“If it’s better next time I’ll leave it.”
Ozone was killed by an underground train, maybe while planning his next piece.
Banksy must take criticism well. He put his tribute angel to Ozone in the exact same spot. He said the world had lost a fearless graffiti writer and a “pretty perceptive art critic.”
The note makes me think that Banksy must be a good sort of friend. Can you have friends when you’re anonymous?
But if he does have friends, they probably know all about him, and he trusts them to keep his secrets. They protect one another.
I think about Holden, who agreed to hang out with Josh and Max.
I think about Saanvi, willing to confront Josh in the middle of the school hallway, even when he was surrounded by his goons.
I’d create tribute artworks for them. I might even throw myself in front of a train.
I flip through a few more Banksy projects. Even in this world of cameras everywhere, and social media tracking, and ID tags and border checks, he jets around anonymously, unnoticed until his artwork catches someone’s eye. Banksy would hate the “Shotz” channel in the forums. He would hate the striptease video.
I grow more and more certain that Banksy wouldn’t let his friends fight battles for him. He wouldn’t sit around doing nothing after people were harassed on a chat forum. And he wouldn’t quietly wait for things to get better.
“Dom! Dinner’s ready!”
“Be right there!”
I hear Frank’s voice from the dining table. “This looks amazing, Carol.”
Before I lose my courage, I jot a to-do list. I’ll have to get supplies, talk to Holden and Saanvi, walk through the school and check my mental map of the cameras one more time…
Thank goodness I forgot to hand in my project proposal to Ms. Sutton yesterday. I flip through my binder, but I can’t find it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll write something else.
“Dom?”
“Coming!”
I’m going to have to change things entirely.
CHAPTER TEN
ON THE RECORD
SAANVI AND I meet up after dinner on Sunday to finish our math homework, but I get distracted delving into Saanvi’s cheesecake outing with Ana and Miranda. She’s being really weird about it.
“It was fine,” she says. And then she looks away at the corner of the room. If this were a TV crime show, she’d definitely be hiding something.
“Fine? Just fine?”
“We were studying.”
“With Ana.”
“She’s not so bad.”
I stare at her. She spent hours with two of the world’s most annoying prodigies.
“It was surprisingly fun.”
“Okay, what really happened?”
“It was just cheesecake! I had salted caramel. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”
I stare at her for a little longer, but she opens her math workbook and starts working so diligently that I eventually give up. For now.
We’ve gotten through most of the assignment when we get a text from Holden, begging us to visit.
SAANVI: Come to Dom’s place instead. We have chips.
HOLDEN: Can’t. Move.
ME: It’s late!
HOLDEN: SOS
SAANVI: Your mom won’t be happy.
HOLDEN: Mayday.
HOLDEN: Too weak to type more…
I yell to my mom that Holden’s having a homework emergency.
“Can we just run over there for twenty minutes?”
“It’s already dark,” she says, sticking her head around the corner from the kitchen.
“I’ll take my phone and we’ll stay together.”
She purses her lips. “Twenty minutes.”
Saanvi and I scramble for our shoes before she can change her mind.
SAANVI: On our way!
HOLDEN: Let yourselves in. I’m too tired to get to the door.
Saanvi rolls her eyes. “He’s joking, right?”
He must be. “He’s being ridiculous.”
It’s almost nine and his house looks dark. I feel like we’re burglars as Saanvi types in the key code and we let ourselves through the French doors at the back. I can hear voices from the living room.
“Is that the TV?” Saanvi whispers.
“A film,” I say in a snooty voice. “Holden’s parents wouldn’t watch TV.”
Suddenly a blue light glows, and a woman’s British accent fills the room. “Looking for films? I can suggest the following—”
“Shhhh!” Saanvi tries to shush the LaClaires’ virtual assistant, but it’s too late. The little white cylinder has already whirred into action.
“—this week’s releases, what’s new on Netflix, foreign films. Based on your previous choices, you might like—”
The kitchen light flicks on as Mr. and Mrs. LaClaire arrive in the doorway.
“Ah, it’s you two. I should have known!” Holden’s dad grins at us.
“Cancel,” Mrs. LaClaire tells the virtual assistant.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I say.
“A little late for a visit, isn’t it?”
Fortunately, I have my math worksheets in my bag.
“We’re dropping off homework,” I say, tugging them out.
Once they wave us upstairs, we giggle our way to Holden’s room.
“I almost jumped out of my skin when that thing turned on,” I say.
“I know!”
Then we open Holden’s bedroom door and step into another dimension.
Two years ago, Holden painted his entire room black, heritage wainscoting and all. His parents let him do this because he was “expressing his creativity,” which apparently trumped their authentic antique decor. Once the room was black, Holden taped glow-in-the-dark stars everywhere. Lately, though, most of his stars have come unstuck.
At one stage, he was going to stencil his favorite poetry onto the walls. I was hanging out in his room when he started, choosing a poem that was completely inappropriate for sixth-graders.
