I’m literally saved by the bell.
* * *
—
Saanvi points as the three of us hurry toward homeroom.
“This is where Miranda’s video was shot. In this hallway. And look. That’s Josh’s locker, right there.”
“Looking for me?”
Ugh. That voice. As soon as I hear it, my shoulders tense.
“It’s really impressive,” Saanvi says.
“What?”
“That you can still form words, when your IQ’s so low.”
She says it loudly enough for his friends to hear, and there’s a chorus of hoots and comebacks until Max throws a basketball at Josh’s head.
“Stop playing around, man. We’re going to be late.”
They duck into the classroom. Max glances over his shoulder and it’s possible he gives me the tiniest of nods. It’s also possible I’m imagining things.
Saanvi swears quietly as we drop into our homeroom desks. “I am SO going to get him extra expelled.”
Holden points out that being expelled is like being dead. You can’t be extra dead. Since I’m smarter than Holden, I keep my mouth shut through attendance. Ms. Marcie reads the announcements, going on forever about the school’s annual open house on May 15, and Mitchell Academy’s “exhibition of student achievements.” We’re all invited to participate.
“How tempting.” Holden yawns.
When the bell rings, Saanvi heads for math while Holden and I climb the stairs toward ethics.
Ana appears beside Holden, her legs taking two steps for each one of his. “Did you hear the announcement? I love the open house. What are you going to submit?”
She loves the open house? I have to admit, I’ve never been to it. It’s more of a fundraising event for parents and alumni.
“I’m going to stay home and scrape my eyes out with a spoon,” Holden says.
Ana looks horrified.
“But you’re coming, right, Dommie?”
I almost laugh. Her eyes are so wide, she looks like a doll I used to have. When I put it down in its crib, its eyes closed. When I stood it up, they fluttered open.
“Oh, I’m definitely coming. I think I’m going to create a life-sized sculpture as my submission. Or maybe a mural across the entire school entrance.”
“I think you might need special permission.” She looks sincerely concerned, and I feel a little guilty.
“I’m kidding, Ana. I don’t think I’m going.”
“But…”
I peel off toward my desk and I don’t hear the rest of her sentence. I do notice Miranda, though, in the desk across from mine. Her eyes are red and puffy.
It’s hard to be properly jealous when someone’s that miserable.
“Sorry,” I whisper, sliding into my seat. “It gets easier after a few days.”
“Don’t let them see you sweat,” Holden says, settling into the desk in front of hers.
She sniffs and nods. Then Ms. Sutton breezes into class and we get to forget about cameras for a while.
Ahead of Her Time
Dominica Rivers
Though barred from art school because of her gender, Montreal painter Henrietta Edwards studied privately in New York under portrait artist Wyatt Eaton. Her paintings of public figures such as Wilfrid Laurier and Lord Strathcona were exhibited widely. But Henrietta was just as dedicated to her work for equal rights. She and her sister ran a progressive women’s magazine, established an organization to provide girls with housing and jobs, and embarked on a private study of women’s rights laws. Henrietta went on to help women win the right to vote.
I can’t very well hand in my Banksy proposal while I’m planning my own acts of graffiti. That would be like putting a guilty sticker on my forehead. Besides, I can’t find my Banksy notes in my binder. I dredge up a memory from one of George’s past book loans, and I scribble a new project proposal in five minutes flat.
My next class is art, a nice escape from the drama of the rest of the school. Except that Ms. Crofton is still wearing her baggy clothes, and Marcus is still missing.
I don’t know where Miranda’s supposed to be during second period, but she apparently isn’t doing schoolwork. A blog notification pops up in the middle of class. I slide my phone beneath my desk to read it.
The Mitch Mash
Security Scandal Simmering
by Miranda Bowen
Another inappropriate school video has surfaced, this one showing a student being intentionally tripped in the hallway. That student is me.
Last week, the forums were closed after anonymous users uploaded files showing a teacher sitting on her desk, a student having a wardrobe malfunction, a student picking her nose, and another taking off her shirt. These posts were removed, but copies continue to circulate.
The original videos were obtained through school security cameras. The most recent, showing me being tripped, was filmed on a cell phone and circulated via text message. A copy was sent to me by a source who wishes to remain anonymous.
Impressive. I kind of wish I’d gone public with my video, just to show everyone I wasn’t upset. Except I was upset.
And at least Miranda’s not showing her bra in hers.
I slide my phone away and turn back to our perspective exercise, drawing a city street stretching into the distance. I’m filling in the lampposts when Ms. Crofton stops by my desk.
“This is nice shading,” she says, touching the paper gently.
“Saanvi and I take after-school lessons on Fridays,” I say. “We’ve been working on shading.” For weeks now, because Andrei is obsessed.
“Well, keep up the good work,” she says.
“Ms. Crofton,” I blurt before she can move away. “Did you talk to Marcus?”
She looks uncomfortable.
