Me and Banksy

by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a book,” George says, as we’re finishing the last bites.

  “I kinda want to keep the Banksy one for a little longer. Is that alright? Do you need it back in the gallery store?”

  She waves a hand. “No, no. Keep it as long as you want. I ordered this one specially for you, to go with it.”

  It’s a thick hardcover with a sort of academic look. Reclaiming the Streets: A History of Urban Art.

  “Not that I’m encouraging you to go spray-painting things, of course.”

  I nearly choke. “Of course.”

  “But I thought it would make a nice companion to the other book.”

  “I love it.”

  She beams at me. It’s really not difficult to make George happy.

  It’s not until she’s dropped me back at the apartment and I’m changing into my pajamas that I notice the black patch of paint on my finger.

  I scrub at it under the bathroom sink. I scrub it with soap, and then with bathtub cleanser, and it still doesn’t come off.

  I wonder if Banksy ever had this problem.

  * * *

  —

  The apartment seems too quiet. When I’ve finished my homework, I search Graydon Cameron again and spend a while imagining what it might have been like to live with him.

  George says he was wild, and Mom was wild, and she didn’t settle down until after his death.

  Years ago, when Mom was working and I was mad about getting left at home with a babysitter, I used to imagine my dad had faked his own death. He’d arrive in a limousine to tell me he’d been living in Costa Rica the whole time. He’d come back to collect me.

  “Come and stay with me,” he’d say.

  “What about Mom?”

  “There will be a custody dispute.” He’d nod mysteriously.

  Custody dispute. Those were the words I’d learned from Mom after that little boy disappeared from our neighborhood. Missing: Daniel Donavan. His sad eyes looking out from beneath long lashes. When they found him, Mom said it had all been a custody dispute.

  Probably, the custody dispute would make my dad want to whisk me all the way to Costa Rica, where I’d learn to surf and speak sign language with monkeys. Mom would have to put up posters and tell everyone I was missing. Then she’d be sorry for leaving me with the babysitter.

  I shake my head at the memory of my custody dispute fantasy. I suppose I was a little confused about kidnappings. And maybe limousines, too.

  Graydon Cameron does have nice eyes, though. They crinkle at the corners when he laughs. I’m not sure how I feel about Google preserving him forever, but at least he looks happy in the photos.

  * * *

  —

  I meet Holden and Saanvi for milkshakes after school on Wednesday. Saanvi’s fine when we arrive, and fine when I leave for the bathroom and Holden goes to pick up our fries at the counter. But she reads Miranda’s latest blog post while we’re gone, and then…

  She’s spitting mad. Literally. As she talks, bits of french fry fly across the table.

  Holden presses himself against my shoulder to avoid the shrapnel.

  “You saw this, right?” Saanvi demands, shaking her phone at me.

  The Mitch Mash

  Opinion: Administration Ignoring Cyberspace

  by Miranda Bowen

  As each day passes, I worry that Mitchell Academy is showing a dangerous lack of concern regarding cybersecurity and the wellbeing of students. One student appears to have left the school entirely after a cyberbullying incident in which a photo of his open fly was posted on the school forums. Other students seem too upset to speak publicly about disparaging photos and videos.

  While Principal Plante has hired a private security firm, it’s unclear whether the company’s mandate is to protect students or to monitor them. On being confronted with a list of online issues, Ms. Plante promised to consider the matter further, but also suggested that I “grow a thicker skin.”

  I scowl. “Yes, I read it.”

  “ ‘Grow a thicker skin!’ Can you believe Ms. Plante said that?”

  Holden and I obediently shake our heads.

  I was just as furious as Saanvi when I read the blog post an hour ago. But I feel a bit better now that I have a plan in mind. A way to express my own opinions about all of this. “This is ridiculous. We have to do something,” Saanvi says. I think there’s french fry in my hair. It seems disrespectful to check right now, though.

  “I was thinking…,” I start.

  Holden looks at me expectantly.

  “Force the school to launch a full-scale investigation into the videos,” Saanvi rages. “Miranda’s right. This is cyberbullying. We should write a press release. You do that part, Dom. We can go to the media.”

  “Or, we could do something completely different,” Holden says. “Right, Dom?”

  He gives me a strange look.

  “Media coverage—” Saanvi starts.

  “Miranda’s mom is a real news person. If the news was interested, don’t you think she would have done the story already?” Holden says.

  I nod quickly.

  “We’ll have to make them interested,” Saanvi insists.

  “How?”

  “We’ll start a petition. Then hold a protest.”

  “You’re kind of terrifying this afternoon,” Holden tells her.

  “I just want to DO something. Something big! We can’t let the school get away with this.”

  Now I picture myself with a clipboard, standing under one of Ms. Plante’s cameras, explaining to people why we need an official investigation into Josh, Max, and company. Ms. Plante is stalking toward me, high heels clacking on the vinyl. This sounds terrible.

  “Tell me you don’t still think this will stop on its own,” Saanvi demands, waving a fry at us.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  Holden’s staring at me again.

