I’m obviously not designed for a life of crime.
I can only think of one option. “Ms. Crofton? You know the videos that were posted on the student forums a couple weeks ago?”
She mutters something about “abomination” and scrubs harder at the paintbrushes.
“I’m thinking of creating a reaction to that. In art.
Remember in Miranda’s blog article, you said that people needed to have their values realigned? I’m trying to do that.”
I say all those words in a single breath. Then I bite my lip and wait.
Ms. Crofton stops scrubbing. She narrows her eyes at me. “This reaction of yours. Is it illegal? Immoral? Dangerous?”
“Um…none of the above?”
She waves a hand toward the supply cupboard, sending a shower of water drops onto the floor.
“Then you take whatever you need.”
I grab an entire package of acetate sheets and get out of the art room before she can change her mind.
They’re a pain to get home. They’re too big to carry under my arm and too big to fit in my pack. I have to hug them in front of me, and then I can barely see the sidewalk.
When I finally get to the apartment, my arms feel as if they’re going to fall off. But I take the clear plastic sheets to my room, clear my desk, and pull out the first one. I place it carefully over a portion of the giant sketch I’ve created.
Then I start slicing.
Cutting out the whiskers is a massive pain. By the time I’m halfway through, I’ve learned one new thing about Banksy: he (or she!) must be very, very patient. My room is littered with bits of plastic and paper, spread across the rug like confetti. It takes forever to vacuum them all up. But eventually, I have a clear carpet.
I drag one of Mom’s suitcases from under her bed and roll the stencils inside. I add masking tape and our “paint” of choice. Then I’m ready.
All we need now is Ms. Plante’s computer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MCFLUFFIKINS
WE SEND so many texts on Monday, I’m surprised our phones don’t explode. Every time I pass Saanvi in the hallway, she looks more anxious. And Holden looks as if he’s preparing for his own execution.
Max high-fives me, but Max doesn’t seem to understand the dangers of this whole situation.
We meet at the school after dinner, half an hour before the PAC meeting starts. All five of us are here. No one was willing to sit at home, waiting for news.
Holden and Max are wearing dress shirts and ties. This is a first for Holden. It would be even more impressive if there weren’t circles of sweat beneath his armpits.
“This was a terrible idea,” he says.
“We’ll be in and out before anyone knows,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.
“Not the break-in,” Holden moans. “The presentation to the PAC.”
“Dude, aren’t you an actor?” Max asks.
“I’m out of practice. And acting’s different,” Holden says defensively.
Miranda seems equally nervous, and Saanvi looks petrified.
“This has to work,” she says. “It’s less than forty-eight hours until the open house.”
As if we don’t know that.
“This is cutting it close. Too close,” Miranda says.
“Great. So no pressure,” Holden mutters.
“We only need a few minutes in the office. Ten minutes, tops,” I tell him. “You don’t have to talk for long.”
“As soon as we’re done, I’ll wave from the doorway, and you can wrap up your speech,” Miranda says.
“Alright.” Max claps his hands together like a gym coach. “You three better disappear while we head in.”
At that moment, the front doors of the school swing open. Max’s mom appears, beaming at all of us.
“So nice of you to come out and support your friends!” she gushes. “We’re excited to hear this proposal.”
Before any of us can escape, we’re herded through the foyer, down the main hall, and around the corner to the staff room. She points us to a row of seats along the back. At the tables in front of us, a couple dozen parents are chatting. Ms. Plante and Mr. Sousa, the social media consultant, test the projector.
Josh sits in the corner of the room, fiddling with his phone. He doesn’t look up.
As I’m wondering if a few of us can sneak away, Mrs. LaClaire arrives. She looks even happier than Max’s mom, if that’s possible, and she plants herself beside Holden at the end of our row.
She leans forward to wave at me. “This is wonderful!” she says. Then she mouths a silent “thank you,” as if I’ve finally succeeded in convincing her son to join the outside world.
The meeting’s called to order. There’s a brief vote to accept last month’s minutes, and a quick financial summary. (The PAC has even more money than I thought.)
Josh notices us, finally. I can tell because he whisper-yells, “Lin! Hey, Lin!” across the room until Max gives him a brief wave.
“What are you doing here, man?” Josh says.
Standing by a desk at the front of the room, Max’s mom clears her throat and looks pointedly back and forth between the two of them. Then she introduces Mr. Sousa.
“He’s here to tell us how his company will keep our kids safe online,” she chirps.
I’m dying. How are we going to get into Ms. Plante’s office if we’re stuck in the PAC meeting? This is not how the evening was supposed to go. I can feel Saanvi squirming in the seat beside mine, and I know every single person in this row must be feeling the same way. Except Josh. What is Josh doing here? Maybe he’s not allowed to stay home by himself.
Despite the situation, the idea makes me smirk.
“…the highest priority on student safety,” Mr. Sousa is saying. “In the modern world, that unfortunately means a few infringements on personal freedoms. However, only the school’s administration has access to our findings, and we adhere to a strict privacy policy. Furthermore, you have good kids. If they’re not doing anything wrong, they have nothing to worry about.”