“I was just worried, because he hasn’t been at school since…”
“Well, we all deal with things in our own ways, in our own time,” she says. “Hopefully he’ll be back soon.”
But she doesn’t sound especially hopeful.
As we finish our sketches, Ms. Crofton begins lining up spray-paint cans atop the bookshelf in the back corner of the room. They must be for the next class. But they’re tempting, sitting there.
It’s ridiculously easy. When the bell rings, someone stops to ask Ms. Crofton a question. Everyone else is pushing toward the hallway. I pretend I’m still stuffing my laptop into my open pack as I head for the door. It takes only a nanosecond to pull a spray can from the shelf and tuck it into my bag.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHADOWS AND (RED) LIGHT
THE PHONE RINGS on Monday night. I know it’s George, because she’s the only one who ever calls our landline.
“Is your mother out tonight, darling? I could come over, and we might watch a movie together.”
I’ve been sitting on the couch scrolling through my texts. Holden sent me Miranda’s video. I watched it, and then my own library striptease, and ended up feeling more confused and angry than ever. I should have been able to prevent this. I could have kept my clothes on, for one thing. And maybe I could have stopped the videos before Miranda’s was posted.
I don’t think I can sit on the couch beside George and pretend that everything’s normal. Not tonight.
“That’s so sweet, George, but I’m exhausted and I have a ton of homework. Could we watch a movie another time?”
“Are you feeling okay? You sound stuffy.”
“Maybe I’m getting a cold.”
“Do you want me to bring you some soup? They have that amazing broth at the shop down the street. Soup-er, it’s called. Isn’t that clever?”
“I’m totally fine, George. I’m going to get my homework done and go to bed early.”
“Okay, darling. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you feel.”
She’s going to
make me cry.
“I will.” I manage to sound almost normal.
“Love you,” she says.
I barely get off the phone before I lose it. If there are drones peering in through the apartment building windows tonight, they’re going to see snot. A lot of snot.
After a while, I climb into bed. In the dark, I can imagine my next squirrel. Though I haven’t managed to tell Holden and Saanvi yet, I’m still going to paint it. It’ll be bigger than the others. Much more complicated. But perfect. So perfect, I can’t sleep. Eventually, I climb out of bed and spend an hour clipping a stencil out of computer paper. Cutting is trickier than drawing. It takes me seven tries to get it right. Finally, I roll it up, tuck it into my pack, and climb back into bed.
When I glance at my phone, there’s a text waiting.
HOLDEN: Did you know there’s a difference between hot chocolate and hot cocoa?
ME: ??
HOLDEN: One’s made with milk and one with water.
ME: Which is which?
HOLDEN: Sry, no time to discuss. Busy adjusting my whole worldview.
ME: It’s late! Go to bed!
* * *
—
Mr. Nowak drones on about variables on Tuesday morning, and I can’t sit still. As soon as he turns to the whiteboard, I grab the bathroom pass and duck into the hall.
The bathroom is my first stop, and I tug on my hoodie while I’m in there. When Saanvi pointed out where Josh and his cretins shot the Miranda video, I remembered the blind spot outside the door of the photography lab. But if I’m wrong about the camera range, and I’m caught on video, I don’t want to be easy to identify. Head down, hood pulled tight, I slide from the door of the bathroom and down the right side of the hallway, where I should be safe.
My footsteps echo.
I’m holding my stencil rolled in my hand. I have to force my fingers loose, so I don’t crush it.
I’m almost to the perfect spot when I hear voices. Teachers’ voices, coming around the corner.
I dive into the darkroom.
“What the—” A voice cuts through the darkness.
My heart stops.
“Dude, you can’t come in when the red light is on!”
I had no idea people used this place. Who still develops film? But there are clotheslines crisscrossing the room with white prints fluttering from them. Someone’s whipping them down, one after another.
The teachers’ voices pass, not pausing.
I squint to see who’s here in the darkness with me. I feel as if I’ve been caught. But I haven’t done anything. Not yet.
“Dominica?”
A red light finds me, pinning me against the door.
I finally recognize the voice. It’s Max. I’d forgotten he was a photographer of the old-fashioned, develop-your-own-film type. His sports shots are always in the school newspaper—slam dunks and volleyball spikes. But in here, pinned to one end of the clothesline, is a portrait of some sort.
Dropping the light from my eyes, he pulls down the photo and puts it with a stack of others.
“You could have ruined my film, dude.”
“Sorry,” I manage. My mouth is dry and the chemical smell makes it worse.
“What are you doing in here, anyway?”
I should go back to class. After all, Max has seen me. When the stencil appears on the wall outside, he’ll tell the rest of the guys that it was me. Plus my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat and my hands are shaking. How am I even going to hold the marker?
The spray can I swiped from the art room is still in my pack. Paint will be faster.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
I remind myself he’s one of the orangutans.
“I’m fine.” I should go. I fumble for the door handle in the dim light.
