Me and Banksy

by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  Another reporter arrives with a camera operator in tow, and I see Miranda right behind them, doing a secret fist pump.

  “My mom’s here!” she mouths to me, pointing at a striking brunette.

  My mom’s here, too, as it turns out. I introduce her to Max, who’s managed to escape Ms. Plante. For a few minutes, I forget that we’re about to stage a mutiny.

  There are more students now, and at least a hundred parents. The entire foyer is a bubbling, laughing, chattering crowd, spilling onto the lawn outside.

  A reporter steps in front of me, holding her cell like a microphone. “Can you tell me about some of the work on display here tonight?”

  Suddenly Principal Plante appears at my side.

  “An amazing achievement, isn’t it?” She smiles broadly at the reporter. “As you probably know, Mitchell Academy is a school for academically gifted students. We offer them a chance to fully explore their abilities in a safe environment. As we like to say, securitas genera victoria.”

  The reporter stares at her blankly.

  “Security breeds success.” Principal Plante seems thrilled with the opportunity to explain her philosophy. “In a school with strong leadership, and students with such marvelous potential…”

  I step away slowly, unnoticed.

  Around me, a few students begin to look bored. I catch Miranda as she flits by.

  “Soon?” I hiss.

  Saanvi and Max appear beside us.

  “Let’s circulate,” Miranda says. “Mention that there’s something to come. Call it an unveiling. Or a reveal. Something dramatic. Build the tension!”

  Then she’s gone.

  I’m jittery from nerves and sleep deprivation, but I paste on a fake smile and join the first cluster of people I see.

  “I’m so glad you’re all here for the big reveal,” I tell them. It’s a group of sixth-graders and their moms.

  “Hey, you’re in one of the pictures,” a girl says, pointing.

  “That’s me!” I chirp brightly. Who am I right now? “Wait until you see what’s coming.”

  With that and another power smile, I move on to the next group.

  Nearby, I can hear Holden explaining the lighting techniques. He’ll probably keep people here by boring them to death, but whatever works.

  Max is close, too, forcing people’s attention through the power of his puppy dog personality. “This is so cool, man. Isn’t this the coolest event you’ve ever seen?”

  He may be overdoing things.

  Saanvi sounds a hundred times more professional. “It’s a statement about the power of our identities,” she says. “What’s hidden under those expressions?”

  That’s getting a little too close to the truth.

  I talk to another group, then another. The crowd is still growing. I spot Ms. Sutton, chatting with Ms. Crofton. The two of them have their heads bent together as if they’re old friends.

  There are other teachers here, too. Mr. Lee and Mr. Nowak seem to be setting up a microphone and podium, presumably so Principal Plante can highlight the silent auction and the fundraising opportunities.

  Suddenly, I catch sight of George near the door. I hurry toward her.

  “I didn’t know you were coming!”

  “I heard there was an event. Isn’t everyone invited?”

  “Of course.”

  George is going to see what I’ve done. The butterflies in my gut immediately grow to pterodactyl size.

  Before I can say anything else, Miranda barrels toward us.

  “It’s time.”

  “I have to go,” I tell George. Then I plunge through the crowd after Miranda. It’s enormous now, I realize. There are several more news crews, too.

  Miranda heads directly for the microphone. This wasn’t part of our plan. At least, it wasn’t part of my plan. But she steps smoothly to the podium as if she’s meant to be there.

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming this evening. Please allow me to introduce Principal Plante, who oversees Mitchell Academy.”

  There’s a smattering of applause as Principal Plante, with a slightly surprised but pleased expression, makes her way to the front.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’m happy to see you all here. I didn’t expect our little open house to reach quite this scale. But our students, as you can see, are an impressive group. We’re very proud of them. The safety and security they find at Mitchell Academy fosters their scholarly achievements and their creative growth.”

  I throw up a little in my mouth.

  Ms. Plante launches into a full fundraising spiel before she steps away. She parts the crowd, shaking hands as she goes.

  Miranda manages to reclaim the microphone.

  Saanvi gives me a little push from behind.

  “What?”

  “Go! Miranda just introduced you!”

  I stumble toward the front. I can do this. I didn’t expect the podium or the amplification, but I know what I have to say.

  I manage to introduce myself. At first, I’m too close and the microphone crackles. I back up a half-step. “As Principal Plante said, Mitchell Academy is a secure place. A very secure place. In fact, there are more than thirty cameras in the hallways and classrooms, tracking student movements. We believe those cameras are interfering with open class discussions, and even affecting what our teachers choose to teach. This art installation is an expression of our concerns. Saanvi, are you ready?”

  She takes a plastic vase and a white cloth off one of the cocktail tables, revealing a projector underneath.

  I nod to Max and Holden.

  It’s time.

  They each seize one of the thick ropes running alongside the theater curtains. A tug, and the Velcro releases. The curtains swoosh to the ground, revealing the rest of the artwork underneath.

  There’s an uncomfortable chuckle from the crowd.

