Me and Banksy

by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  “Actually, she does,” I say, stepping forward to block the entrance to the alcove.

  “We accessed the forum logs after Dom’s video and we found your name, the time of posting…everything,” Saanvi says.

  “You accessed the logs? Isn’t that sort of against the rules?” Josh crosses his arms and leans against the plaster wall. He seems entirely unconcerned.

  “Against the rules? Kind of like invading people’s privacy? And posting obscene videos?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t the one who stripped in school.”

  “That was—” I start.

  Saanvi instantly drowns me out. She calls Josh a half-dozen unkind names, the type of names I’ve never heard her say before.

  Josh shakes his head. “Language. I’m shocked.”

  Her voice drops, which makes it even scarier. “The footage came from the security cameras,” she says. “Which you have access to, from your mom’s computer.”

  “Nope.”

  “It was posted with your log-in information.”

  This whole scene is giving me a stomachache, but I’m also bursting with pride. Saanvi is fierce.

  Josh is still unmoved. “Even if I did post it, and I’m not saying I did, it didn’t come from me. It was sent to me. So why don’t you look for the source, rather than persecuting the innocent?”

  With that, he brushes by me and into the hall.

  “You are not innocent!” Saanvi yells after him.

  I gape at her. “That was unbelievable.”

  She shakes her head. “That was kind of stupid. What good is it going to do? I was stressed about the whole…Holden video thing…”

  Which makes me remember. The Holden video thing.

  But this was still awesome, and I tell her so. “We can talk about the video later,” I say. “And we’ll figure out what to do about Josh, too.”

  Unfortunately, that’s not quite the way it happens.

  * * *

  —

  In the middle of first period, I tag the space between the science rooms. I draw two squirrels, one eating a nut, seemingly unaware, and the other holding a camera. The squirrel holding the camera has the same hair-swish as Josh, and I’m so busy silently giggling at my own private joke that I almost forget to be nervous this time.

  That is, until a few minutes before lunch, when the PA crackles, and Ms. Marcie’s voice echoes through our classroom.

  “Excuse the interruption. Saanvi Agarwal and Dominica Rivers, please report to the principal’s office.”

  My heart thuds against my ribs, and I stop breathing.

  Did someone see me this morning? But why include Saanvi?

  Maybe this is about something different. Maybe it’s coincidental.

  I ignore Holden’s raised eyebrows. I avoid the glances from the rest of the class as I make my way toward the door. I’ve never been summoned to the office before. Never.

  “Take your books, Dominica, in case you don’t come back,” Ms. Sutton calls.

  I’m sure she doesn’t mean to sound so ominous. Does she?

  At the office, I look to Ms. Marcie for clues. Is she smiling less broadly than usual?

  “Go ahead,” she says.

  And then Ms. Plante is waving me inside.

  “Dominica. Come in. I’ll just shut the door behind you.”

  Principal Plante’s scarf today is blue with tiny yellow flecks. The fact that it’s horrendously ugly doesn’t help the sinking feeling in my stomach. Saanvi’s already sitting on one of the chairs, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “Something has come to our attention,” Principal Plante says, settling herself into her giant executive’s chair.

  She clicks her keyboard, and Saanvi’s voice spills into the room: “We accessed the forum logs after Dom’s video and we found your name, the time of posting…everything.”

  I glance at Saanvi. She’s turned white. Zinc white.

  The principal clicks again. This time, we hear Saanvi swearing.

  “Am I correct that this is your voice, Ms. Agarwal?”

  Saanvi nods.

  “And I believe you’re on the recording as well, Ms. Rivers.”

  It’s not a question, but I still nod. I’m sweating. I think I’ve had nightmares about this situation before. I feel as if I’m facing a firing squad. Maybe it’s an invisible firing squad.

  I’m being ridiculous.

  For Josh or Max, this would be no big deal.

  For Banksy, this would be no big deal.

  “We expect high standards of behavior here at Mitchell Academy,” Principal Plante says. “Saanvi, accessing the forum logs is a serious violation. And using that sort of language to bully another student is entirely unacceptable. Not something I would have expected from you.”

  “She was provoked,” I blurt. This is not something I expect from me, but even with my phobia of getting in trouble, I recognize the ridiculousness of what she’s saying. Josh and his friends say much, much worse than this every ten minutes in the hallway. The idea of Saanvi bullying them is ludicrous. It’s like we’ve been sucked through a black hole and into opposites-world.

  “Normally, we would take these matters before a disciplinary board,” Principal Plante continues, folding her hands on the desk. She pauses, as if she’s waiting for us to speak.

  “That’s not…I don’t…” I manage nothing coherent.

  “I would prefer to deal with this in school, if possible, so it doesn’t take time away from my studies,” Saanvi says.

  Even though I know she’s lying her pants off—she doesn’t care about her studies; she cares about her parents not finding out—I’m still amazed at how professional she manages to sound.

  “I’ll need the precise details of how you accessed the forums,” Principal Plante says.

  “Of course.”

