“Were you aware I’m the chair of our city council’s citizen privacy committee?” he asks sternly.
I can’t stay and cheer—Mom is sweeping Holden and me toward the foyer. When we pass the reception desk, we find the crowd still gathered. Everyone immediately swivels toward us.
Miranda plows forward. “I’ve given them the background. But they need to hear from you now.”
“You’re kind of…vibrating.”
“I know,” she gushes. “I’ve lost all journalistic objectivity!”
“Dominica, we need to go home and talk about this,” Mom says.
“Can she have one minute?” Miranda’s tugging me toward the podium.
Mom’s stern-parent face is morphing toward glare. It’s not very often she glares.
Holden steps between us. “Ms. Rivers, that was amazing,” he says. “I knew you had skills, because chocolate cupcakes, but this was a whole other level.”
He glances over his shoulder at me and mouths “Go.”
And I do.
Miranda shoves a piece of paper into my hands. “Your speaking notes. I would have kept going, but it’s so much better coming from you. Since this was your idea.”
I step to the podium again, in front of the microphone, and it’s as if I’m on TV. Reporters cluster around me, the crowd pressing in behind them.
“What prompted this action?” one calls.
“Could you spell your name for the record?”
“What do the giant squirrels signify to you?”
Miranda nods encouragingly. I spot George nearby, and she’s beaming. Mom and Holden are watching from the steps now. Mom’s lips are pressed together, but she’s not glaring. Holden gives me a quick thumbs-up.
I glance down at Miranda’s notes.
Explain camera issues.
And then I’m talking. I tell them about the cameras at Mitchell Academy, and the security breaches, and the way the principal controls the teachers and the class discussion.
“We believe that our ethics teacher, Ms. Sutton, was asked not to address privacy and security issues in class. As students, we’ve been threatened with suspension for suggesting the school address security breaches.”
I don’t need Miranda’s notes. I have a whole list of examples.
“How many students were involved in this protest?”
“There was a group, but some might like to remain anonymous,” I tell them.
Saanvi steps up behind me. I don’t know how she escaped her family, but she stands at my shoulder and nods to the crowd.
I almost fall down when Holden joins her.
Miranda and Max step up beside them.
“Tell them about Banksy,” Miranda says.
This is the second item on her list of speaking notes.
“When we learned about a British street artist named Banksy, and about his—”
“Or her,” Saanvi says.
“Or her reactions to surveillance, my friends and I got inspired. We wanted to try our own version, to draw attention to the situation.”
I have to pause for a breath. This is a lot more attention than we expected.
“Resorting to a criminal act seems extreme,” one of the reporters says. He has a gray comb-over and bushy, furrowed brows.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it criminal,” I say.
“You wouldn’t call defacing your school a criminal act?”
Before I can explain, Max steps away from the rest of us.
“Check this out!” he yells. Even without the microphone, his voice carries.
Jogging a few steps to the wall, he gives the foot of a squirrel a lick. A huge, slobbery lick, as if he’s eating an ice cream cone.
There’s a murmur of confusion.
Max wipes his mouth, then faces the reporters.
“Chocolate! It’s delicious!” he yells.
There’s a burst of laughter. People press closer to the piece for a better look. Once you know, it’s obvious it’s not spray paint. It’s melted dark chocolate.
Saanvi leans toward the microphone. “It wasn’t easy getting it perfectly smooth using only the staff-room microwave,” she says.
She deserves the scattered applause that breaks out.
When I look across the crowd, I see George is laughing. So is Saanvi’s mom, who’s standing with her arm linked in George’s.
We’re triumphant. I answer a few more questions, but now that everyone understands that the “vandalism” was done with chocolate, the atmosphere is much friendlier. Once I’ve stepped away from the microphone, I tell one of the journalists about the school laptop, and about how Principal Plante captured video footage in my home.
“It has to be illegal,” she says.
“That’s what I thought.”
Nearby, I can hear Saanvi telling another reporter about the video of her, and how quickly it circulated.
Max is practically buried in fans, and he’s never looked happier. Holden’s surrounded by girls as he explains the best ratio of dark chocolate to butter for this purpose. One of the groupies has her hand on his arm. But as I watch, he looks up and scans the room until his eyes land on me. He smiles.
My heart just about cracks open. And then it explodes when I see Ms. Sutton. There she is, holding court for three separate reporters, with a news camera zoomed in on her face, and she looks as if she was born for this moment.
“Cameras in the classrooms might seem like a good idea, but this is an age when kids need to explore their identities. They’re already hesitant to put their opinions in the world. When those opinions are being closely watched by the administration…well, it feels like the censorship of their ideas.”
The reporters ask more questions, their voice recorders extended toward her.
I jump as someone touches my arm. It’s George.
“I knew all those books would pay off one day,” she says.
“You’re not mad?”
But I don’t even have to ask. She’s wearing a gigantic smile that stretches practically from one pearl earring to the other.
“I’ve never been so proud.”