  Now, on either side of Max’s portraits, my artwork is visible. Two massive squirrels in body armor (I couldn’t resist) peer down at the school motto. Just as Max promised, the expressions in the portraits seem to change, now that the squirrels loom above them. A moment ago, the students’ faces looked thoughtful, pensive. Now, they look frozen, scared, or trapped.

  “How did he do that?” whispers Saanvi, who’s joined me behind the podium.

  I shake my head. I can practically feel Max quivering in excitement. My own stomach clenches as I wait for the final portion.

  I can see Ms. Crofton and Ms. Sutton staring back and forth between the artwork and me. They seem shocked. Or maybe mad? I can’t tell.

  The lights go out.

  Someone squeals and several people gasp in the split second before Saanvi flicks on the projector. The wall is bathed in light. Below the school motto, there are now three still shots glowing from the wall.

  One shows Marcus, his fly open and his shirt flap sticking out.

  One shows me, with my shirt half-off, the corner of my bra just visible.

  One shows Miranda in mid-trip, her books flying.

  A wave of concerned murmurs rolls through the room.

  Saanvi pokes me in the back and I step to the microphone again. “These images were shared without students’ permission. As you can see, there are certain downsides to security. We believe that one of the purposes of tonight’s open house is to get donations for new surveillance initiatives. As students, we worry this is disrupting our education and our freedom.”

  “Amazing,” someone says.

  “Powerful.”

  Applause begins, first a few sporadic claps and then a swell of noise throughout the room. I’m relieved to see Ms. Crofton clapping. Ms. Sutton doesn’t seem mad. When I catch her eye, she nods to me.

  I don’t get to say anything else at the microphone. I’m quickly surrounded by reporters, students, and parents, all shouting questions. Max flicks half the lights back on. Saan
vi quickly passes around our press release, with the story of this spring’s hacking incidents, as well as statistics on national school security.

  I look at Holden and grin. I can’t stop grinning. Who knew it was so much fun to break the rules?

  “Have you, personally, been affected by security breaches?” a reporter asks.

  “I’ve been affected by breaches, and by the security cameras themselves. That’s me, flipping my sweater…,” I begin.

  I’m distracted by Principal Plante striding toward me. The crowd parts to either side, but reporters press in to fill the gap.

  “Is it true that Mitchell Academy has more security cameras than—”

  “Of course not. That’s ridiculous,” she sputters.

  “Are you concerned about the effect on student privacy?”

  Principal Plante slows. She pulls herself straighter, steps past me to the microphone, and clears her throat.

  “As many of you know, Mitchell Academy is a school for gifted children. However, giftedness often comes with its own social-emotional issues. Some of our students struggle with relationships. Some with authority. Recently, several of our students have seriously violated our school policies.”

  “By accessing security footage?”

  “By accessing school grounds unsupervised, by interfering with our security cameras, and by gaining administrator control of our systems. I’m afraid this is a case of some troubled young people vying for attention.”

  Miranda appears beside me. “She’s changing the narrative,” she whispers in my ear.

  “What?”

  At the podium, Principal Plante shakes her head sadly. “Of course, we must treat these students with compassion. But we also have to act swiftly, especially when they’re damaging public property and possibly themselves.”

  “She’s trying to shift attention to an entirely different issue,” Miranda hisses. “She wants to take control of the story.”

  “But we’ll tell people—” Saanvi starts.

  Holden puts a hand on my arm.

  Mr. Nowak appears behind us. “Dominica. Holden. Saanvi. Principal’s office. Immediately.”

  His voice sends shivers down my spine.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  Miranda steps forward, but I shake my head. There’s no sense in more of us getting expelled. As far as Ms. Plante knows, Miranda was simply acting as an MC tonight.

  Mr. Nowak barrels a path through the crowd and we follow like prisoners. I feel a hundred eyes on my back as we pass below the painting and behind Ms. Plante’s podium.

  “Do you consider this vandalism?” a reporter calls to the principal.

  “I certainly do.”

  I follow Mr. Nowak past Ms. Marcie’s desk, through the door to the principal’s office, and toward my doom.

  * * *

  —

  A moment later, I hear the click-click of Principal Plante’s heels.

  “Really, I’m shocked at the three of you,” she says, shutting the door behind her.

  “You should be shocked by whoever posted those videos,” Saanvi says.

  “This goes far beyond the defacement of school property.” Principal Plante taps a few keys and turns her computer monitor toward us.

  “Mitchell Academy has a zero-tolerance policy for drugs of any kind. I’ve already forwarded this to your parents and the police. You may consider yourself expelled.”

  On screen, Holden, Saanvi, and I are toasting with tiny white mints in the cafeteria.

  She reaches to click another button and the three of us appear again, this time popping tiny pink pills. We look ridiculous, eyes half-closed and mouths gaping as we toss the things at one another. One moment we’re way too close to the camera; the next minute, we’re barely in the frame. What are we doing? I recognize my living room couch in the background.

  “Those are NOT drugs,” Saanvi says.

  And then I understand, finally.

  “Principal Plante, how did you get that footage? That’s from inside my apartment.”

  It was taken weeks ago, when Holden and Saanvi came over to sample cupcakes and we threw pink sparkle candies at each other in the midst of our sugar craze. She must have somehow accessed the webcam on my school laptop.