This prompts a few smiles among the parents, as if they’re silently congratulating themselves on their offspring.
There’s a brief round of applause when Mr. Sousa finishes, and then Holden and Max walk to the front of the room. Holden’s fingers grip the edge of the desk as if he might fall down at any moment.
Max, on the other hand, looks as if he does this daily. “Thank you for that presentation, Mr. Sousa,” he says. “You’ve given us the perfect segue, as we’re about to discuss…”
Did Max just say “segue”?
“…a way students can participate in the school’s privacy and security policies. We’re suggesting a technology advisory committee.”
Holden has plugged in a laptop, and he flips from the introductory slide to a bulleted list. He manages to explain plans for several guest speakers and a student outreach campaign, hopefully to be funded by the PAC.
Max’s mom and Mrs. LaClaire lead an enthusiastic round of applause.
“So inspiring to see this sort of student initiative,” one of the parents says.
With an official vote, the PAC agrees to fund all costs for the committee.
“You’ll need a teacher-sponsor, of course,” Ms. Plante says, her voice like cold water on a campfire.
Max’s mom gives her a smile that seems a little forced. “Surely that won’t be a problem, Kathryn.”
“I suppose not,” Ms. Plante says, smiling twice as tightly.
They give us a final round of applause, and even though this was a fake presentation about a fake club, I feel myself flush as pink as Holden and Max do.
Principal Plante stands. “I’ll walk you out.”
My stomach clenches.
“No need,” Max says. “We know the way.”
“Right out the front door,”
Holden adds.
They paste on matching semi-deranged grins.
Ms. Plante goes with them anyway, and the rest of us trail after.
“I always like to support student-led initiatives,” Ms. Plante says as we leave the staff room and turn the corner. “Though I wish you’d come to me first.”
“Of course.” Holden slaps his forehead. “We should have done that.”
Ms. Plante gives him a suspicious look.
We’re walking the length of the main hallway together, which is good. We won’t need to avoid the cameras on either end. But in another minute, we’ll be in the foyer and out the door. It will close and lock behind us.
“Bathroom,” Saanvi says suddenly.
The rest of us stop walking.
“Excuse me?” Principal Plante says, turning around.
“I’m so sorry,” Saanvi simpers. “It must be the excitement. It was so inspiring watching these two speak. Do you mind if we stop at the bathroom briefly? We can walk ourselves out.”
“Of course.” Principal Plante shakes each of our hands in turn. Finally, she turns back toward the staff room.
“Remember,” she says. “My door is always open.”
When she turns the corner, my knees go wobbly.
“Nice job,” Holden murmurs to Saanvi.
We’re in the perfect blind spot between the far camera at the other end of the foyer and the mass surveillance of the office. Ms. Marcie’s reception desk is directly across from us.
“Shall we?”
Holden ushers us forward, as if he’s the host at La Patisserie.
“Wait,” Saanvi says. “Too many people. Way too many. Miranda and Dom, you’re with me. Holden and Max, outside.”
There was comfort in having all of us together, but she’s right. We watch the guys push through the double doors toward freedom, and then we turn toward Ms. Marcie’s desk.
I have to fight the urge to press myself against the wall, like a spy might.
“Camera,” I say as we reach the desk. Simultaneously, we pull our hoodies close around our faces.
“They’ll know it’s us,” Saanvi says for the fourth or fifth time.
“This is only a precaution. Once you have access, you’ll delete the footage.” Also the same thing I’ve said multiple times.
We head behind the desk and toward Ms. Plante’s office. I check the handle just in case, but as we expected, her door is not always open. While Saanvi keeps a lookout, I head for Ms. Marcie’s desk and hook the key ring from underneath. My hands are so sweaty, I almost drop it. The first key I try doesn’t fit, and neither does the second.
“Give them to me,” Miranda says, snatching them.
She’s no better. As she tries another, then another, it seems like we’ve been standing in the full glare of the fluorescent lights for an hour.
The lock clicks.
The three of us dive inside and push the door closed behind us. For a second, we don’t speak. We’re all breathing hard.
“Alright, what do we need?” I ask.
Saanvi sits gingerly in Ms. Plante’s chair and wakes her monitor.
“Passwords,” she says. “Check her drawers, the insides of the filing cabinet, anywhere you can think.” She’s already peeking at the bottoms of paperweights and staplers and the back of a family photo frame.
“Hey, check it out,” she says. She points to the agenda sitting open beside Ms. Plante’s keyboard. There’s an appointment scribbled on Wednesday afternoon.
Hair with Salvador—3:30 p.m.
“She’s getting her hair done right before the open house! That’s super-perfect! I won’t even have to loop the cameras for that afternoon. I’ll just delete the footage from tonight and—”
“Perfect,” Miranda repeats. “But we need a password.”
“Don’t you have some way to figure it out, Saan?” I ask. She’s supposed to be the computer-genius part of this plan.