  “What?” I demand. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  I can’t blurt out everything under these circumstances. Saanvi’s practically yelling, there are tons of people around us, and…well…I still haven’t figured out how to make squirrels sound powerful.

  “Can you guys pay attention?” Saanvi says. “I’m going to do something about this. You know what? I’m going to call a school-wide meeting.”

  “A meeting?” Holden says doubtfully.

  “Everyone should be consulted. Everyone. You two can…”

  “No,” Holden says.

  I bite my tongue and wait for the crossfire, which is about to happen because Saanvi’s slowly turning a scary shade of burnt sienna.

  “Holden, you absolutely cannot keep saying this will—”

  “Hang on,” Holden says. He’s focused on his phone.

  When he looks up, he’s gone pale. Flake white.

  “Max sent a new video,” he says. “None of the guys made it, Max says.”

  Saanvi grabs the phone, sets it between us on the table, and presses Replay.

  Classical violin music sounds in the background as shots of Saanvi and Holden flip past. Holden and Saanvi together in the library. Holden and Saanvi across from one another in the cafeteria. Holden and Saanvi on the street near their houses. She’s hanging onto his elbow, laughing.

  It’s not the images themselves that make me bite the inside of my lip. It’s Saanvi. It’s the look on her face.

  In every single shot, she’s staring at him. She might as well have the word CRUSH in neon-pink letters on her forehead. No, worse than that. LOVE. And Holden’s smiling back at her.

  I’m in the pictures, too, in the background. I’m like the wallpaper.

  I stare at the phone. I’m sure I’m alizarin crimson and quinacridone magenta and yellow ochre all swirled together in one hideous palette.

  “It’s stupid,” Holden says. “T
he way they’ve edited everything to make it seem like…”

  I flick a finger at the screen to scroll up. PixSnappy. The entire montage is posted on the school’s official PixSnappy account.

  Saanvi scrapes her chair back, grabs her pack, and walks out of the restaurant.

  Holden and I stare at one another for a minute, then we scramble after her.

  “It’s like on those reality shows,” Holden gasps as we run down the street. How did Saanvi get so far, so fast?

  “They can make it look like anything they want is happening.” He sounds hopeful.

  “They can,” I agree.

  “So this isn’t true at all. They made it up.”

  “If you say so.”

  As we gain on Saanvi, she spins around. “Guys, I need a few minutes to cool down. I’ll text you.”

  We putter to a stop, as if our batteries have run out of juice. Then we watch her stride to the corner and disappear.

  I understand. I want to disappear, too. Teleport myself back to my room and pull the covers over my head.

  I’m still holding Holden’s phone. I hand it back.

  “I’d better get home.”

  “Wait!” Holden turns with me and keeps pace. “We can fix this. We’ll talk to Principal Plante again and she’ll—”

  “She’ll say we should all grow thicker skins.”

  I can’t quite look at him.

  He knows. He knows I like him. That I’ve liked him for years. How could he possibly have missed it? And I’ve always thought he was into me, too, but neither of us was quite ready to take that final step of changing a carefully balanced friendship triangle into…something else. Even though it bothered me when he flirted with Miranda, I knew, deep inside, that was nothing serious. Miranda flirts with everyone. But maybe all this time, Saanvi’s liked Holden, too. And he’s known that she’s liked him. And she’s probably known that I like him. And everything I thought about the three of us was wrong and skewed and completely naive.

  I feel like an idiot.

  As we get close to my apartment building, Holden touches my arm.

  “Can we talk about this? Before…” He can’t look at me either. He’s staring at the pavement near my toes.

  “It’s no big deal. I’m sorry you got sucked into all of this, though. You have your very own video now.” My voice is impressively steady. I sound almost nonchalant. Almost.

  “Dom,” Holden says. His voice crackles. “I know that we…”

  He trails off.

  My face is burning. I might melt into a molten lava puddle of embarrassment.

  “I have to go,” I tell him. “We’ll figure things out tomorrow.”

  I turn so quickly that an old lady on the sidewalk has to dodge around me. A moment later, I’m leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator, thankful for the silence.

  I told Holden we’d figure things out tomorrow, but I don’t want to. I may not ever want to talk about this. Ever.

  I’d like to think about squirrels. More squirrels. That seems safe.

  The piece I painted after leaving the darkroom is bigger than any of the others. Big enough that Ms. Plante won’t be able to ignore it. I wonder if she might suspect Saanvi, because of this video. At least Saanvi won’t have to lie about her innocence.

  Though she seems fairly practiced at lying.

  I’m going to think about squirrels.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRUE LOVE?

  DESPITE DECIDING to never again watch the video, I do. And then I watch it again. And maybe one more time on Thursday morning. Or five. Maybe six or seven more times.

  I watch it often enough to be sure that Saanvi really is looking at Holden in that way. What I can’t decide is whether he’s looking back.

  There should be online guides for this. Why have they developed facial recognition if the computer can’t tell you which look means what?

