“Are you sure?” Saanvi asks me.
I feel a rush of gratitude. I’m not going to let her stay, but at least she offered. That’s Banksy-level friendship.
“Go,” I tell her.
Max is still asking about Josh. Saanvi tugs him away. “I’ll explain.”
“Do you think we’re still on? Is it happening?” Miranda asks, as she turns to follow them.
I nod firmly. “We’re still on.”
But I have no idea, really. I sit on the cement steps, shivering a little in the dusk, and wait for the answer to arrive.
When he emerges alone, my chest loosens a little.
“So you’ve got some elaborate plan? You’re going to free us from surveillance?” he asks, sitting down beside me. His questions are only semi-sarcastic. His voice doesn’t have quite the usual edge.
“Why is your mom so into these cameras?”
He doesn’t say anything. I’ve probably offended him. It’s always okay to criticize your own mom. It’s never okay for someone else to do it.
But eventually he sighs. “When I was six, my dad said we were going on vacation and mom would come later. He stole me, basically. Then he had some sort of breakdown and we didn’t leave the hotel room for what seemed like forever.”
“A custody dispute!” I blurt, remembering the posters from when I was a kid. “How did they find you?”
“The maid came in one day while Dad was in the shower. I asked her to call my mom.”
I struggle to connect our stern principal to the image of a mom who lost her child.
“The police came, and then Mom flew down and got me.”
“And your dad?”
“Lots of therapy. I see him sometimes, but it has to be supervised. It’s a hassle, you know?”
I can barely believe it, even as I hear more of his story. It’s as if the kid from those missing-child posters is sitting right here. But looking at Josh, scowling miserably beside me, I can’t help but realize how ridiculous my limousine fantasy was, all those years ago. Instead of seeing the fairy tale, I think about how crushed my mom would have been. If I’d disappeared, her whole life would have crumbled.
“My mom’s a little overprotective,” he says. “A lot overprotective.”
“I guess that helps explain the surveillance.”
“It’s sort of my fault,” Josh says. “What kind of kid believes his dad’s taking him to Disneyland and his mom’s coming later? We didn’t even pack.”
“Say the word ‘Disney’ to a six-year-old and he’ll believe anything.”
“I’ve been a jerk about the cameras,” Josh says. “I guess I was trying to see how far I could push my mom. Or maybe make her loosen up a bit.”
“What now? Are you going to tell her about the break-in?”
He tilts his head, as if considering. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
His usual smirk is back, but what choice do I have?
I tell him the plan. Most of it.
* * *
—
I have to assume he’ll keep our secrets. I have to assume we’re still going ahead with the project.
As soon as I get home, I unfold the yellow school profile sheet from my pocket, find the phone number at the bottom of the page, and call Marcus Arnit.
At first, his mom doesn’t want to let him talk to me. When I finally convince her, I can practically feel her presence hovering behind him.
“This is Dominica Rivers…from your humanities class?”
“Hey, Dom.”
He sounds as if he’s been flattened. He’s not coming back to Mitchell Academy, he says. He’s going to homeschool for the rest of the year, and maybe try somewhere new in September.
His voice gets a little more animated when I tell him my plan.
“So you want to…”
As he repeats the main ideas, I can tell he’s picturing it.
“Absolutely not,” his mom says from the background.
“What difference is it going to make now?” he asks.
“Maybe a big difference,” I say.
“No, I was talking to my mom. You can use my stuff.”
“I don’t have to. I don’t want to make things worse for you.”
He laughs, in an unfunny way. “They can’t do anything worse than they already have.”
“Come to the open house,” I suggest. “You know, seize back your power and all that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re sure, though? About the picture?”
“Absolutely. I want to be part of this.”
We’re about to hang up when he says my name.
“What?”
“Thanks. For planning everything.”
I try again to encourage him to come, but he’s already hung up. At least he’ll be a part of it, whether he’s there in person or not.
* * *
—
Ms. Sutton gets Miranda, Max, and me excused from class on Wednesday afternoon. We borrow two ladders and a drop cloth from the custodian, then set up along the blank wall directly across from the reception desk. Max unrolls the first stencil and he and Miranda hold it in place while I wield the masking tape. My hands are shaking. It takes me three tries to rip off the first piece. At least it’s easier using acetate instead of paper stencils. I should have switched a long time ago.
“How about you stand back and tell us if they’re straight?” Max says.
“We don’t want them straight! They need to make an archway!” My words come out fast and shrill. I sound like a cheerleading coach on energy drinks.
“Dom, this is going to work,” Max says. He’s calmly securing the word Genera to the wall. “Tell me which way to tilt the next one.”
Who would have known that Max would be capable of artistic collaboration? I always thought he had the brainpower of a golden retriever. Maybe it’s Miranda’s presence. Even as I stand back and motion for them to move the right side of the stencil lower, Miranda laughs at something Max says. They both turn back to smile at me. A couple weeks ago, I barely knew these two. Now, anyone walking by might mistake us for old friends.
“Good?” Max asks.