Then Mom is there, and Frank!
“I called him. I hope you don’t mind,” Mom says.
They have their fingers tangled together, as if they’re teenagers.
“It sounded like you needed help, but I see you have everything under control,” Frank says.
“Would you have rescued me?”
“Of course he would have! Like a knight in shining armor!” Mom says.
Frank blushes, which is kind of sweet. “I’m not sure about the knight part, but I think you’d have a strong case with those laptops. In fact, you could still pursue it—”
“Not now, Frank,” George says. “We can talk legal matters later. Wouldn’t you say it’s time for a drink? Maybe dinner?”
Mom and Frank agree immediately, but I hesitate.
“George, I feel like I should stay.”
The reporters are finally heading back to their vans, but the place is still crawling with students and parents. Miranda waves at me frantically from where she’s standing with Ms. Sutton and Ms. Crofton.
“Of course, darling, I understand,” George says. “This is your big show.”
It feels like that. I find myself smiling as I leave my family—my enlarged family—and make my way toward Miranda. Despite the lack of champagne flutes, this feels like my very own gallery opening. And I’m going to make it count.
* * *
—
The five of us are finally heading for the door when we run smack into Holden’s mom and dad, who’ve obviously driven here without looking in the mirror. His mom’s lipstick is outside the lines and his dad’s normally coiffed hair is squished on one side, like he just woke up from a nap. They’re both breathless and wide-eyed.
“The school ema
iled,” his dad says.
“We’re supposed to speak with the principal, immediately,” his mom says.
“I thought you were on a work trip,” Holden says. “Shouldn’t you still be on the plane?”
“We finished sooner than we thought,” his dad says. “Took an earlier flight. What is all this?”
Their eyes flit back and forth between the giant motto and Holden, then to Saanvi and me, then back to Holden. The last news crew is still packing up. A few students are taking photos.
“Did you have something to do with this?”
“I guess.” Holden shrugs. “It was a group project. The one I mentioned, with the art?”
His mom throws herself at him and wraps her arms around his neck. “I’m so proud of you!”
“Now, I don’t know if that’s necessarily appropriate.” His dad does a much better job of normal parent reaction, but I barely hear him. Because the look on Holden’s face…it’s as if he’s in one of those horrible movies when an alien has taken over someone’s body and, on screen, the face flits back and forth between alien and human. Holden’s face is flickering between happiness and horror.
“Honey, we should still probably speak to the principal.” His dad tries to gently pry his wife’s arms from his son.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother. She’s with the police,” Saanvi says.
“The police!” Holden’s mom gasps. “Maybe the three of you went overboard, but surely this is a school matter…”
“It’s not about us,” I assure her. “At least, not like that.”
When I glance toward Ms. Plante’s office, I see Josh leaning against the reception desk. I guess he’s waiting for the police to finish interviewing his mom. He doesn’t look happy, but he nods to me. We’re good.
Then Max bounds up. “Are these your folks? Do you guys want to see the art close up? Ms. Sutton has cordoned it off so no one damages it, but she let me show my parents, because I was one of the creators.”
Saanvi rolls her eyes, but it’s hard not to smile as Max leads the way.
Holden’s mom hurries forward.
“You’re a friend of Holden’s, right?” she asks Max.
“Yeah. I’m going to get him on the basketball team next year. We’ll have a blast.”
When Holden’s mom looks back at us, she’s positively glowing.
I catch sight of Ana, then, and it seems as if things aren’t going quite as well with her parents.
“This is exactly the sort of thing we’ve been talking about,” her mom says. She has arched, plucked brows and high cheekbones. Any sense of humor has probably been liposuctioned out of her. “Why weren’t you involved in this?”
Ana flaps her hands and manages a few vague words.
“If you want the university of your choice, this is exactly the sort of thing in which you need to participate,” her dad says.
I stop to smile at her. “Oh, she did participate. Didn’t you, Ana?”
I feel a tiny bit bad when she bursts into tears and runs off toward the bathroom. I feel a little worse when her mother strides after her, still lecturing.
“Her mother seems horrible,” Saanvi whispers as we walk away. “We may have to be nicer to Ana.”
I consider. “Maybe. We can try.”
Shockingly, I am feeling sympathetic. “Do you think she’d have posted that video if I’d been nicer to her in the first place?”
“Nothing gave her the right to post that.”
Which is completely true. And I can’t promise to join any science study groups. But I resolve to be at least a little more patient with her in the future.
Saanvi and I find ourselves alone in front of the entrance and I plop onto the top stair, my legs suddenly shaky.
“We did it.”
“We killed it.” She grins.
For a minute, we sit quietly, listening to the murmur of voices from inside.
Then she turns to me. “I never had a crush on Holden,” she blurts.
“Okay…”
“In that video? I wasn’t staring at him.”
“Well, maybe they edited—”
“I was staring at you.”
I am officially shocked into silence.