  Eventually, I pack my stuff and head to school early. It’s either that or stare at my phone until my brain explodes.

  ME: Going to school early. See you in homeroom.

  HOLDEN: Wait for me. Brt.

  ME: No need.

  HOLDEN: It’s no problem.

  ME: I’ll see you at school.

  SAANVI:…

  SAANVI:…

  SAANVI: k, see you there.

  It’s weird to be in the hallways by myself. They’re so empty. If my footsteps weren’t echoing, I’d feel invisible. Maybe I’m meant to be invisible.

  Anonymous.

  No one’s noticed my work from yesterday. I suppose it’s above eye-level, high up near the camera. Don’t people ever look up?

  I passed Max in the hallway after school yesterday and he raised his eyebrows. I think he was asking if anyone had seen it. If I’d heard anything.

  I shook my head. Nothing.

  I suppose it could take days. Banksy often waits a long time for people to notice his work. I read about it in the new book from George.

  In 2005, someone wandered into the British Museum in London. He was dressed in an old man’s trench coat, hat, and scarf. Maybe the man carried a small red gift bag, the kind in which you might bring chocolates to a friend.

  For a while, he strolled through the galleries, not looking at much. Not talking to anyone.

  In a room of medieval artifacts, he paused. Maybe the room was empty. Maybe there were people present, their eyes glued to other works, paying no attention to the old man. No one knows, because there were no cameras. Not pointing in that direction, at least.

  The man glued a small, painted rock to the wall. It showed a caveman pushing a shopping cart.

  Below, he placed a white card that matched the others in the gallery. It read:

  Early man venturing toward the out-of-town hunting grounds

  This finly preserved example of primitive art dates from the Post-Catatonic era. The artist responsible is known to have created a substantial body of work across South East of England under the moniker Banksymus Maximus but little else is known about him. Most art of this type has unfortunately not survived. The majority is destroyed by zealous municipal officials who fail to recognise the artistic merit and historical value of daubing on walls.

  No one noticed the rock for three days. And it was only found then because a museum worker happened to see Banksy’s website, where there was a challenge to find his hoax within the museum.

  The British Museum kept his art.

  I wish I had Banksy’s level of courage.

  When I arrived at school this morning, I scanned my ID tag. Ms. Plante will know I was here early, so it’s too risky to add any squirrels to my collection. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I don’t want to go to homeroom—Mr. Nowak might be there already. I decide to aim for the library instead. I’ve never even considered that they might have a book about Banksy. It’s a long shot, but maybe I’ll check.

  The library’s closed.

  School hours only, a sign reads, due to staffing shortages.

  Please speak with your teachers about appropriate times to exchange books.

  Great.

  I’m turning away when I see it.

  A squirrel. No, not a squirrel. A groundhog? It’s a badly drawn blob of an animal along the wall at the base of the library doors, and it’s holding a protest sign that reads, simply, “Resist.”

  Someone else has painted street art! Or school art, I suppose.

  I’m in love.

  I clap my hand over my mouth before I can laugh out loud. Then I quickly glance up and down the hallway. There’s a camera pointed directly at me.

  With one last glance at the groundhog (marmot?), I scurry away. But I’m much happier with the world than I was ten minutes ago.

  GEORGE: Got the ding! You were certainly prompt this morning. Already at school?
<
br />   ME: Early bird and all that…

  GEORGE: Have a lovely day, darling.

  I walk slowly through the school, dodging groups of kids as they arrive. I’m looking for new spots to tag. I feel as if the marmot (chipmunk?) needs company. But where should I paint next? The girls’ bathroom? The boys’? Those are surveillance-free zones. And I know there aren’t cameras in the locker rooms.

  I’m turning into a criminal.

  I have to stop myself from smiling again.

  I find a few more blind spots. There’s the one at the base of the stairs between the science labs. There might be another near the door to the resource room.

  The hallways get too crowded before I decide for sure. It’s hard to properly assess wall space when people’s backpacks are bumping me and sixth graders are kicking a sandwich across the floor.

  I turn toward homeroom. As I get close, I find Ana taping a poster to the wall.

  “You draw, right?” Ana says. “It’s not too late to submit your work! I could help you get it ready if you wanted. You know, help you choose the best pieces…”

  “Um…that’s okay. Thanks, though.”

  “There’s tons of people there. Someone really important might see your work.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Which I won’t, of course, but I’m eager to escape because I can hear Saanvi’s voice.

  I peek around the corner of the hall to find her standing in an alcove, pointing a finger threateningly toward Josh. I don’t know how she caught him without his sidekicks.

  “You posted that video of Dom,” Saanvi says. “And now there’s a video of me on PixSnappy.” Her voice is impressively level.

  Josh is playing with his phone and he doesn’t bother looking up from the screen. “You have no way of knowing I posted anything.”

  Maybe Saanvi and I have some things to talk about, and maybe I was avoiding her this morning. But that doesn’t even remotely mean I’m leaving her to deal with Josh alone.