I give them a thumbs-up. I don’t trust myself to talk.
Max shakes up a can of spray paint just as Mr. Lee walks by. He peers suspiciously up the ladder. “I assume you have permission for this?”
“From the boss lady herself. And this is water-soluble,” Max says.
Mr. Lee grunts and walks away.
“Didn’t say which boss lady,” Max whispers, winking down at me.
We do have permission for this part of the project, thank goodness. Ms. Sutton and Ms. Plante both know that we’re painting the mural onto the wall, and then arranging student portraits within the words. But they don’t know everything.
The foyer is full of people. Ms. Plante has seventh-graders setting up long tables, and she’s personally smoothing the wrinkles from crisp white tablecloths. An events-rental van idles outside the front doors, as staff cart in trays of wine glasses and cocktail plates.
Suddenly, Ana materializes beside me.
“Nice plant,” I say.
She’s wearing a headband with a tiny sprig of greenery growing from the top.
“Do you like it?” She touches the headband with fluttery fingers. “They’re really popular in Asia right now, and I thought it was sort of fun. A conversation starter.”
I make a noncommittal sound. She’s right that it started a conversation, but I’m kind of done with it now.
“Do you want help here? I could hold one of the stencils? What are you working on?”
Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know for sure how she got the video footage of me flipping my shirt in the library, but she definitely used it. And today’s the wrong day to expect diplomacy from me.
Her doll eyes go wider than I would have thought possible.
“You humiliated me in front of the whole school. So I don’t want to join your study groups, or go to your house, or work together on an art project. Ever.”
Max and Miranda have frozen on their ladders. They’re probably scared to move.
“I didn’t know he’d post it,” Ana whispers, so quietly I can barely hear her words. “I knew he’d think it was funny. I figured out that he’d posted my video, and I wanted to make friends with him and…”
“You need a better way to make friends.” There’s nothing feisty about my words. They’re pure anger.
Ana makes a stuttered attempt at answering. Then she gives up, spins, and runs from the foyer.
“Whoa,” Max says.
When I turn to glare at him, he and Miranda become instantly consumed with taping their final stencils into place. Then, as Max brandishes the paint can again, Miranda hurries off to get the rest of our supplies.
I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down.
It felt good to stop pretending, to tell Ana exactly what I think of her. Although I do feel a little more forgiving, knowing she didn’t intend my video to turn up on the forums. A teensy, tiny iota more forgiving.
“Hurry, people,” Ms. Plante calls. “I want this all done by three.”
She pauses to peer critically at our paint job as Max peels back a stencil. She can’t find anything to complain about—the letters look great. Securitas Genera Victoria, arching above the party.
She nods briskly and moves on to the silent auction items.
As the bell rings between classes, Miranda rushes back, teetering under an armload of theater curtains. Well, she’s probably teetering because she’s wearing sky-high white heels, but she’s also carrying theater curtains.
“Got to run!” she chirps, dropping them at my feet.
Max and I pull the ladders over and, thanks to the magic of Velcro, begin fastening a long, black curtain at each edge of the motto. The effect is quite dramatic, if I do say so myself.
“Can we place the photos?” I ask Max.
He touches the edge of one of the words. “Too wet. Should we start fastening your stencils underneath?”
Mom’s suitcase sits propped against the wall of the foyer, the rest of my acetate sheets still rolled inside. Our original plan was to work under the curtains and start attaching the stencils to the wall right away, but we know that Ms. Plante’s heading out soon for her hair appointment. Will we have enough time if we wait?
“Too risky to start now,” I decide. “Let’s do it after school.”
“Okay. Then we’re done.”
“For now,” I say.
I tuck the suitcase beneath one of the curtains. I can’t have anyone looking inside.
As soon as we step away from the wall, Ms. Plante puts us to work laying out bid sheets and pencils, carrying coolers of ice, and arranging coat racks. By three o’clock, the place looks fairly fabulous. As soon as the main crush of students has left, Ms. Plante heads to her appointment.
“Almost finished?” she calls as she leaves.
“Two minutes,” I promise.
And she’s gone.
Miranda’s timing is perfect again. She sweeps through the foyer, collects our ID tags, tucks them into her purse, and heads out the door. Before anyone can notice that we’re tag-less, Max and I head for the darkroom.
The place seems smaller than last time, especially when Saanvi and Holden join us in the semidarkness.
It seems even smaller once Max farts.
“Gross!”
“Shhhh…”
I force my fingernails to unclench from my palms. Banksy must have moments like this. Moments when his hands are so sweaty he has to wipe them on his pants, but then his elbow bashes the table and he has to bite his lip to keep from yelping because he’s supposed to be hiding and the air seems thick and he’s quite sure he’s going to pass out if he has to stay in this spot…
“Breathe,” Max whispers.
“I can’t! You made it stink in here!” But I try. Once, Banksy painted an adorable kitten in the rubble of a bombed house in Gaza. He said that Gaza was a big open-air prison where people were trapped. He wanted to draw attention to the violence there, but people on the internet were only interested in kittens.
