s hardcover, a collection of still-life paintings by Mary Pratt. On the cover, red currant jelly glistens like blood in glass dessert cups.
“Oooh…what did you think, Dominica?” George lifts the book toward her carefully, as if the jelly might spill.
“Ridiculously sad.”
“The essay about her baby twins dying?”
“I’m scarred forever. You should give me happier books.”
“But you can see the devastation in her work, can’t you?” George waves her hands rather dramatically, and I slide her water glass out of danger.
“You can. Even when it’s a painting of fruit,” I admit.
“Isn’t that incredible?”
The way she says it, I’m not entirely sure if George is talking about Mary Pratt or me.
“Well, this week, I brought something completely different,” she says. “Something—”
We’re distracted by a silver Lexus zooming up the street. My mother swerves into a parking spot across from our patio. She hops from her car before the wheels have quite stopped rolling, checks the meter, and clicks a few buttons on her cell. As we watch, she shakes her phone and pushes a few more buttons. Then she scrabbles in the bottom of her purse for change.
Her purse is the size of an ocean-going vessel. Trying to find anything in there will be hopeless.
I can see her frustration building. It’s as if her dark hair is curling more and more tightly.
“I’ll go and help,” I say.
George puts her hand on my arm. “Never mind, Dominica. She’ll figure it out eventually.”
Which is true. Mom disappears into a store and reappears a minute later with gourmet chocolate bars in one hand and a collection of coins in the other. After she feeds the meter, she jaywalks across the street, waving prettily at the black Jag that almost hits her.
“Tuck this in your backpack for later,” George says, passing me her newest book selection. “It’s quite subversive.”
Before I can ask what “subversive” means, Mom drops into the chair beside mine.
“What a morning!”
She may not be the most organized, and she doesn’t always make the best decisions, but Mom has a smile like the whipped cream on top of my chocolat chaud. As soon as her dimples appear, I want to kiss her. I can tell it works the same way on George.
Mom gives us each a chocolate bar, which also helps. I tuck mine into my pack as our favorite waiter appears.
“Pierre, darling,” George says, motioning him lower so she can pat his cheek.
Once that little ritual’s over, we order our meals. Then George turns to me, clasps her hands together, and says, “Well, girl who inherited both my brains and my looks, what’s new in eighth grade?”
“Nothing much,” I say. “I have a project due this week.”
“For what class?” Mom asks.
If she were a different type of mom, she’d already know the answer. But our Sunday brunches are an update for her as much as for George. Which might be why George insists that she turn up every week.
“Ethics. We have to write about a privacy or security technology that’s changing the world.”
“And what did you choose?” George asks.
“Drones.”
Mom wrinkles her nose. “Horrible things. Don’t they drop bombs?”
I nod. “But you should see all the other crazy stuff they do. Artists are using them to create aerial ballets, circus performances, multimedia shows…”
“What does that have to do with privacy, dear?” George asks.
I grin sheepishly. “I got a little distracted while I was researching. But I have a few more days to work on it.”
Mom yawns.
“They can also deliver pizza to your door, minutes after you order,” I tell her.
“How wonderful.” George turns to Mom. “Perhaps they could deliver your canapés, darling.”
“As if my human servers aren’t trouble enough,” Mom says.
She and her best frien
d own a catering company, and she’s always complaining about finding good staff.
I pick up the bread basket and swing it gently through the air toward her. “More bread, madam?” I ask in robot-voice.
Mom snorts.
Pierre returns, setting down our breakfast plates. He lifts George’s napkin from beside her cutlery and flicks it elegantly into her lap before offering a twist of freshly ground pepper.
George sighs happily. “Let’s not replace Pierre with a flying robot quite yet,” she whispers as he leaves.
Mom, meanwhile, is examining a piece of sausage on the end of her fork. “Now this is a world-changing invention,” she says. Then she eats it.
I’m having mascarpone French toast, also world-changing, and George is nibbling on poached eggs and fruit.
“How was your morning, Carol?” George asks, between strawberries.
“A wedding rehearsal dinner for thirty guests tonight. We’re completely in the weeds. Soon we have the wedding itself, and we’re catering a conference on the same day.”
“You’ve been busy,” George says. “Dominica tells me you’ve met a new friend, too.”
Which is a complete lie. Mom’s been out with her new “friend” quite often lately, leaving me to my own devices, but…
“George, I never said that!”
When Mom’s eyes flit to me, I give her an innocent shrug. I have no idea how my grandma knows these things. It’s as if she can smell gossip.
“My new friend is Frank. He’s a lawyer,” Mom says.
“Ooh la la. Does he yoga with you as well?”
“Yoga is not a verb.” Mom rolls her eyes.
She did meet Frank at yoga, though. Maybe George is psychic.
“Is he divorced?” George asks next.
Definitely psychic.
Things go on like this until we finish our meals, George pays the bill, and we collect our jackets. As we pass the host and his podium, I spot a camera above the front door. Ever since we started this privacy and security unit in our ethics class, I’ve been extra aware of cameras. Now I notice them everywhere.
I pause to wave at this one. If someone has to watch that video feed, they have the most boring job ever. They deserve a little encouragement.
On the sidewalk, George kisses us each on both cheeks, as if eating at a French café has turned us into French people. She holds my hands in hers for longer than necessary afterward, and looks me directly in the eyes.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Perfect,” I say.
At that moment, it’s completely true.
* * *
—
HOLDEN: Help!
ME: ?
HOLDEN: Stuck in a dungeon, can’t get out.
ME: Does “boy who cried wolf” mean anything to you?
HOLDEN: Would it help if I said ur a genius?
ME: That’s been scientifically established. Your opinion isn’t necessary.
