Me and Banksy

by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  Ana catches up to us, clutching The Miracle of Mitosis again. Or still.

  “Everything okay?” she chirps.

  Saanvi and I glance at one another. It’s great that the forum posts have disappeared, but everything is definitely not okay. It shouldn’t be okay for Ana, either. How did she go from nose-picking nightmare to miracle of mitosis so quickly?

  “Fine,” Saanvi and I say at the same time.

  “You look a bit tired,” Ana tells me.

  Maybe she was the only person in the school who didn’t see my video. She probably spent yesterday solving climate change or saving endangered penguins. Or she’s already writing a memoir about her own social media mishap and how she bravely overcame it.

  She bounces on the balls of her feet. “Dommi, I was thinking we could have a study session, for our ethics project? Saanvi, you could come too, of course, if you want to hang out. We could all brainstorm together. And then we’ll make sure our ideas don’t overlap, too. We could go to my house…”

  “We have a lot going on right now,” I say, in what must be a world-record-breaking understatement.

  “But you don’t even know when—”

  Josh whips past the three of us.

  “Hey, Dom,” he calls over his shoulder. “Looking good.”

  Which wouldn’t be horrible if he didn’t cup his hands to his chest as he said it.

  Every time I think I might be okay, or that having had my bra appear on the forums isn’t a major problem if viewed from space, something like this happens and I feel my insides crumble.

  Saanvi immediately puts a hand on my arm. Ana stares after Josh, one miniature eyebrow raised. I can tell she’s about to ask me what’s going on, and I really don’t want to explain. For once I’m almost glad when Mr. Nowak appears.

  “Get a move on, girls!”

  Before his voice stops echoing from the lockers, the three of us are hurrying up the stairs toward humanities. I have no binder, no paper, no pens, but Mr. Lee doesn’t seem to notice. As soon as we arrive, he turns to the board and begins droning on about the golden age of Roman poetry.

  I put my fingers on my temples, as if that might stop my brain from disintegrating.

  “What’s up?” Holden mouths from across the aisle, but I shake my head.

  From the desk behind mine, Saanvi keeps sympathetically patting my shoulder. Which is going to make me cry soon.

  The back row, as always, is a chorus of rustlings and whispers.

  I glance back and accidentally meet Max’s gaze. I jerk my eyes forward again, but my ears stay tuned. The guys are listing numbers. I can’t make any sense of them.

  “Seriously? I could rack up a billion points before you even start.” That’s Josh’s voice.

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Start counting,” Josh says.

  “Ms. Rivers?” When Mr. Lee calls my name, I snap to attention. He waits, eyebrows raised.

  “Uh…could you repeat the question, please?”

  I hate that I blush so easily. I hate that I’m such a pleaser, humiliated when I miss one question. Josh could miss a thousand and he wouldn’t care.

  “Reasons for the eventual downfall of the Roman Empire,” Mr. Lee repeats. He’s tall and thin and wears a black suit to school every single day. According to the historical record, he last smiled in 1973.

  “Um…assassinations?”

  The back row erupts in snickers because that word contains ass and because they’re morons.

  Mr. Lee ignores them.

  “That might be considered a symptom rather than a cause,” he says. “Correct answers include invading tribes, government corruption, unsustainable expansion…”

  Ana waves her hand in the air and says something about lead poisoning.

  “An interesting point,” Mr. Lee says.

  I scowl. Behind me, the whispering continues. Then a crunched-up ball of paper lands on the floor beside my desk. When I lean down to get it, a long, slow wolf whistle sounds from behind me.

  Saanvi spins around. “Will you guys shut up?”

  Josh throws his hands in the air as if he’s completely innocent and has never had a wrongful thought in his life.

  “Idiot,” I mutter.

  Mr. Lee clicks his tongue.

  “Temper, girls,” he says.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I swear, I have a disability. I wish I could amputate my tear ducts. Why is this happening to me?

  I face resolutely forward, blink hard, and press my lips together.

  I find myself staring at an empty desk. It’s Marcus’s spot, I realize, but there’s no sign of him. I try to remember when I last saw him. Did he finally check the forums, and find the video of his shirt flapping from his open fly?

  A random burst of laughter from the back row.

  It’s sort of serendipitous that Mr. Lee’s talking about the end of the Roman Empire. I can think of a few empires I’d like to end today.

  * * *

  —

  The day ticks by so slowly, I feel as if the universe is torturing me. I’ve never been so happy to hear the final bell. But the minute I reach my locker, I get a text.

  MIRANDA: Hey Dom! This is Miranda. I’m posting a piece on The Mitch Mash blog about the forum hacks. I would love if you could comment. Even a sentence or two.

  I must groan out loud, because Saanvi and Holden lean in to read over my shoulder.

  “I am NOT talking to her.”

  First I have the world’s most humiliating video posted, and then I become a poster-child activist against bad internet memes? No thanks.

  “You could…”

  “Absolutely not.” I can tell Saanvi’s going to say that it might be useful. It might save other people from similar situations. But I just can’t. “I can’t handle one more single person knowing about this.”

