When we get to Saanvi’s place, she’s already waiting outside, bouncing from one foot to the other. Her standard school uniform—blue blazer, white shirt, and pleated plaid skirt—flaps a little with every bounce.
Saanvi lives in a huge house on the corner of Beverly Crescent, with her parents, her older brother and his wife, and her grandma. This morning, her grandma’s watching from the door. She blows us a kiss and calls something I don’t understand.
The rest of Saanvi’s family was born here, but her grandma grew up in India. Even though she’s fluent in English, she seems to think Holden and I speak Hindi. I kind of love that.
When I try to blow her a return kiss, Saanvi bats my hand down and tugs me toward school.
“I’ve been waiting seriously forever!” she says.
“Holden’s fault.”
“Obviously.”
We fall into an elbow-jostling, forearm-brushing line across the sidewalk as we fast-walk the rest of the way. Holden tells us the latest in gaming news, while Saanvi and I compare bracelets. Hers is a gorgeous gold chain; mine is a woven-hemp piece of ridiculousness I found at a garage sale. George would probably make me burn it, but I love the intricate knots and the tiny turquoise beads woven through the strings.
The warning bell rings just as we get to the school grounds. We take the front stairs two at a time, burst through the double doors, and almost collide with our principal, who’s leading a group of men in business suits. Potential donors, probably.
“As I was saying…state-of-the-art facilities.” Ms. Plante puts a hand on Holden’s shoulder and steers him toward the men. Saanvi and I follow a careful step behind.
“And here are some of our promising young students,” Ms. Plante says. “This is Holden LaClaire. You may know his mother, from LaClaire Design? And Saanvi Agarwal, whose father sits on city council. And this is Dominica Rivers.”
There’s a dangling pause at the end of her sentence, where my family qualifications should be. She could easily mention George’s gallery, but I get the feeling our principal isn’t an art fan.
“We pride ourselves on creating a safe, nurturing environment in which our students can explore their talents.”
She sounds like a walking brochure. The suit guys seem to be lapping it up, though.
“As it says on the emblem outside: securitas genera victoria. Security breeds success. Those words guide all our decisions here at Mitchell Academy.”
The motto is another of Ms. Plante’s additions to the school, along with the ID tags and the cameras. She’s a security fanatic. Holden says she was probably a prison guard before she got this job.
One of the men turns in a slow circle, gazing up at the high, arched ceiling with its gold-accented mural.
“When was the school built?”
“In 1922. Several years ago, the Mitchell Foundation bought a second campus to serve as our senior school. This original building now houses grades six through eight.”
She skips over all the details I love. The Mitch was created by an eccentric oil painter named Eugenie Mitchell. When she died, she left all her money to create a school for gifted kids.
“…nearly one hundred percent graduation, and a nonexistent crime rate.” Ms. Plante is officially gushing now.
If our principal has her own personal genius, it’s fundraising. George reads the parent newsletter every month, and she says that since Ms. Plante arrived a couple years ago, the school has been receiving more donations and achieving better ratings than ever before.
As the second bell rings, Ms. Plante turns to us and claps her hands. “Off to class, everyone.” She smiles brightly.
This is entirely for show, because her genius definitely does not lie in the cheerful encouragement of students.
We hurry to homeroom before she can show her true colors.
* * *
—
Holden and I have ethics after homeroom. It’s my favorite class, entirely because of the teacher. Ms. Sutton is a small, gray-haired whirlwind in a sack dress and ballerina flats.
“Hurry and get seated. Lots to cover!” she calls. “We’re going to embark on something new.”
I slide into my desk and pull out my notebook, reaching across the aisle to poke Holden. It wouldn’t kill him to take a few notes of his own, instead of borrowing mine. But he yawns and leans back in his chair. Miranda, in the desk behind his, begins playing with his curls. As always, she’s wearing tights and high heels with her uniform. Today, her heels are gold and glittery.
She twists a strand of his hair around her finger.
Ugh.
Miranda’s the editor of the student blog at The Mitch, but apparently she has other interests as well.
Ana Kavanaugh, math and science prodigy, literally skips past us on her way to a desk in the front row. She’s so tiny she looks as if she’s playing dress-up in her school uniform.
“We’re going to focus on world-changers this month,” Ms. Sutton says. Then she pauses as Josh Plante, Max Lin, and a gang of their fellow athletes/orangutans shove and shout their way to their desks at the back.
“…a major project,” she continues. Her smile seems tight, though, and I peer at her more closely. For once, she doesn’t have her usual, I-meditated-for-hours-this-morning glow. She has a little crease between her eyebrows and she’s playing with her rings as she speaks.
Marcus, a pimply guy in the front row, raises his hand. “Aren’t we going to finish the privacy and security unit? What about our projects?”
Ms. Sutton smiles tightly. “You can hand in your projects next week, but we’ll leave the rest of the unit for another time. Today, we’re going to focus on—”
She stops when Ana thrusts a hand in the air, so high she might attract lightning.
“May I ask why, Ms. Sutton?”
“Why what, Ana?”
“Why we’re switching topics?”