His mom came in as he was finishing a line with the F-word in it.
“Oh, I just adore Lorna’s work,” she said.
Holden looked like she’d punctured his rebellion balloon, and that was the end of his poetry idea.
Tonight, he looks as if he’s been punctured again. Plus, he stinks.
“Are you alright?” Saanvi sits on his desk chair and swivels back and forth, apparently taking in the disaster area that serves as his carpet. There are piles of dirty laundry in the corners, books strewn on the floor with their spines cracked open, and a teetering pile of dirty dishes near the door.
Holden is sprawled on his back across his bed. “I sacrificed my body for you.”
“That sounds…uncomfortable.”
“Pick-up basketball with Josh and Max,” he says. “It was uncomfortable. You have no idea.”
It would be highly unsanitary to sit on Holden’s floor, so I perch at the edge of his bed.
“It’s all about points,” he says.
“Basketball?”
He props himself on his elbows and looks at me. “No, not basketball. I went undercover like you said.”
“And?”
“It’s a contest. Everyone’s going to get points for the most embarrassing moments caught on film. A shot of someone scratching their butt might be worth one point. A shot of teachers making out in the staff room would be five points.”
“Teachers were making out in the staff room? Who?” Saanvi asks.
He waves a hand in the air, then lets it flop back onto the mattress as if it’s too heavy to hold up. “Just an example.”
“So my video was part of some stupid contest?”
“Not according to them. No one’s claiming credit for your video. Max di
dn’t seem to know who accessed it. You inspired their contest.”
“Wow. I’m so glad I can be motivational.” Except entirely not. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.
“But the post came from Josh’s account,” Saanvi insists.
“If it was him, he wasn’t bragging about it.”
Even though Principal Plante deleted the forum post, my video’s still making the rounds via text. Just this afternoon, three people sent it to me with notes like “thought you should know.” As if I might not realize my bra is having a cyber crisis. As if I don’t feel nauseated every time I think about it.
“It’s not on Facebook, right?” I look at Saanvi miserably.
“It’s not anywhere public. I’ve been checking.”
“Unless it counts as public to have Josh flashing his phone screen around,” Holden says.
I groan. “This is all a game to them.”
“Bingo.”
Which seems too happy a word.
“How can you be so calm about this?” Saanvi scowls at Holden. “It makes me want to riot. Or at least sue someone.”
“I’m not calm,” Holden says, completely calmly. “I just don’t see how this helps Dom, or what we can do about it. Principal Plante will cover for Josh, if he started this.”
He’s right. Josh’s mom is not objective. If the Pacific Ocean represented objectivity, she’d be way over on the Atlantic. Last winter, after Josh didn’t get chosen for the school’s wrestling team, Principal Plante cancelled the team’s travel funding.
None of this makes things better. But I have my plan, now.
“You know, Josh is one of the problems…”
“A massive, obnoxious problem,” Saanvi interrupts.
“And if someone else gave him my video, or posted it with his account, that person is a problem, too.”
“I still think it was him,” she says.
“But listen,” I say. “These people aren’t the only problems. It’s the cameras. If the school wasn’t watching us all the time, there wouldn’t be videos to post.”
“YOU’RE SO ENTIRELY RIGHT!” Saanvi jumps from her chair and starts pacing Holden’s room. “Let’s start a petition to get the cameras removed. Or talk to Miranda about a media blitz.”
A media blitz. Just what we need. My video will be everywhere. Maybe they’ll put one of those fuzzy boxes over my face, but everyone will know it’s me. Me and my bra on TV.
“I think we need something more subtle…,” I manage.
She doesn’t seem to hear me. “Or hold a march. A massive one. And I still want to get Josh expelled, even if you say he’s not the main problem.”
If she would slow down for a minute, I’d tell them about the squirrels. I should have told them last week. I don’t know why I didn’t, except that the artwork seemed a little silly. I guess I was drawing them to make myself feel a bit better, not to solve the camera issue. Or the Josh issue, for that matter. But now, things are going to change.
Saanvi’s phone buzzes.
“Argh. My mom’s looking for me.”
She types a few words. “She’s meeting me outside. I have to go.”
“But I need to talk about—”
She doesn’t seem to hear. “Thanks for the info, Holden. Even if it sucks.”
Saanvi shuts the door behind her.
I feel myself deflate. I wanted to tell her what I’m planning, but now she’s gone and Holden’s basically comatose.
“I guess I’d better go, too.”
“Don’t even think about leaving!” he says, eyes snapping open. “How can you abandon me in this state? Especially now that Saanvi’s gotten me all riled up.”
“You don’t look riled up. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“It was a long day. And my legs hurt. And my arms. Also my right elbow. And—”
Holden has his own ensuite, which is slightly less disgusting than the rest of his room because a housekeeper cleans the bathrooms once a week. I find an empty crystal glass, refill it, and set it on his end table beside his phone.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” I tell him.
He grabs my hand as I turn to go.
“Hey,” he says.
“Um…hey.”
