Me and Banksy

by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  We have a moment of relieved silence before someone bangs on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Mom says.

  George and I stand in the hallway as she swings open our front door and thanks Lou for checking on us.

  “Just a bit of bacon,” she says.

  “Dangerous world. You can’t be too careful.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Lou,” Mom says, as he turns to go. “Your arrangement with George will no longer be necessary.”

  Lou flushes the brightest shade of magenta I’ve ever seen.

  “I’m not sure the strata council would approve,” Mom adds. “I assume you agree?”

  He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.

  “No problem,” he says.

  “Wonderful.”

  He begins to turn away.

  “Oh, wait one moment!”

  Poor Lou. The look on his face says he’s expecting some new form of torture.

  “I’ll send you downstairs with some scones. I’d offer you frittata, too, but it’s going to be a little while…”

  As Mom keeps Lou in agony, I follow George into the living room. She sets to work rearranging the couch cushions.

  “I wanted to make sure you were safe,” she says, not looking at me. “It’s only the two of you, and for a long time you were so young and your mother so busy…”

  I get it, sort of.

  “I’m not that young anymore,” I say.

  George’s eyes are wet when she turns to me. I’m so shocked, I almost forget to stay mad.

  “You’re all grown up these days,” she sniffs.

  When Mom joins us, there are apologies from George and a few more tears. Eventually there’s a group hug, and everything seems as if it might be okay.

  Although I don’t think George will be quite so psychic in the future.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NORMAL PEOPLE

  MY PHONE buzzes just before midnight, pulling me from sleep. It’s a group text from Max.

  MAX: What do we do at school tomorrow? Do we pretend not to like each other? Or do we sit together at lunch so we can plan things?

  SAANVI: No planning while we’re at school.

  MIRANDA: Agreed. Too dangerous.

  HOLDEN: It’s midnight, bro.

  SAANVI: I think we should act normal.

  MAX:

  ME: If it’s a secret society, we can’t sit together in the caf.

  SAANVI: Maybe eventually we can. Not yet.

  MAX: Okay, that’s what I thought.

  SAANVI: Goodnight.

  MAX: Goodnight.

  I feel terrible. Are we really going to pretend we’re not friends? I don’t think I can watch Max hanging with the orangutans.

  ME: Wait!

  ME: Max, you’re going to talk to Ms. Sutton, right? About your project? Let’s ask her to make it a group project.

  HOLDEN: Argh! No more groups!

  ME: It will give us an excuse to hang out.

  MIRANDA: I’m in!

  HOLDEN: Three’s enough. Any more will seem weird.

  MIRANDA: Can you convince Ms. Sutton to let us work together?

  ME: Let’s talk to her tomorrow morning. Meet at her classroom before homeroom?

  MAX: kk

  SAANVI: Night!

  MIRANDA: Night!

  HOLDEN: Shut up, all of you.

  SAANVI: Goodnight, Holden.

  ME: Goodnight, Holden.

  HOLDEN:

  In the morning, Max, Miranda, and I crowd around Ms. Sutton’s desk.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re wondering if we can use class time for an extra-credit assignment,” I say.

  “And work together,” Max adds.

  Ms. Sutton raises her eyebrows at him, probably wondering if he’s blackmailed Miranda and me into this situation, but he’s already laying out some sketches of his—our—project proposal.

  I have to tamp down my excitement. Even though Max is only showing his own part of the artwork, not mine, I can see exactly how it’s going to fit together.

  “It’s an exploration of the individual and the collective,” he explains, as he points to the portraits that make up the shapes in his sketches. “All of these people are unique, yet together they form the school community.”

  He’s a surprisingly good liar.

  “And what inspired the three of you, exactly?”

  I’ve got this one. I looked it up last night. “A Dutch photographer named Rineke Dijkstra…I have no idea if I’m saying that right.”

  Ms. Sutton smiles encouragingly.

  “She frames her photos like seventeenth-century paintings, but all her subjects are modern teens. She has a whole series of them on the beach and—”

  “Our subjects will be wearing their clothes,” Max says. Miranda and I both turn to him.

  “I’m just clarifying,” he says. “I know about that photographer. Some of her people are naked.”

  “Moving on,” Ms. Sutton says. “If I agree to the three of you collaborating, how will you divide the work?”

  “I’m the photographer’s assistant, and I’ll help with the written report,” Miranda says.

  “Dominica?”

  “Um…” I can’t exactly tell her about my part in all of this.

  “Dom’s also writing the report,” Miranda says. “And adding her own spin to the artwork.”

  “Her own spin?”

  “We’d prefer to keep that a surprise for now, Ms. Sutton.” Miranda smiles at her the same way she smiled at my mom as she complimented her cheekbones.

  Ms. Sutton nods. “I think this sounds marvelous.”

  Who knew she’d be convinced by the combination of Miranda’s flirting, Max’s puppy dog eyes, and my obvious confusion?