“I’m not a professional hacker!”
“Yet,” Miranda says.
“Not funny.” But Saanvi starts typing. At least she’s trying.
I rifle through the filing cabinet, resisting the urge to read “LaClaire, Holden,” and “Lin, Max,” as I flip past. Although I do go back to “Arnit, Marcus” and quickly fold his profile sheet into my pocket.
“A little help here?” Saanvi whispers.
“What about a Fibonacci sequence?” I say, remembering Ana’s binder.
“A what?”
“1…1…2…3…5…” I reel off numbers.
“Yes! Sort of. That gets me into the forums, but as an editor, not an administrator,” Saanvi reports.
Miranda’s searching the wall behind the cabinet, under the desk, behind the paintings.
“Nothing,” she reports from under the plastic chairs.
My fingers stop at a file labeled McFluffikins, Fluffy. It’s so out of place, I can’t help but notice. And inside…
“I’ve got it.”
A long list of passwords. If we wanted, we could probably gain access to Principal Plante’s bank accounts.
I pass the paper to Saanvi.
“Pet names,” she scoffs.
A minute later: “We’re in!”
“Great. Can we get out of here now?” I know this was my idea, but the longer we spend in this office, the more jittery I feel. Soon they’ll be able to bottle my sweat and sell it as espresso.
“Hang on. Let me delete the camera footage from tonight. I’ve already blocked her access to the forums and the blog.”
“Won’t she notice?” Miranda asks.
“Hopefully not. No one’s posting anymore, so she doesn’t need to monitor the site.”
“As long as she doesn’t suspect between now and Wednesday.”
“One sec…”
But as it turns out, we don’t have one sec. As I slip the file back into place and close the cabinet door, voices sound from the outer office.
We all freeze.
“Log out,” I hiss.
“Done.”
Saanvi dives beneath the desk. Miranda presses herself to the wall behind the door. But where can I hide? And what’s the point? As soon as Ms. Plante comes in, she’ll find all of us.
There’s no time. The handle moves and the door swings open.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAUGHT
I STAND FROZEN in the center of the principal’s office. Outside, Ms. Plante stands beside Ms. Marcie’s desk, talking to someone. It’s not actually her in the doorway. It’s Josh.
He stares at me, his mouth gaping. I stare back.
“They seem pleased with the system,” Ms. Plante says. “Next month we’ll talk about our social media plans. How many student accounts are you now monitoring?”
From the hallway, there’s a murmur of voices as parents head for the front doors.
Josh looks slowly back and forth between his mother and me. I can still see Miranda, behind the half-open door. She’s peering at Josh through the gap by the hinges. Her hands are pressed against the wall as if she’d like to disappear into the paint. I can tell what she’s thinking. Why is he still here? And what’s he going to do?
“Great job tonight,” Ms. Plante says, reaching across Ms. Marcie’s desk. Mr. Sousa leans to shake her hand.
“Let’s chat about this tomorrow, shall we?”
She’s going to turn and see me. Any second now.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe. And it’s not even about getting caught in Ms. Plante’s office. Standing here, I can feel this entire project slipping away. We’ve ruined it.
Josh glances over his shoulder at his mom. Back at me. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, and he suddenly seems younger. It’s as if his ultra-cool orangutan mask has temporarily shifted.
I plead silently with him.
Hopelessly.
Ms. Plante is turning.
Josh moves away from the office door and toward the hallway. “Mom?”
My heart clunks once, then I swear it stops.
“I think I saw another one of those squirrel things in the hall near the library.”
Ms. Plante makes a growling sound in the back of her throat, and then she’s gone.
I almost collapse on the carpet.
Josh helped. Why would Josh help me?
I hear Saanvi let out a long, shaky breath, but I can’t see her in her hiding space under the desk.
Josh returns, smirking. “So. You’ve been busy.”
Of course he’s not really helping. He’s looking for ammunition he can use. Maybe blackmail material.
Or maybe not. I saw that strange look on his face.
“You don’t like the cameras either.”
Josh grimaces.
“You want them gone as much as I do.”
I can tell by his expression that it’s true.
“You’d better get out of here. Wait for me outside,” he says.
He stalks into the hallway after his mom.
“Come on,” I hiss at Miranda and Saanvi.
We don’t hesitate. The three of us sprint for the door.
* * *
—
Holden has disappeared.
“He went for a milkshake,” Max says.
“Milkshake?”
It seems a little early to celebrate. Especially considering we just got caught.
“His mom was all excited,” he explains. “Dragged him away.”
He looks at me expectantly. Saanvi and Miranda wear the same expressions. They’re all waiting for me to tell them what to do next.
What to do? I feel sick. This was my idea to start with, so I suppose it’s only fair that I’m the one to get caught. That doesn’t make me feel better at this exact moment.
I want to beg everyone to stay with me.
Which makes no sense.
“Alright, the three of you may as well go home. I’ll wait for Josh.”
“Josh?” Max says.
Me and Banksy Page 17