  There’s a long pause, while the principal drums her polished nails on the desk and stares at us.

  “If you’re willing to apologize,” she says finally, “and since this is a first offense—”

  “I’m certainly very sorry,” Saanvi says.

  “Me too.”

  “Perhaps a written apology to Josh, in this instance, would be more appropriate.” The principal smiles tightly, as if she hadn’t just kicked us in the guts with those words.

  I want to disappear into the wool carpeting, but my head is nodding. It’s nodding without my permission.

  “I trust this won’t happen again.”

  “It won’t,” Saanvi says.

  “Well, then, I suppose we’re done here, girls.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Plante.”

  Saanvi is still in professional mode. Is it possible she’s been abducted and replaced by an alien robot version of herself?

  “Thank you,” I echo. Have I been replaced, too?

  We leave the office, walk past Ms. Marcie without acknowledging her, and join the crush of the crowd between classes. I can’t remember exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  “Did we agree to write a letter of apology to Josh? Did that just happen?”

  When Saanvi turns to look at me, she’s not an alien robot anymore. Even though she has tears in her eyes, she manages to look spitting mad.

  “I’m sorry I got you sucked into this.”

  “YOU’RE sorry?”

  Saanvi glances down the hall, and up toward the camera. “It’s going to kill me to write that letter. But she had us on tape. Josh must have recorded us. What else were we supposed to do?”

  There are a lot of things I would have liked to do, if I were a completely different person. Riot, for example. Throw a massive tantrum. Flip Principal Plante’s perfect desk. But none of those things is exactly in my wheelhouse. None of them would play well on camera, either.

  “…living in a surveillance state…,” Saanvi mutters.

  It’s true.
If we get any more protected, The Mitch won’t be a school for gifted kids. It will be a school for robots. People will be scared to talk in the halls, in case they’re recorded. No one will want to discuss things in class, in case Ms. Plante’s all-seeing eye lands upon them. And the people with connections—like Josh—will do or say whatever they want.

  “…there has to be a way to speak out about this…”

  I let Saanvi ramble, my own brain still spinning. The more I think about these posts and videos, the more they begin to seem like puzzle pieces. Piece: Josh and Max are part of a contest. Piece: Josh has access to the school systems. Piece: Ana has codes in her binder. Piece: Ms. Plante is raising funds by promoting her stellar security system, “protecting” students online and in real life.

  I just need to fit the puzzle pieces together.

  Saanvi tugs at my sleeve and I realize I’ve stopped, mid-hallway.

  “I have to get to class. I really am sorry,” she says. Her teeth are ground so tightly together, the words sound muddled.

  I turn back toward ethics. When I get there, everyone’s doing project work. I tear a blank page out of my binder. I may as well get this over with.

  Dear Josh:

  Please accept my apology for this morning’s incident. My friend and I were upset and unfairly took out our frustrations on you. Our actions were obviously not in keeping with our school’s standards. It will certainly not happen again.

  Sincerely,

  Dominica Rivers

  When the bell rings, I drop it off with Ms. Marcie, before I can change my mind.

  I can barely believe Saanvi and I agreed to write letters of apology to Josh, and then we thanked Principal Plante. We thanked her.

  I feel like smashing this entire security-camera, PixSnappy, forum-post mess. I think I know how to do it, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MUD MASKS

  MOM’S WAITING for me in the living room after school. There are two giant pizza boxes on the coffee table, one of them already open.

  “Whoa.”

  “Vegetarian or Hawaiian?”

  This isn’t a good sign. Mom only gets takeout when…

  “Did something go wrong with Frank?”

  “Frank who?” she asks, through a giant bite of ham and pineapple.

  I go to the kitchen for some paper towel. Then I join her on the couch and grab a piece before she eats it all. Hawaiian is my favorite.

  “I thought we could watch a movie,” Mom says. “Oooh…and I bought pomegranate-avocado mud masks. Tonight can be spa night!”

  Whatever happened, it must have been bad.

  She passes me the remote. “You choose,” she says. And then, five minutes later, “Really?”

  I suppose she was expecting a rom-com.

  “This is supposed to be really good. Look—it has ninety-eight percent.” It’s a movie made by Banksy. I read about it in the book George bought me.

  Mom flips open the box of vegetarian and grabs a piece. “Fine. But we get popcorn halfway through, and you make it.”

  “Deal.”

  “And we need bits of cheese sprinkled on top.”

  “Fine.”

  As it turns out, Exit Through the Gift Shop is 98 percent interesting and also 100 percent weird. It’s about this filmmaker named Thierry who idolizes graffiti artists. He ends up helping Banksy plant a fake Guantanamo-Bay prisoner inside a ride at Disneyland, a pretty amazing breach of Disney security. But then Thierry creates a film that’s so messed up, it’s unwatchable. Banksy distracts him with an art show and takes over the editing himself.

  In the end, Thierry sells almost a million dollars of art, even though no one’s actually sure if he’s an artist. And the movie—in real life—gets rave reviews and wins awards, even though no one’s actually sure if it’s a real movie.