Maybe I notice it only because I’ve already seen the tension in Ms. Sutton’s expression. Her eyes flit ever so briefly to the camera in the corner of our room.
Partway through seventh grade, after some thefts from lockers, the small black globes appeared in the hallways and classrooms. They were for our safety, Ms. Plante said. There were parent meetings about it, but everyone seemed to agree that extra security was necessary.
Ms. Sutton gives her head a tiny shake. “There’s a lot to cover this term,” she says. “We got sidetracked, and we’re going to move on to something fun.”
When no one else interrupts, she nods briskly. “I want to see an in-depth research project about someone who inspires you. Someone who’s challenged society’s ethics, or someone who’s changed the way you personally look at the world. You can choose an artist, a scientist, a philosopher. The options are endless.” With that last word, she whirls a hand in the air, as if she’s stirring the universe.
Ana sticks her hand up again, practically dislocating a shoulder.
“Will there be a presentation component, Ms. Sutton?”
“There are full requirements listed in the handout,” Ms. Sutton says, passing papers to each row. “I want a four-page written report, an oral presentation to the class, and a creative project done in tribute to your subject. This can take whatever form you’d like. Be bold.”
I glance over to see what Holden thinks of this new assignment. He has his eyes closed. Because he’s receiving a head massage from Miranda.
I throw up a little in my mouth.
“You’ll have four weeks, so use your time wisely,” Ms. Sutton says. “Any other questions?”
Ana. Of course.
“Should the four pages be double-spaced?”
She’s kind of like Hermione Granger, without the redeeming magical qualities. Most days, she makes me want to bang my head against my desk. She’s always asking me to join a study group, or cofound a club, or sign up for a fundraiser,
but she’s so obsessive, I can’t handle her for more than ten minutes at a time.
Last year, she borrowed my humanities notes after she was away sick one day. And instead of giving me my own pages back afterward, she gave me a new copy, color-coded in four ink varieties. She said my notes were “only adequate,” so she’d improved them, in case Mr. Lee ever asked to see our binders.
Now that I think about it, maybe only five minutes at a time. At least she seems to have finished with her questions, for now.
“Let’s start with some research,” Ms. Sutton says. “Pull out your laptops if you need them.”
I already know my topic. Since the minute I paged through the book George gave me yesterday morning, I was in love. It seems like complete serendipity that Ms. Sutton would assign a project about inspirational people just as I’ve discovered someone incredible: Banksy.
I find an entry about him on a biography website.
The anonymous artist known as Banksy is a painter and film director originally based in Britain, whose pieces often comment on political or social issues. He is known for his intricate stencil work in public spaces. While Banksy’s identity remains unknown, he has gained international acclaim for his work on streets, walls, and buildings throughout Europe, North America, and the Middle East.
I shake my head, still amazed about the anonymous part. At first, this guy was basically a criminal, spray-painting walls in England. But Banksy is such an original artist, even his graffiti drew attention. Now he’s famous. And he’s brilliant.
I flip through the examples online. Even as I smile, my heart cracks. He has this way of making it obvious that people can be wonderful and people can be horrible.
There’s a painting from the wall of a youth club in England. It shows a man and a woman with their arms wrapped around one another, as if they’re about to kiss. But they’re actually looking over one another’s shoulders to check messages on their phones.
As I said: brilliant.
I would love to be an artist one day. I’ve been taking drawing and painting lessons for years, not to mention devouring George’s weekly book selections. Ms. Crofton, our art teacher at The Mitch, says my paintings have “potential.” But all of these real artists have vision. They have their own strange ways of seeing the world and then putting it on canvas. Or on concrete, in Banksy’s case.
I don’t have that sort of vision.
George says no one has vision when they’re thirteen, and I’ll discover mine one day. That seems doubtful. Especially when I look at all the things Banksy has to say. How does he fit so much meaning into a few spray-painted shapes?
He did one of his most famous pieces in a place where massive security cameras watched the street. I guess in England, security cameras are called CCTV—which means closed-circuit television. Banksy painted huge white words on the side of the building: One Nation Under CCTV. And even though he painted directly underneath the cameras, he somehow didn’t get caught.
I study the photo, trying to figure out how he did it. Did he cover up the lenses somehow? Or was there a blind spot directly beneath the cameras? It’s impossible to tell—I’d need more photos, taken from other angles.
As I start scribbling notes for my essay, I’m distracted by Ana. She’s standing beside her desk, precisely arranging a still life of her notebook, a pencil, and an owl-shaped eraser. I don’t have a PixSnappy account, but Saanvi has shown me enough posts—I can guess what Ana’s next one is going to say. Something like, “Baby owl’s helping with my assignment today!” Then she’ll add a string of animal emojis and smiley faces.
My mother has a social media phobia. She says I’m not allowed a single account until I’m sixteen. But even if I were allowed to have PixSnappy, I might have to boycott the entire site because of Ana’s posts.
I turn back to my laptop and skim a “Top 10 Banksy” list, then another biography website. Some of my favorite pieces are the silliest ones, but not in Ana’s baby-owl way. Once, Banksy snuck into the elephant pen at the London Zoo and wrote this on the wall: I want out. This place is too cold. Keeper smells. Boring, boring, boring.