HOLDEN: One day, when ur undercover and someone blows ur identity, exposing you to lurking assassins, I’ll leap in front of the bullet for you
ME: brt
It’s not as if I have anything else to do. George has a meeting with a gallery client, Mom’s gone back to work, and—even though you’d think I’d be used to it by now—I don’t love being home by myself.
It seems I’m free to help with gaming emergencies.
I bike the few blocks to Holden’s house, a Victorian mansion his architect parents have restored. Not renovated. Restored. That means they’ve polished the dark wood wainscoting, replaced the shredded original hardwood with “salvaged boards,” and otherwise spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to make everything look perfectly old. You can practically smell years of roast turkey dinners, see petticoat-clad girls skipping down the stairs, and hear an eccentric aunt scribbling her manuscript in the attic.
I knock lightly on the French doors at the back, and Holden’s mom waves me inside. She’s on the phone, her lacquered blonde hair tucked behind one ear.
“Drink? Snack?” she mouths.
When I shake my head, she points me downstairs. I find Holden on the leather couch in the basement media room, slouched in a nest of blankets. There’s an open bag of potato chips on the coffee table, and the air smells of socks and morning breath.
“How long have you been playing?”
He jumps at the sound of my voice and pulls himself upright. Then he launches into a long explanation of his problem. I have to look away from the screen so I don’t get dizzy while his character races over rockslides and around traps, the view tilting and turning.
“I’m great today, thanks for asking,” I say.
No response.
“Yes, it is nice outside. I had brunch with my mom and my grandma.”
“Almost there,” he says.
“My grandma’s having an alien baby.”
“Here! This is the issue.”
He points to a wall panel emblazoned with three symbols. “I have to make all three of them light up at the same time, and I found the horseshoe—”
“That’s an omega.”
“And the funny-shaped n—”
“That’s pi.”
“But I can’t find this loopy thing.”
“Theta.”
“I’m stuck until I solve it! I need your puzzle skills.”
“Isn’t this why they invented Google?”
“That’s cheating,” he says.
So while it’s cheating to search for the answer, it’s okay to call me for help. This makes absolutely no sense, but whatever. I brush chip crumbs off a couch cushion, sit down beside him, and reach for the controller.
This sort of thing has always been easy for me—it takes only a minute to figure out the puzzle. Theta glows once I shoot omega and pi in quick succession. But no escape route appears.
“What’s all this red stuff?”
“It blows up if you shoot it. Press X,” Holden says.
I hand back the controller. “Shoot omega and pi, then shoot theta once it glows, then hit the red stuff while all three are still lit up.”
After a flurry of clicking, the bass of an explosion shakes the room. On screen, the wall crumbles to reveal a gate, which screeches open.
“You’re officially the best ever,” Holden says (without looking at me, because he’s already running from the dungeon).
“Well, now that I’ve saved the world, I guess I’ll go finish my ethics project.” I take a handful of chips for the ride.
“Wait,” he says as I reach the doorway.
I pause.
“Will your family accept your grandma’s alien baby, or will she have to give it up for adoption?”
I throw a chip at his head, but it falls disappointingly short.
I’m upstairs and almost out the door when Holden’s mom catches me.
“Dominica! Are you leaving already? I was hoping you might distract Holden. Take him out somewhere.”
Ms. LaClaire and I have had variations of this conversation about a thousand times before.
“He won’t go. He’s deep in his game.”
She clicks her tongue and I wait for the rest, the part where she asks what activities Holden might enjoy.
“He and I used to be so close, honey.” She sighs.
When he was a kid, five or six years old, Holden was the blue-eyed, freckled star of a show called Me in the Middle. He went on to guest appearances on some even more successful shows. But by sixth grade, when we started hanging out, he’d stopped acting and quit his after-school dance, music, and voice classes. He’d sort of stopped everything.
Which is what Ms. LaClaire wrings her hands about every time she talks to me.
Thankfully, her phone buzzes.
“Sorry,” she mouths.
I slip out th
e door while I have the chance.
CHAPTER TWO
SECURITY CHECK
WHEN I GET OFF the elevator on Monday morning, Holden’s leaning against the security desk in my lobby. He’s attempting to chat up our building concierge, Lou, a retired police officer with a brush cut and a scowl to match.
Lou doesn’t chat.
“Dangerous world out there, Dominica,” he says when I appear.
“Thanks.”
“You have a great day, Lou,” Holden says.
Once the two of us are outside, we grin at one another. We have the same conversation with Lou every day before school.
Personally, I don’t know how the world could be dangerous on this particular morning. It’s late April, and a carpet of fallen cherry blossoms swirls around us on the sidewalk as we hurry west. The Granville Street traffic fades to a background hum. It’s as if we’re alone in the world.
Our hands bump together and, for a moment, Holden links his pinky in mine. It’s nice, and it feels like exactly what we should be doing in the middle of a cherry blossom storm. It doesn’t mean anything, though. Or maybe it does? Holden and I have been friends for almost three years and it’s hard to figure out where our boundaries are. Or where we want them to be. I might be okay with more than linked pinkies, but I have no idea what Holden thinks.
We’re halfway to Saanvi’s house when he stops abruptly.
“What?”
“Forgot my device.”
“Again?”
We all had trouble remembering our school ID tags for a few weeks last year, after the new system was installed. But I swear Holden has a subconscious aversion to his. He calls it his device, as in “tracking device.” Saanvi’s tried to explain that it only lets the office and our families know when we arrive and when we leave. Plus it uses radio frequencies, not GPS.
None of that seems to have helped him.
There’s no time to discuss it now. We half-jog back toward his house, grab his tag, and then turn around and retrace our steps. I have to prod him along. He doesn’t care if we’re late, but I do. Even the thought of Mr. Nowak growling at me while I slink into homeroom gives me a stomachache.
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