  Holden shrugs. “No one reads that blog anyway.”

  Which isn’t true. Everyone at The Mitch reads Miranda’s blog. Holden proves this a minute later.

  “Did either of you try that new ice cream place she recommended? I’m starving.”

  I sigh. “I can’t eat ice cream. I have to go home and see if my mom has heard from the school.”

  “You want company?” Saanvi asks.

  Holden looks horrified, probably at the thought of being in the room while my mom and I discuss my bra on the internet.

  “Does your mom still buy those gourmet crackers?” Saanvi asks.

  Which shows she’s an absolute genius, because yes, my mom does still buy those crackers, and Brie, and that’s enough to convince Holden to join us.

  Apparently, there’s been no phone call. When Mom comes home, she has her post-yoga glow. She convinces Holden and Saanvi to stay for dinner, and seems completely happy stuffing us with fish tacos and guacamole, with Mexican chocolate torte for dessert.

  The torte isn’t exactly traditional. Mom made it in individual ramekins and decorated the tops with shiny pink candies.

  “They’re like disco tortes!” Saanvi says.

  Mom laughs. “I should call them that on my menus.”

  She disappears into her room to catch up on work, after the three of us promise to handle the dishes.

  “But not quite yet. I can’t move,” I tell Saanvi and Holden.

  We’re sprawled across the living room like overstuffed walruses, and our eating has disintegrated into picking the pink candies from the top of an extra torte and tossing them at one another.

  “Hang on a sec,” Holden says. He takes a photo of a leftover taco. Then he grabs my laptop and opens it on the coffee table, right in the middle of our mess.

  “Don’t spill stuff on my computer!” The school assigns our laptops, and I’m sure Ms. Plante wouldn’t be happy to have Holden’s torte crumbs sprinkled across my keyboard. “Another meeting with the principal is th
e last thing I need.”

  He ignores me.

  “Are you listening?” I reach to nudge my computer farther away. Then I toss a pink candy at Holden. He catches it on his tongue like a frog.

  “My turn!” Saanvi lines up on the couch behind him and I aim a candy at her mouth. I miss and try again. The third time, Holden pops up and swallows it en route.

  Saanvi can’t stop laughing.

  It gets worse when Holden grabs the laptop again and, after a minute, turns the screen toward me. He’s transferred over the photo of my mom’s taco, and it’s now one of the Rocky Mountain peaks. It fits surprisingly well.

  Saanvi snort-laughs.

  “Okay, stop. The neighbors are going to complain.”

  But I’m laughing, too. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the ache in my gut and the fact that everyone in the school has seen me strip, over and over again.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “Uh-oh,” Holden says. He passes me his phone. The Mitch has sent a mass email.

  Dear Mitchell Academy Families,

  Please see the following information about ethical use of the internet at Mitchell Academy. Your child’s online safety is our highest concern. As always, securitas genera victoria.

  Prohibited:

  • Use of the internet to transmit any materials in violation of board policies, local, provincial, or federal laws;

  • Duplicating, storing, downloading, or sharing threatening, abusive, or obscene material.

  Students are warned against the following:

  • Sharing or revealing passwords;

  • Using or attempting to use another person’s user ID and/or password;

  • Accessing or attempting to access any part of the system without authorization.

  The electronic system is a shared resource and it must be used in a way that does not disrupt services to others. We encourage you to discuss this with your children.

  Sincerely,

  Mitchell Academy Administration

  A minute later, my phone rings.

  “Hi, George.”

  “The school sent an email, darling. Anything I need to worry about?”

  “Nope.” Absolutely nothing for my grandmother to worry about. Ever. “I’m here with Saanvi and Holden. They stayed for dinner.”

  “How lovely. Say hello for me, darling.”

  I hang up, feeling as if I’ve narrowly escaped. When I droop, Saanvi slings an arm around my shoulders.

  “You’re going to get through this. We’ll do it together. Alright?”

  I nod. I’m going to handle everything. But it feels like climbing a taco mountain. I wish I knew how, exactly, I’m supposed to do it.

  * * *

  —

  It’s after eight by the time we finish the dishes and Saanvi and Holden head home. Mom emerges from her room, pours herself a glass of wine, and flops onto the living room couch. I can tell in a glance that she hasn’t had a call from Ms. Plante.

  She never bothers to read the school emails.

  She might not find out.

  I drop onto the couch beside her. Once I’m there, I can see a stockpile of pink candies under our coffee table—the remains of our mini-food-fight. At this moment, picking them up seems like too much work.

  Mom’s phone buzzes and she glances at the text.

  “Work?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Frank’s asking me out for a drink. Will you be alright?”

  My insides could be served on one of her skewers, but I don’t want to explain everything. If I do, I’ll end up crying again, she’ll cancel her date and call the school, and there will be another excruciating meeting with Ms. Plante. Then there’s the issue of explaining to George how I wound up shirtless on video.