“Sorry about the whole video thing,” he says. “I wanted to tell you that last week, but I thought talking about it might make it worse.”
He sounds sincere. I pause at the door.
“So, Dom…what are you doing in here?”
“Kind of hiding.”
“Okay…”
When I don’t say anything else, he waves me over. “Come and look at this.”
It’s a picture of the side wall of The Mitch, with part of a cherry tree framed along the edge. Max has caught a gust of cherry blossoms blowing horizontally along the wall.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Did you just happen to see them?”
“I noticed a bunch of them blowing, but I missed the shot, and then I sat outside for an hour waiting for it to happen again.”
I’m taken aback. I’m going to have to rethink Max’s entire personality.
“So,” he says, after I’ve stared at his photo for a moment too long. “You’re hiding.”
“I’m about to paint something on the wall outside.”
I don’t know why I tell him. Why in the world would I blab to Max Lin when I haven’t even managed to tell Holden and Saanvi? It’s something about the blossoms. Or his voice in the darkroom. Or maybe the chemicals have addled my brain.
He laughs, and then he stops. “You’re what? Not really?”
When I shrug, he flicks on another light. We’re bathed in a weird, alien red, but at least I can see his face.
“You don’t seem like the vandalism type,” he says.
“It’s…um…street art?” It sounds too much like a justification in front of a jury. Max isn’t the judge here. I hope. I repeat the words without the question mark attached. “It’s street art. I have a good reason.”
“Okay…”
I wipe my palms on my jeans and turn to go.
“Well, good luck, dude,” he says.
I crack open the door, listening for anyone in the hallway.
“Maybe you could decide soon? I have another roll of film and I don’t want you wrecking it.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Then I think of another problem.
“Hey, Max, slam the door when you leave, and head toward math.”
I don’t want him blamed, and hopefully the door slamming will help. They’ll have him on video heading toward the darkroom. Then they’ll hear the door and see him leaving afterwards. It’s not much of an alibi, with the blind spot, but it’s better than nothing.
Max definitely thinks I’m crazy.
“It’s important,” I say.
“Sure.”
Okay. Before I lose my nerve again, I take a deep breath and step into the hallway. Almost there. I glance through the door to the main photography lab. Empty. There are cameras directly above me, pointing east along the hall, but none are aimed down to where I stand. I hope.
My phone buzzes and I almost have a stroke.
It’s Mom. If I don’t answer, she’ll start phoning.
MOM: Your room looks like a tsunami struck. Are you alright?
ME: Sorry. School project.
MOM: What kind of school project? An origami festival?
ME: I’ll clean it up tonight.
MOM: My genes are catching up to you. You sure you’re okay?
ME: All good. Sorry about the mess.
MOM:
MOM: Working again tonight. George will pick you up for dinner.
ME: Perfect.
I’m sure I’ll be great company at dinner, as I worry about getting arrested.
First things first. I glance up and down the hallway to make sure it’s still empty and that I’m in the exact blind spot between the cameras. Then I pull the stencil from my bag and unroll it. Taping it as high as I can reach along the wall, I spray the paint back and forth over the paper.
It’s done.
When I rip off the stencil, the art looks even bigger and bolder than I expected.
I’m still admiring it when the bell rin
gs to change classes. Frantically, I re-roll the stencil around the paint can. I check my hood one last time, duck my head, and join the crowd emerging from the nearby art room.
I make one quick stop in the restroom and bury my paint can in the garbage.
Nothing to see here.
* * *
—
I feel as if I’ve run a marathon by the time I reach my house after school.
“Survived another day?” Lou asks as I walk through the lobby.
“Barely.”
I throw my backpack into my closet, change my sweatshirt for a sundress, and brush my hair. Then I head back downstairs. George has already pulled up to the curb outside.
“How was school? Busy?” she asks.
I smooth my hair again.
“Yup. Fairly busy.” All of a sudden, I feel giddy. Maybe this is why people rob banks. Maybe it’s for the rush afterwards. I could be headed for a life of crime…
“Are you okay?” she asks, as she points the car toward Granville.
I realize I’m laughing out loud. I may be hysterical.
Get it together, Dominica.
“It was a fun day. I helped a friend with…um…a photography project.”
“Holden?”
“Um…yes.”
I am definitely the worst criminal ever. I can’t even keep my lies realistic.
George clicks her tongue. “Those teachers ask a lot of you. Are you feeling alright? You look flushed.”
“I’m feeling perfect.”
I am. Despite my inability to construct a half-believable alibi, I’m feeling perfect. At this exact moment, I don’t even care if I get caught. I’ve done something. I’ve said what I needed to say.
George parks in front of La Patisserie.
“Might as well keep it simple tonight,” she says.
She orders miso-marinated sablefish. I ask for linguini. Then I manage to get my brain working for long enough to ask about her afternoon (meeting with a new artist) and her plans for the weekend (theater show). We have a delicious dinner, including a slice of tiramisu, which we share.
Me and Banksy Page 10