  Mom seems fairly into it for the first little while, and I deliver the popcorn as promised. But when the credits roll and I glance her way, her cheeks are wet. There are smeared mascara circles beneath her eyes.

  “Mom! We could have turned it off!”

  “It’s fine. It’s not the movie.” She wipes her nose on a scrap of paper towel.

  “Okay, what did he do?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who! Frank!”

  Reluctantly, she lifts a pizza box lid off her phone and logs into PixSnappy.

  “You’re on PixSnappy?”

  This seems highly unfair, when I apparently have a lifetime ban.

  “For work!” she says. “I only post pictures of food.”

  “And you stalk people,” I say, once she passes me her phone.

  On her screen, there’s a picture of Frank with his arms around an Asian woman. She’s definitely not my mother.

  “I guess she’s not his sister.” Frank is titanium white.

  Mom snorts.

  “Ugh. Sorry,” I say, handing her phone back to her. Poor Mom. At least I’ll have her home a bit more now. Although…

  “Avocado masks!” she says, bouncing up.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m back on the couch watching the cooking channel and trying not to blink. Slowly, as the avocado hardens, new bits of my skin pucker.

  “How do you know if it’s working?” I mumble.

  Mom shushes me. We’re not supposed to move our faces for twenty minutes. After which we have to steam.

  I’m not sure I can handle Mom being home all the time.

  I escape to the bathroom, where I read Miranda’s latest blog post.

  The Mitch Mash

  Going Squirrelly

  by Miranda Bowen

  Several squirrels (and one animal that appears to be a ferret) have taken up residence in The Mitch hallways this week. You’ll find them in an alcove near the office, outside Division 8, and high above the west hallway. They’re not real animals, of course! They appear to have been painted or drawn in black ink.

  The largest piece, in the west hall outside the photography lab, shows three squirrels bent over school desks. From one side of them, a teacher (also a squirrel) watches. On the other side, the actual Mitch security camera appears to loom over the scene. Most of the art pieces feature the words “The Panopticon,” referring to a type of prison in which prisoners must live as if they’re constantly watched.

  So…with all the security at The Mitch, how did this mystery artist place his squirrels directly beneath the camera?

  “The camera angle didn’t cover the spot where the person was standing, dear. Only someone’s hand is visible,” a member of The Mitch office staff told this reporter. She has requested anonymity.

  There’s been a lot of talk about privacy recently, after several embarrassing photos and videos were sent by email, posted on the school forums, and shared on social media.

  Saanvi Agarwal, who suggests the entire student body should be more widely consulted on technology issues, said this: “The problem is happening because our school super-values security over privacy, right? There are so, so many cameras around here. It’s like a complete surveillance state.”

  Saanvi suggested that an outdated school code of conduct is also to blame: while we have internet-use guidelines, there are no rules regarding social media or technology.

  “We need to get the cameras out of our classrooms, talk to everyone about privacy, and set seriously serious standards for social media posting,” she said.

  It seems the squirrels agree.

  (Other squirrel sightings? Leave directions in the comments below!)

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Mom gasps.

  “Stop smiling! You’re cracking the mask!”

  I try, but it’s difficult. My squirrels have definitely been noticed now. And Miranda even looked up the panopticon reference.

  “Stop!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I force m
yself to look serious. If I think about the Holden and Saanvi video, instead of the squirrels, it’s not that hard.

  * * *

  —

  It’s raining lightly on Friday morning when Holden and I pick up Saanvi. All three of us have our hoods pulled around our ears.

  “Did you read Miranda’s post? She quoted you,” Holden says.

  “Did she?” Saanvi says. “Great.”

  Is she blushing? That makes no sense. Her quote was perfect. My squirrels, on the other hand, were attributed to a “he,” but whatever. I suppose that means I’m even more anonymous.

  As we reach an intersection, I flip back my hood so I can see better. Saanvi reaches to pick a flake of something from my ear.

  “Ugh. Avocado,” I say.

  “Dom, why is there avocado in your ear?” Holden looks as if he’s scared to hear the answer.

  “Face masks,” Saanvi says, as if it’s entirely obvious.

  I nod. “My mom and Frank broke up.”

  They make matching sympathetic faces.

  It feels strange to be walking to school with them again. Neither has mentioned the video. The three of us chat like normal, but no one touches. There’s an invisible bubble of space around each of us. And not just because of the rain jackets.

  Holden and Saanvi have moved on to complaining about Ms. Plante.

  “Did you write your Josh apology?” Holden asks.

  “Done. Though it felt like selling my soul to the devil,” she says. “I wish I’d refused.”

  “I wonder what she would have done,” I say.

  “You were right when you said we need to focus on the bigger problem,” Saanvi tells me.

  All three of us leap back from the curb as a car passes too close, causing a mud-puddle tsunami.

  “I’m going to write to the board of directors,” Saanvi says.

  “What?” Holden brushes off his pant leg.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Wow, what?” she asks.

  Am I supposed to say something else? I look over at her as we cross the school grounds toward the stairs.