  George is the one who actually pays for The Mitch. After this, she might decide on Swiss boarding school. Or Amish homeschool. Or Antarctica, which might not be so bad.

  I force myself to nod. “Sure.”

  “You’ll have to meet Frank soon, Dominica. He’s quite luscious.”

  “Eww, Mom.”

  She laughs. “Alright, then. He’s kind. And smart. And handsome.”

  Mom’s brought home two or three guys over the years and they’ve all been…interesting.

  I give her a long look. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is naturally curly and falls in perfect tendrils. She has big dark eyes, long eyelashes, and perfect cheekbones.

  “Do you ever get…unwanted attention?”

  “Ugh,” she says, shaking her head. “Men can be pigs sometimes.”

  “So what do you do about it?”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Does someone have a crush on you?”

  I snort. The idea of me having that particular problem is sort of ridiculous. I might have the same genetic ingredients as Mom, but something went wrong in the execution. My soufflé flopped.

  No, I have a different sort of issue.

  “I’m filing information for future use,” I tell her.

  She nods and swings her feet around so she’s sitting up straight. I can tell she’s preparing to have a motherhood moment. I think she secretly likes these. Since I’m the one who keeps us organized around here, and she’s the one most in need of a curfew, her chances are rare.

  “The best thing to do is to avoid getting into a situation you can’t control,” she says. “That means sticking with your friends, making good decisions, and keeping your head clear.” She pauses. “Is there drinking at your school? Or drugs? Frank says private schools are hotbeds for drugs.”

  “Mom! No one I know takes drugs.”

  I’m not sure any of Mom’s advice would have saved me from having this video spread across the school. I wasn’t drinking or taking drugs or in a bad situation. I was flipping my shirt right-side out! Maybe things have gotten more complicated since Mom was thirteen.

  “I need to get ready.” Mom stands and plants a kiss on my forehead. “You be careful out there, alright?”

  She sounds like Lou.

  “Always,” I promise.

  She’s barely turned away when my phone buzzes.

  MIRANDA: Dom? I know this is a stressful time, but I think it would be helpful if people could hear your point of view.

  Scowling at Miranda’s text, I chuck my phone to the far side of the couch and pull my laptop toward me. I click on a YouTube video about making stencils, and watch as the instructor uses a knife to slice a design into sheets of thin, clear plastic called acetate. She uses a separate sheet for each color in her design.

  It’s nice to think about something unrelated to my life.

  I’m so absorbed that I jump when Mom rushes back into the room. She’s transformed herself into someone ten years younger. Short, cream-colored dress (Naples yellow light), wedge heels, dangly gold earrings. Any attention my mom draws tonight is entirely intentional.

  “You be careful out there, too,” I tell her.

  She laughs as she heads out the door.

  I put the laptop aside and drag myself off the couch to do a pink-candy cleanup. At least some messes are easy to fix.

  When I’m done, I retrieve my phone from the couch cushions. There are texts waiting for me.

  SAANVI:

  HOLDEN:

  ME: Argh. Holden, you were right last year when you said the cameras were a terrible idea and an invasion of our privacy.

  SAANVI: Wasn’t he kind of a jerk? Didn’t he say you’d been brainwashed?

  HOLDEN: Sorry about that.

  ME: And anxious. You also said I was anxious.

  SAANVI: Which he’s now going to feel guilty about basically forever.

  HOLDEN: True.

  ME: But you were right. Entirely, 100% right.

  HOLDEN: You too.

  ME:
I don’t think we can both be 100% right.

  SAANVI: You can. Quantum physics.

  ME: I’ll take your word for it.

  HOLDEN: Sorry.

  ME: Me too.

  ME: Also, Ms. Plante is a gorgon.

  SAANVI: OMG. IKR??

  I take my computer into my bedroom. This time, I don’t search for more Banksy videos. Instead, I type a name into the Google search bar.

  Graydon Cameron.

  Immediately, a dozen photos appear. Graydon Cameron and my mom, holding giant drinks with pink paper umbrellas. Graydon Cameron in a leather jacket, standing beside a motorcycle. Graydon Cameron on the beach, holding a football. He isn’t shy. In that image—the same one that sits on my mom’s dresser—he’s staring straight into the camera lens. His green eyes seem to sparkle with laughter.

  Mom says I have his eyes.

  She also says motorcycles are evil creations and if I ever get on one, she’ll kill me. Which doesn’t make logical sense, but I get what she means.

  Graydon Cameron has never typed my name into a search bar, because he died in a motorcycle accident when I was a baby. One of the images that pops up on Google is the program from his funeral.

  Every once in a while, I wonder what Graydon Cameron would think of me. He and Mom never even got married, but Mom says they were going to. She says once I was old enough, I would have been the flower girl at their wedding. Graydon Cameron probably would have taken me biking. Or taught me to ski. He might have loved even my lamest sketches.

  It kind of sucks not having a dad.

  Then again, the only thing worse than telling your mom about having your bra online would be telling your dad about having your bra online.

  I click on the school forum.

  The posts are still gone.

  The posts are gone.

  The posts are gone.