“But I don’t feel that way anymore,” she says quickly. “I mean, I still love you to bits. Bits and pieces. But Miranda and I are kind of—”
Miranda emerges at that moment, shaking hands with the last of the reporters, as if she does this sort of thing on a daily basis. She gives us a cheerful wave and disappears back inside.
“That’s amazing,” I manage. “Miranda’s great.”
“I know. And now you and Holden can—”
“Wait. I thought Miranda liked Holden.”
Saanvi rolls her eyes. “Why?”
I try to remember. The head massage in ethics class? But I guess a head massage doesn’t necessarily equal love.
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
Saanvi starts rhyming about me and Holden sitting in a tree, as if she’s six years old.
I laugh. “Maybe. He has a few issues to work out.”
She grins back at me. “No kidding.”
I don’t want to think about all of that just now. I stand and pull Saanvi to her feet. “Let’s have one last look at our work.”
It’s pretty incredible. Max is still snapping photos. I’d like to send some to Banksy. Maybe we can post them somewhere. And I want print copies, too, to remember all this.
There’s one other small moment I’ll remember.
While Saanvi’s talking to Max, Holden steps up beside me and links his pinkie in mine. His fans seem to have headed home, finally.
“Can we get out of here for a minute?” he asks.
We push through the double doors and wander down the stairs, toward the corner of the building. Automatically, I check the map of cameras in my mind. I tug Holden a bit farther from the entrance.
He scuffs a toe in the grass, like a little kid. “Did Saanvi tell you about her video? I mean…about Miranda?”
I nod.
“My mom says I can stay at The Mitch.”
“That’s amazing!”
When he looks up at me, he seems almost as nervous as he did before his speech to the PAC.
“Everything’s okay then, right?” I say.
I think everything’s more than okay, but it’s possible I’m misinterpreting this situation.
Or maybe not.
Holden steps closer to me. He hooks a piece of my hair and tucks it behind my ear.
“Can I…”
He leans in at the same moment I nod, and he ends up kissing the end of my nose.
I’m not sure which one of us readjusts, but the second kiss lands where it’s supposed to. My stomach does a full Fibonacci spiral.
There aren’t any cameras where we’re standing along the side of the school. There aren’t any news crews. Max and his telephoto are safely inside. There’s no one here at all, except for us. This moment won’t be appearing on the forums, or on anyone’s social media feed. Because this moment is private. Perfectly, better-than-I-could-have-imagined private.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BRAVE NEW WORLD
THE REST of the week is a blur. It’s as if we’ve lit a rebellious spark in the school. The teachers barely manage to keep control of their classes. In art, Ms. Crofton launches a unit on murals. I notice she’s wearing one of her clingy bamboo dresses again.
In ethics, Ms. Sutton gives up on what she had originally planned. She starts a class debate on privacy and security instead.
I don’t see her glance even once at the camera in the corner.
The voices in favor of classroom privacy far outweigh those in favor of security. It would be interesting to hear what side Josh would support…except he’s not at school. No one’s seen Ms. Plante, either.
&n
bsp; “Can you text Josh and ask where he is?” I whisper across the aisle to Holden.
“You hate Josh, remember?”
“Hate’s a strong word. And I’m curious.”
“All I can think about is cupcakes,” Holden says.
Miranda is twirling a strand of Holden’s hair around her finger, and I don’t even care. “Mmmm…cupcakes,” she says.
Normally Ms. Sutton would have shushed us by now, but she’s lost control again. Everyone’s talking.
Holden’s obsessed with my mother’s baking plans. “How many flavors is your mom making?”
“Six.”
“And two of them are different varieties of chocolate,” he sighs happily.
* * *
—
We all head directly to Holden’s house after school. Our parents are going to join us at dinnertime.
It seems our parents have done a lot of talking. Max’s and Holden’s moms were especially horrified by the shots stolen from the school security cameras, since the PAC had helped fund them. As the news spread about Ms. Plante spying through our laptop cameras, there was a flurry of parent texting and phoning.
Holden’s mom finally invited everyone—Saanvi’s family, Max’s parents, Miranda’s parents, Mom, and even George—to her house to “discuss the situation.” Then mom offered to bring cupcakes, and ever since…
“After-dinner dessert extravaganza.”
Holden can only think about cupcakes.
I roll my eyes, but it’s kind of nice sitting here on the couch with him, our hands linked. Max and Miranda have commandeered the video game controllers and they’re in the midst of an intense racing game. Saanvi’s tucked in a corner chair with a book, but she’s reading with a smile on her face. Every so often, she glances over at Miranda.
After a while, I hear parents start to arrive. We go upstairs, say hello, and dish ourselves pizza. I notice that Holden manages to get a caramel cupcake onto his plate, even though they haven’t been served yet.
“Do you want to go in?” Holden asks, pointing toward the living room. It’s a babble of adult voices.
I consider for a moment, then I shake my head.
“I feel like we’ve done our part. They can take it from here.”
Me and Banksy Page 20