A smaller group of kids had gathered around Trent. Most of them I knew, like Brady Barber and Eli James, who were hard to miss. Not only did they always hang out together, but they always dressed the same, too: baggy black pants, white collared shirt, black hoodie jacket. Reva Abbott was also standing near Trent, wearing tight clothes and a bored expression.
“What I meant to ask was, how did Trent do it?” The mural looked polished and professional. Not the work of an amateur at all. It appeared as if the gorillas had been painted using some kind of laser program—they were that perfect. In fact, it looked like it was the same gorilla copied six times, because they were identical to one another. There was no way it was done freehand, I realized. But there was also no way that Trent had access to the kind of sophisticated equipment I would guess something like this required.
“He’s a genius,” Lan said. “Who knows how he did it?” She stared across the crowd to watch him. Lan had always harbored a secret crush on Trent. Sometimes they flirted, but it had never developed into anything.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the digital camera my parents had given me for Christmas. It made a sound like tinkling bells when I turned it on. I took as many shots as I could of the wall, knowing that some of the shots would be blocked by people’s heads.
“We might want to get out of here now,” Lan whispered. A police car had pulled into the parking lot. Two officers got out, and kids automatically walked away. One of the officers saw me, smiled and nodded. I nodded back, then let Lan pull me toward the front entrance.
There were still a few minutes before the first bell rang, but we were already in the junior hall, so we didn’t have to hurry. When our new class schedules arrived just before break, Lan and I were thrilled to discover that we had first period history together. We had been best friends since freshman year and had never once had a class together, so this was a cause for celebration. Also, history was my favorite class. Mr. Gildea had a fun teaching style and with his bright brown eyes and wry smile he wasn’t bad to look at, either.
“You’re going to help me out, right?” Lan asked as we slid into desks in the middle of the room. She hated history. I always helped her with term papers and in return she helped me with science labs.
“This is going to be a great class,” I told her. “I had Mr. Gildea last year. He’s awesome.”
“That’s what you said about French, remember?” Lan grumbled.
“I didn’t use the word awesome.”
“No, I think you said it would be très magnifique. Which it was not. And I got a C.”
I dug around in my backpack for a pen, automatically handing one to Lan, who always forgot to bring one to class.
“Oh, great. Look who has decided to grace us with her presence,” Lan whispered. I looked up just as Tiffany Werner sailed into the room talking on her rhinestone-studded cell phone.
“It covers the wall,” she was saying. “I mean, totally and completely. It will never come off, I’m sure. Well, of course. Uh-huh.”
Tiffany Werner was the most spoiled girl I had ever known. She wore “Tiffany-blue,” her signature color, every chance she got. Her parents named her after the famous jewelry store, and she loved to remind people of that fact, which seemed a little odd to me. I mean, if my parents had named me after a store, I wouldn’t be bragging about it, no matter how fancy the store might be. She owned a genuine Tiffany diamond ring, and she considered herself a jewelry expert because of it. She wouldn’t hesitate to lean over and grab someone’s wrist to examine their bracelet or ring or watch, only to laugh and proclaim that it was a fake. She even did it to a teacher once. Tiffany had a way of taking over a classroom and making herself the center of attention, and I hated that.
She took a seat in the front, aware that we were all listening to her conversation. “The police are already here,” she said, and I could feel a few people turn their heads in my direction. I pretended to study my blank notebook. “Trent’s in the office now. They’re questioning him.”
This last comment caused a lot of murmuring in the classroom. The bell rang and Tiffany quickly shut her phone before Mr. Gildea walked into the room. He was one of the few teachers who wouldn’t hesitate to confiscate a phone. Rumor had it that the bottom drawer of his desk was full of them, but I doubted it. Still, no one wanted to take a chance.
“Good morning,” he said as he strode to the lectern. “And how are things in the jungle today?”
We all laughed a little. Mr. Gildea could be funny, probably because he was still young. He always wore khaki pants and a bright tie. This time it was green with thin orange stripes.
“Mr. Gildea, are they going to expel Trent for defacing school property?”
Everyone looked from Tiffany, who had asked the question, to Mr. Gildea, who was examining the attendance sheet.
“One moment, please, Miss Werner.” He looked us over, checked his sheet and then put his pen down.
“Now, then, what was the question?”
Tiffany sighed loudly and repeated herself.
“I have no idea,” he said, “but I’m sure the rumor mill will be up and running with an answer before lunch.”
“They can’t suspend him,” said Brady Barber. He was slouched in a desk at the back of the classroom. “They have no proof.”
“Oh, please,” said Tiffany. “We all know it was him.”
“So what if it was?” Brady was sitting up now. “I’m not saying he did it, but what if he did? It’s art. You can’t suspend people for expressing themselves with art.”
“It’s not art. It’s called defacing public property, and it’s a crime.”
“That wall was already defaced, remember? It was streaked with tar from last year’s roof repairs.”
Tiffany sighed. “That was an accident, Brady. Not vandalism.”
“It was still ugly.”
“So are those gorillas.”
Mr. Gildea held up one hand. “Sounds like we have a difference of opinion,” he said, grinning. He loved a good debate. “You both present a valid point. Where is the line between art and vandalism?”
He went on to say that archaeologists had discovered graffiti in Roman ruins and that, in a way, it was one of the earliest art forms known to humans. Tiffany seemed to think that Mr. Gildea was taking Brady’s side over hers.
“Art belongs in a museum, not smeared across a concrete wall,” she announced. Well, this got the entire class talking, and I was glad that most people disagreed with her. I wanted to jump into the conversation, but I couldn’t think of anything remotely meaningful to add. I wasn’t like Tiffany, who could sum up her thoughts in one clear sentence. And I wasn’t like Brady, who could always be counted on to come up with an idea no one else had thought of yet. Part of me wanted to be good at those things, but part of me knew that announcing my opinions out loud would automatically expose me to judgment, and that was something I could do without.
Mr. Gildea let the class debate the issue for a while before handing out our textbooks.
“I can see this isn’t going to be resolved in one class period,” he said just before the bell rang. “So we’ll pick it up again tomorrow. Your assignment for tonight is simple—define art. Three hundred words.”
Everyone groaned, and Tiffany snorted. “This has nothing to do with history.”
Mr. Gildea smiled. “On the contrary. Art is a reflection of history. And this class owes you its thanks, Miss Werner. I wasn’t