  “So…we’re hoping to use one wall of the foyer for the installation, and display our work at the open house,” I say. “Do you think we need Principal Plante’s permission?”

  I hold my breath, and I can feel Max and Miranda doing the same.

  Ms. Sutton glances at the camera above the doorway. The corners of her mouth tighten, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll take care of it. I think she’ll like this particular idea.”

  And we’ve done it! There’s nothing left except to leave the classroom and survive Max’s stinging hand slaps.

  “We’re in business!” he shouts.

  “You were amazing,” I say.

  He blushes ultramarine violet.

  * * *

  —

  Even though three of us are now officially working on a project together, lunch is still weird.

  Holden, Saanvi, and I sit at our regular table, struggling to remember what we talked about before our minds were entirely filled with protest plans. Max walks by with Josh and gang en masse, as always. Their shouting and jostling seems to fill the entire room. But then, as they pass, Max turns back and winks.

  Only Miranda ignores us. She sits at her usual table full of girls, a book propped open in front of her tray. There’s a dribble of ketchup on her chin.

  “Stop staring.” Saanvi nudges me.

  “This is crazy.”

  “I know. But good crazy.”

  Good crazy.

  “Is that a thing?”

  “Of course!” she says.

  Holden dips one of his fries into my ketchup.

  “Okay, good crazy is a thing.”

  “Do you guys want a mint?” Saanvi offers, holding out a small tin.

  “A toast!” Holden declares, once we’re all holding one. “To good crazy!”

  We click our tiny peppermints together.

  Good crazy is a thing. That’s what I’m goin
g to tell myself for the rest of the week. Because I know things are only going to get more out of control before this project—hopefully—comes together next Wednesday afternoon.

  Good crazy is a thing. Good crazy is a thing. Good crazy is definitely a thing.

  * * *

  —

  We’re on our way back to homeroom when Miranda appears and steers Saanvi and me into the girls’ bathroom.

  “I still need computer access. As soon as possible, if I’m going to get the word out,” she says. “We have to get Saanvi into Ms. Plante’s office.”

  Saanvi stops fixing her hair and she shudders. “That woman scares me. And I don’t scare easily.”

  “We need a time when she’s not there, obviously,” Miranda says.

  Saanvi glances my way through the mirror. “Dom, did you know Banksy might be a woman?”

  “What?”

  “I read a whole article about it. Pretty convincing, too. I’ll send it to you.”

  “No surprise,” Miranda says. “All the best collaborations are done by women.”

  Who knew I’d one day be collaborating with Saanvi and Miranda in the girls’ bathroom?

  “So…the principal’s office?” Miranda prompts.

  “What about Ms. Marcie?” I ask. “She’s always there.”

  “Maybe we go during an evening event,” Miranda says. “Ms. Marcie leaves at 3:15.”

  “A basketball game?” Saanvi suggests.

  Miranda shakes her head. “The principal pops in and out of those. We need something that will distract her for a while. How long will it take for you to get into her computer, Saanvi?”

  “We’ll need her passwords.”

  “Old people always write them down,” Miranda says.

  “Then only a couple minutes, once we find them.”

  The bell rings. We’re going to be late for homeroom.

  “When?” Miranda prompts.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I promise as we leave. “I’ll figure something out.”

  * * *

  —

  While Mr. Nowak drones on about the Pythagorean theorem, I go over the open house plan in my mind. We have only one week to prepare, and it needs to be perfect.

  We’re going to paint the school motto—Securitas Genera Victoria—in scrolled black letters across the largest wall of the school foyer. Max, Miranda, and I will do the painting during class time, since Ms. Sutton has given approval for our project together.

  Max has another job, too. This is the big addition that he suggested the first time we met as a group. He’s going to take tons of portraits, and we’re going to collage the images together within the painted words so the whole motto is made up of the faces of Mitchell Academy students. He’s promised their faces will tell our whole story, even without the rest of the artwork.

  Below the portraits, on the white expanse of the wall, we’ll project three still shots taken from the forum videos.

  We’re going to hang black theater curtains on either side of the motto, to frame it. And hidden beneath the curtains, ready for the big reveal, will be my contribution to the evening.

  I haven’t even started the stencils for my part, so I’m not going to think about it right now.

  I take a deep breath. Focus.

  Miranda’s busy with her press releases and media contact lists. Holden will borrow a projector from his mom. Saanvi will make sure the security’s offline for the afternoon, so we don’t get caught in the middle of our preparations. And she’ll get Miranda access to the blog…but all of this depends on me getting her inside Ms. Plante’s office.

  That’s our biggest challenge. I can’t stop thinking about it, and it must show on my face. Maybe there’s a special expression that says, “I’m planning criminal activities.” I look up to find Mr. Nowak’s eyes boring into me.

  “The square of the hypotenuse is equal to…,” he growls.

  “The sum of the squares of the other two sides.”