  Ms. Plante ignores me, ignores Saanvi’s protests, and launches into a lecture about respect and responsibility. Holden slides down in his chair, tilts his head against the seat back, and gazes at the ceiling. Personally, I can’t stop staring at the principal. Is she serious? This whole thing is ridiculous, and yet I can still hear the word “police” echoing in my head.

  I think I hear Ms. Sutton’s voice outside the door. Saanvi’s family is definitely out there. Her dad demands to see the principal, and I can hear her grandma talking at a million miles a minute. Someone shouts a question. We can hear Mr. Nowak struggling to maintain order.

  “It sounds as if your parents are here. Shall we ask how they feel about you experimenting with drugs?” Ms. Plante asks Saanvi.

  Poor Saanvi. I glance over at her, expecting to see tears. But she’s gripping the arms of her chair so tightly, her knuckles are white. “You can invite them in. I look forward to explaining,” she says.

  I’m so impressed. If my chest were a helium balloon, it would float me up to the stratosphere right now.

  “Those are not drugs.” I repeat Saanvi’s words, looking directly at Principal Plante. “And filming us in my house is a serious privacy violation. It’s illegal.”

  I have no idea if it’s actually illegal, but it must be, right? And as I say those words, the office door opens and Mr. Nowak steps inside, followed by a uniformed police officer. It’s as if I conjured her. Or it’s as if my worst nightmare has come true. I’m not exactly sure.

  Holden doesn’t move from his slouch.

  “Holden,” I hiss. He could say something in his own defense.

  He shrugs. “What are they going to do?” he whispers. “Expel me? My mom’s already putting me in a different school.”

  Still, his eyes follow the officer as she crosses the room to stand beside the principal.

  “I’m Constable Marion,” she says. She has strawberry-blonde hair smoothed into a low bun at the base of her neck, below her cap. Blue shirt, dark pants, a belt heavy with a baton and a gun. She shakes the principal’s hand, but then she shakes ours as well. I barely manage to wipe the sweat from my palm onto my skirt.

  “I understand we have a situation?” she says.

  We all start talking at once.

  “I’m sure you noticed the graffiti outside…,” Principal Plante says.

  “…delinquents…,” Mr. Nowak says.

  “…some sort of power-hungry witch hunt…,” Saanvi says.

  “We need someone to listen,” I say, but of course no one’s listening. Except Holden, maybe. He winks at me, but he doesn’t sit up.

  Constable Marion isn’t impressed. She holds up her hands and, without seeming to try, makes her voice heard above the babble. “One at a time, please. Principal Plante?”

  The principal gestures toward her computer screen. “As you’ll clearly see in the videos, these students have been taking drugs. Our school has a zero-tolerance policy, and there are the legal issues. And the health issues, obviously. We’re highly concerned about their safety.”

  Saanvi snorts. “She used a school laptop to film us at home.” She glares at the principal. “Do you flip between cameras, to spy on your students?”

  Constable Marion holds up her hands again, because it’s obvious the room is about to erupt. We wait while she watches the videos. Then Ms. Plante displays several screen grabs showing us painting the foyer and testing the projector.

  “We had permission to paint the motto,” I say.

  “How do you explain the drugs?”

  That’s when my mom bursts in. She literally bursts through the d
oor, ignoring Mr. Lee, who appears to be trying to stop her. She stands on the threshold, with Saanvi’s parents peering over her shoulders. Mom’s cheeks are flushed, her hair is flying around her face like a mane, and I’m sort of surprised she’s not wearing a cape.

  Holden regains postural control. “Your mom is awesome.”

  In her hands, Mom holds an industrial-sized bin of pink decorating candies, which she drops in front of Principal Plante. A few escape through a crack in the plastic and roll across the surface of the desk.

  “These are from my catering company,” she announces.

  Constable Marion snorts. She then claps a hand over her mouth and coughs, but I’m fairly sure it’s an attempt at snort cover-up.

  “I received your videos. They are the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen,” Mom says.

  “One of them was taken illegally through my laptop webcam,” I add.

  Saanvi grins at me.

  “Taken through a child’s laptop,” Mom says, “without her knowledge or the consent of her parent.”

  “Complete violation of privacy,” Saanvi adds.

  But Mom’s not finished. “My partner is a civil rights lawyer, and I assure you, he’s more than willing to take this issue to court.”

  I love Frank. I’m sorry I ever doubted him. If Mom wants to marry him, or run away with him to a desert island, that’s totally okay by me.

  Constable Marion is peering closely at the video on Principal Plante’s monitor. “May I have a copy of this?”

  Principal Plante looks as if she’s swallowed something rancid.

  “Dominica, Saanvi, Holden,” Mom says.

  We pop out of our chairs like soldiers called to attention.

  Mom nods to Mr. Nowak. “I’ll take this matter from here,” she says.

  And we march out of the room.

  Saanvi is immediately enveloped by her family. There are so many questions from her mom and dad, and so many tears from her grandma, I’m not sure she’ll ever escape. But then her dad turns back toward Ms. Plante.