“I’m just…I’m sorry this video stuff happened. It wasn’t fair,” he says.
I’ve held it together pretty well all week. I put on a brave face for my mom and George. After the one small puking incident, I managed to ignore the whispers at school. I didn’t cry in Principal Plante’s office. Much.
But at this moment, when Holden apologizes for something that’s entirely not his fault, and he says it like he’d make it all go away if he could, I almost lose it.
Then a text comes through on his phone. I don’t mean to look. But because I’m still standing beside his end table…
It’s a text from Miranda.
MIRANDA: You awake, handsome?
I disentangle my fingers from his and hand him the phone. He looks at the screen for a second too long.
“I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I say.
He tosses the phone onto his blankets. “What? Why? We could watch a movie. Can’t you call your mom and tell her you’ll be late?”
I slide away and make a break for the door. I’m gritting my teeth so hard that there’s no chance of crying. Or very little chance. Or, okay, maybe a minor chance, but not until I’m out the door and down the stairs and into the street. I know I told my mom that Saanvi and I would be together the whole time, but at this moment I’m entirely grateful to be alone in the dark where no one can see me.
By the time I get to the end of Holden’s block, I’m done with sniveling. I’m back to planning street art. Or school art, in this case.
I can see why Banksy’s stencils are useful. A drawing or a painting takes five or ten minutes. With a stencil, I could be done in seconds. The nighttime concierge says hello to me as I cross the lobby toward the elevators. I barely wave in response. I’m too busy planning.
* * *
—
Holden’s unusually quiet on the way to Saanvi’s house on Monday morning. I figure he’s daydreaming about a certain person’s tights and high heels. He’ll probably want to talk all about Miranda for the rest of the day.
It turns out I’m right. But not in the way I think.
As soon as Saanvi joins us, and we’re out of sight of her house, Holden pulls up his text stream and shows us a video clip sent by one of the orangutans. The video shows Miranda rushing through the hallway. Someone sticks out a foot—accidentally or on purpose, it’s impossible to tell—and she goes sailing over it. Her books fly into the air, her pencil case slides down the hall, and she lands hard on her elbows and her chin. The video plays her fall forward, then in reverse, then forward again, like an internet GIF.
It’s a little different than the others. It looks as if it were shot on someone’s phone, not stolen from the school cameras. And it’s been texted directly to Holden.
I lean closer to read the words below the video.
YOU IN OR OUT, BRO? THESE THREE POINTS PUT JOSH IN THE LEAD.
Saanvi and I have stopped walking.
“It’s your fault I’m involved in this,” Holden says.
Saanvi nods, her nose wrinkled like she’s smelled something rotten. “Seriously, completely, horribly our fault.”
Ugh. If I felt icky looking at poor Marcus’s fly video last week, or Ana’s nose-picking, I feel a thousand times worse now. Maybe if I’d caused more of a stink about my video—if I’d told Mom and George, and let them call meetings and raise hell—this new clip wouldn’t exist.
Thinking about Marcus reminds me. “Hey, have either of you seen Marcus lately?”
They both shrug.
“I think he found out about his video and then quit school or something. I haven
’t seen him in ages.”
“That’s terrible,” Saanvi says.
“But we have a bigger issue here,” Holden says, waving his phone at us.
“Tell Josh you’re out,” I say. “Then it’s done.”
“No, don’t,” Saanvi says. She’s peering closely at the screen, zooming in on the video.
“What do you mean, no?” Holden says.
“If you say no, we lose our access to what they’re planning.”
Holden looks as disgusted as I feel. I can’t really blame him. The guy avoids group work like the plague for three years, and then we rope him into a demented sort of project with a group of primates.
“Saanvi, we can’t make him participate. If these guys are caught, they’ll get expelled.”
“How would they get caught? They can’t post on the forums anymore. Now they’re just sending videos to their own group. No one’s going to rat them out. And even if they did get caught, they wouldn’t be expelled. Not with Josh in the lead.”
“Exactly. Josh wouldn’t get expelled, so they’d need a scapegoat,” Holden says miserably.
“This video isn’t an accident. It’s well planned. I want to see where they shot it.” With that, Saanvi hitches up her backpack and starts fast-walking toward the school.
“You are not sucking me into this!” Holden shouts, hurrying to catch up.
They argue the rest of the way, and continue in whisper-hisses as they cross the foyer.
Then Saanvi stops abruptly, her eyes on the alcove.
“What is that?” She pulls out her phone. “What’s a panopcon?”
I bite my tongue before I correct her pronunciation, but that doesn’t stop Holden from glancing my way.
“The squirrel’s an interesting choice,” he says.
I make a noncommittal sound. I’ve been wanting to tell them, but now I’ve forgotten everything I planned to say. I’ve forgotten how I was planning to explain the connection between graffiti squirrels and our security system issues.
“A panopcon’s a prison of some sort,” Saanvi reads from her phone. She’s still mispronouncing it, and it kills me not to say the word properly.
Me and Banksy Page 9