  He grunts, maybe surprised I had the answer ready. But I swear, Pythagorean theorem is a breeze compared to our plan for the open house. If we pull this off, they should study our work in all future Mitchell Academy classes.

  * * *

  —

  Maybe I should thank Mr. Nowak. It’s because of having my eyes lowered, trying to escape his scowl, that I notice the ripped poster on the hallway floor after math class. It’s for Monday night’s PAC meeting.

  That’s only two days before the open house. It wouldn’t give us much time. If it didn’t work, our whole project would be in jeopardy. But if it did work…

  The PAC meetings involve all the bigwig parents like Saanvi’s dad and Max’s mom, plus Principal Plante. It’s exactly what we need—an evening when the school’s open, but the principal’s away from her office. If we can make sure she’s distracted for long enough, Saanvi can get onto her computer, adjust the security cameras, get blog access…

  We need an excuse to be at school during that meeting.

  As soon as the idea occurs, I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. What excuse could we offer for attending? Someone would have to stand in front of Ms. Plante and all those parents and say something remotely convincing, plus warn us if anyone leaves the library and heads for the office.

  “You okay?” Holden asks, when I sit down in humanities.

  “You look tired,” Saanvi says.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?” Holden asks.

  Fortunately for me, Mr. Lee chooses this moment to begin our lesson on symbolism. Not that the lecture stops Holden’s guesses. The first note arrives on my desk within minutes.

  YOU’RE MOVING TO MEXICO AND NEED YOUR TRANSCRIPTS.

  I shake my head, smothering my smile as Mr. Lee scans the classroom.

  Another note. YOU’RE JOINING A RELIGIOUS ORDER AND TAKING A VOW OF SILENCE.

  Which is a tempting idea, except that I can’t go two hours without talking and Holden knows it.

  YOU’RE TURNING VEGAN AND STARTING A SAVE-THE-ANIMALS CLUB.

  I roll my eyes at him, but there’s actually something to that last note. Obviously, no one who’s tasted my mom’s pineapple meatballs could ever go vegan. But what about some sort of club? We could present to the PAC about launching a student organization. They love that sort of thing.

  What was Saanvi talking about last week, when she threatened to write to the board of directors? Something about consulting the student body.

  Mr. Lee interrupts my brainstorming by passing around a photocopied story and giving us ten minutes to find examples of rivers symbolizing the passage of time.

  I get through a paragraph or two, and then find myself staring at the empty desk in the front row. Marcus still hasn’t returned to school. No one’s consulted him about technology or security issues.

  “What do you think of a technology advisory group?” I whisper to Holden.

  Holden looks at me as if I’ve suggested eating lunch from the dumpsters this week.

  “We need to distract Principal Plante and the PAC on Monday night. That way, I can get Saanvi into her office and onto her computer.”

  “What does that have to do with technology?”

  I obviously need to slow down. “We’ll do a presentation to the PAC about a technology advisory group. That’ll distract Ms. Plante and keep her in the meeting. Meanwhile, Saanvi and I break into her office.”

  “Wow. Risky.”

  “I know.”

  “But parents will love the technology advisory thing,” he says. “They’ll drool over it.”

  “Great. Because you and Max will be presenting.”

  Now he looks like he’s going to eat lunch from dumpsters. But, shockingly, he nods.

  “You’ll do it?” I can barely believe it.

  “Do you have a problem with the assignment, Ms. Rivers?”


  Mr. Lee has the most annoying ability to materialize directly above my desk. Which, in this case, is occupied by the photocopied story and my mostly blank notebook. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Let’s focus, people.”

  I skim the rest of the story. Rivers that symbolize the passage of time. It’s not a bad concept. I’d like to find a river that could sweep us directly to next week.

  * * *

  —

  I need a stack of acetate sheets for my half of the open house project. I could ask Mom or George to take me to the art supply store, but they’d get curious. And I need a lot of sheets. I decide Ms. Crofton is my best bet.

  I find her cleaning paintbrushes after school. I can’t help but notice she’s still wearing pants under her smock, instead of her usual stretchy dress.

  “Ms. Crofton, I need some supplies for an art project. An extracurricular one.”

  “Art cannot be contained to the hours between nine and three, Dominica.”

  For a minute, I think this will be easier than I expected.

  “However, it seems even the most artistic among us must adhere to Ms. Plante’s budgets. And they leave so little room for true exploration.”

  Ugh. Ms. Plante doesn’t even know about my part of the project, and she’s still managing to get in my way.

  “What if it’s a really important project?”

  “All art is important, Dominica. All art is vital.” She taps a wet hand against her heart, sending multicolored water drops rolling down her smock.

  I wonder if Ms. Crofton is single. And whether she’d like to meet Andrei one day. It’s possible they’re soul mates.

  But that’s not my immediate focus. I wish I were a better liar. I wish I’d spent some time thinking of a cover story. Of course I need a cover story. Did I think Ms. Crofton was going to hand over supplies without question?