“This seems like a movie scene,” Holden says. “Maybe they’ll make this whole project into a movie one day.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll make many movies about your life.”
He doesn’t seem to hear my sarcasm. “I hope I get to play myself.”
“Is it time yet?” I whisper hopefully.
Saanvi shows me her watch. Only three minutes have passed.
It won’t be long, though. Fifteen minutes, I tell myself. Twenty, tops. Then Miranda will give us the call that Ms. Marcie’s left the building.
“Holden will help me with the final stencils. Max will arrange the portraits. Saanvi, you need to find the microwave.”
“Got it,” Saanvi says.
“Because you’ve told us already. About a hundred times,” Max says.
He’s lucky my phone buzzes before I can answer.
MIRANDA: She’s gone! Foyer is empty.
“Miranda says we’re all clear!”
We tumble out of the darkroom and into the quiet of the empty, after-school hallway.
“Let’s go.” I don’t know why I bother saying it. Everyone’s already hurrying toward the foyer. Once there, I retrieve the suitcase from under the curtains. I pull out Mom’s giant glass bowl, which I’ve borrowed for the evening, and our “paint” supplies, and pass them to Saanvi.
Holden’s already unrolling a stencil.
“Back soon,” Saanvi says, as she heads toward the staff room.
“Don’t heat it too quickly! Low power!” I call after her.
She gives me a thumbs-up.
“This is going perfectly,” Holden says, passing me the tape. “Stop worrying.”
I try. But I don’t think I’m really going to breathe until we’re finished, one way or the other.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHOWTIME
BY THE TIME everything’s in place, we’re giddy with exhaustion and excitement.
At five, we slip out the side door of the school.
“You have chocolate on your nose,” Saanvi says.
When I wipe it off, I get a gob of it on my finger, which I try to dab onto Saanvi’s nose. We end up in semi-hysterical giggles. Rolling their eyes at us, Holden and Max decide a burger-and-fry run is in order. Once they’re back, we stand along the wall of the school, trying to eat away our nerves.
At five thirty, a news truck pulls up to the curb.
“Wow. You really came through, Miranda,” Holden says.
Saanvi scrolls through posts on her phone. “PixSnappy is going crazy. The word’s seriously out there now. Everyone knows we’ve planned something big for the open house.”
It’s happening.
Miranda leaves us and walks toward the first camera crew, as if she organizes this sort of thing every day.
“Okay. This is good,” I say. Good crazy. I may have to pretend I’m one of those Greenpeace activists who dangle off bridges or tie themselves into old-growth trees.
“Down!” Holden hisses, and we all press ourselves against the wall as Ms. Plante’s black Audi pulls into the parking lot.
Car doors slam.
“That van is—” Her voice rings across the grounds.
Then we hear Josh.
“I had no idea you were going to have news coverage, Mom. This will be great for the school.”
He’s covering for us. Or maybe this is really how he talks to his mom? Bot
h possibilities seem equally surreal.
Ms. Plante’s head swivels from the school doors to the news truck and back again. Even from here, I can see her eyebrows nearly touching the edge of her newly trimmed bangs. She doesn’t know what’s going on.
Then Miranda strides across the lawn toward her, trailed by a slim blonde in a tight-fitting teal jacket.
“Ms. Plante!” I hear Miranda call. “Can I introduce you to Rosemarie from VTV News?”
The principal visibly straightens. She puts on her fundraising smile. “Welcome!”
The reporter asks something I can’t hear.
“…a chance for parents to get to know one another, learn more about the school, and raise money for our newest programs,” the principal says.
A few cars begin to arrive, and soon there are parents in suits and cocktail dresses making their way through the double doors. Small groups of students mill on the lawn. Only students whose work is being displayed tonight are officially invited to the event. But Miranda’s blog post and her PixSnappy clues must be working—more and more kids arrive.
“Shall we?” Saanvi grins.
“Do we walk in together or separately?” Max asks.
“Together, man,” Holden says. “It’s no use hiding now. This is your work on display.”
Max actually blushes (alizarin crimson).
As soon as we push through the doors, I stop, loving the way our creation looks from this distance. Max has taken fifty or sixty black-and-white portraits. Each shows a different student staring directly into the camera lens. Ana gazes out from beneath a ribbon headband. Josh’s dark eyes are framed by his long lashes. Holden, Saanvi, me…we’re all there in black and white.
Not one of the images is perfectly rectangular. They’re all cut with a curve, and Max has puzzle-pieced them together to fit perfectly within the letters of the school motto. While the black spray paint is still there behind the scrolled letters of Securitas Genera Victoria, it serves only as the background to the portraits.
On either side of the words hang the huge black curtains. The overall effect is starkly beautiful.
“Oh, and this is our star artist, who’s done the portraiture you see tonight.” Ms. Plante seizes Max by the shoulders, turning him one way and then the other to meet groups of parents. Max smiles at them blankly until Saanvi joins him and begins explaining how he cropped the images to fit the words.
Me and Banksy Page 18