That’s exactly how an elephant must feel at the London Zoo. And who doesn’t love a graffiti artist who can talk to elephants?
There are even more reasons I’m obsessed with him…
“Do you have a subject in mind, Dominica?”
Ms. Sutton has the tiniest hint of a British accent, and my name (actually a reminder that my mom and dad began their love affair in a Dominican Republic resort) always sounds better when she says it.
“I’m going to choose…”
At the front of the class, Ana waves her hand in the air. “Ms. Sutton! I can’t pick one. I was considering Rachel Carson, because she basically began the entire environmental movement? But I also love Malala? How can I choose? I want to do my project on someone who really speaks to the power of the female experience?”
I happen to catch Holden’s eye. (The head massage seems to be over, finally.) He makes the universal sign for choking, and I feel slightly better.
“A paragraph from each of you, outlining your project, by Thursday!” Ms. Sutton calls as the bell rings for morning break.
I have one last scrap of humanities homework to finish, so I duck into the library during the break, choose a table at the back of the room, and open my laptop. The place is completely deserted—not even the librarian seems to be around.
Which is a good thing, I decide, because it appears I’ve been wearing my shirt inside out ALL MORNING! The embroidered Mitchell Academy crest is scratching against my skin. I can’t believe I didn’t notice. I can’t believe Holden and Saanvi didn’t notice.
I scan the room; there’s still no one here. Quickly, I whip off my shirt, flip it, and tug it back on. Then I set off to find Holden and Saanvi and complain. What good are friends if they don’t warn you about wardrobe malfunctions?
CHAPTER THREE
EXCAVATIONS
A BUZZING NOISE. I sit bolt upright, heart pounding. I’m on my couch, surrounded by sketches of Holden. I was trying to capture his trademark smirk. Beneath the drawings are a bunch of scribbled notes for my Banksy project. Late-afternoon sun streams through the living room windows. I shake my head and rub the sleep from my eyes. I got back from school, made myself a snack, and started my homework, but the combination of cheesy toast and research must have knocked me out.
Buzzing again. I scrabble around until I find my phone. It’s a text from Saanvi to Holden and me, and there’s a video attached.
SAANVI: Oooooof! Look!
The video shows Ana sitting alone in the art room at The Mitch. She’s picking her nose. As in, really going for it. I would almost say “excavating” rather than “picking.”
ME: That’s disgusting.
SAANVI: Our computer graphics group met this afternoon, and someone got the text and showed it to Ana. She FREAKED OUT! She ran out of the room. What should I do???
HOLDEN: Maybe stop sending the vid to other people?
SAANVI: I ONLY SENT IT TO YOU TWO!
ME: Ignore him. He’s kidding. Poor Ana.
SAANVI: I know! I feel icky-fied.
HOLDEN: Have you texted her?
SAANVI: What do I say? I’m super losing it here.
HOLDEN: Say that everyone nose-picks. Who cares?
ME: Everyone does NOT nose-pick.
HOLDEN: Liar.
SANNVI: GUYS! SERIOUSLY NOT HELPFUL!
ME: How did someone get a video of this? How did she not notice?
SAANVI: Ikr?
ME: Ask Ana if she needs to talk. So she doesn’t feel alone in the world.
SAANVI: k. I’ll try. Ty.
HOLDEN: Then offer her a tissue.
SAANVI: AAAARGH!
ME: So thoughtful.
HOLDEN:
I grab my sketchpad again and start drawing Saanvi and Holden as I imagine them right now, holding their phones. Saanvi will be sitting cross-legged on her bed, one hand tugging at her hair. Holden will be sprawled on his couch, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and his TV.
The three of us met in an after-school art class in fourth grade, where we bonded over a mutual respect for micro-art painted onto grains of rice. We wanted to try it. Our teacher, unfortunately, wanted us to copy van Gogh’s sunflowers. As in, she really, really wanted us to stay on topic. It’s possible that Saanvi may have led a teensy class rebellion, with Holden (loudly) and me (silently) cheering her on.
Our teacher quit. They had to get a substitute for the rest of the term, and the substitute let us paint on basically whatever we wanted. (Incidentally, creating anything on a grain of rice is completely impossible.)
Back then, we all went to different elementary schools. When we found each other at the sixth-grade orientation to The Mitch, it was as if we’d rediscovered our lost soul mates. I was so nervous that day, I was practically shaking. But Saanvi turned her saucer-sized eyes to me, I smiled as I recognized her, and we spent the entire tour with our arms linked. At first, Holden slouched nearby, muttering jokes under his breath. But somehow, by the end of the tour, he was linked between us.
This was around the time Holden abandoned his acting and after-school activity schedule for his gaming obsession, and before Saanvi devoted all her spare hours to calculus and app development. But even though the two of them are getting more eccentric every year, they’re still my favorites.
Mom arrives home, interrupting my doodling. She kicks off her shoes in the hallway, drops her sweater on the back of the living room chair, and smiles.
Me and Banksy Page 2