“Oh my . . .” I sat up in bed, shocked when I saw my Instagram feed. My fingers hovered over the video for a moment and then I clicked and watched.
“Cape Town residents were once again greeted by another work of street art this morning,” the news reporter said while standing by my artwork. “This one was done here, where six years ago college student Rose Maponyane was killed by her boyfriend in a car accident. After an explosive argument that led to domestic violence, she escaped their home by car, only to be pursued by him. The incident of gender-based violence ended in a fatal accident for Rose that night, and the story made national headlines when her boyfriend did not get the maximum jail sentence for his crime. We spoke to her parents.”
I gasped. I hadn’t meant to paint around such a famous cross.
“We love it,” her emotional father said. “Someone has brought our daughter back to life and now she’ll never be forgotten.” The man looked straight into the camera now. “Whoever did it, if you are watching, thank you.”
A tear escaped my eye and snaked down my cheek. The news reporter spoke again.
“But while her parents might be pleased, police spokesperson Relibogile Mashingo warned that under the antigraffiti bylaws, artists must apply for permits before painting in a public space. If they do so without one, it’s considered destruction of public property and comes with a fifteen-thousand-rand fine or three months in jail.”
“Crap!” I inhaled sharply.
“Local residents are also praising the anonymous artist who is taking the neglected and forgotten of Cape Town and breathing new life into it. So, Cape Town, the question is, could we have our very own Banksy?”
I lowered my phone and blinked a few times in utter shock.
“Banksy,” I repeated out loud. I put my hands over my mouth. “Bansky.” I climbed out of my bed and stood in the middle of the floor, looking out over the sea. It looked different this morning. Not as foreboding in some way. Not as big. It was strange to no longer feel dwarfed by the thing that had made me feel so small only last night. I walked back to my computer and opened it again, typing Rose’s name into the search bar. Story after story quickly filled the page. Stories about the surge in gender-based violence in South Africa. Stories about Rose herself—she’d been studying to become a social worker—and stories calling for harsher sentences for perpetrators of gender-based violence. My art had started this important conversation that had now taken flight across the media, and I couldn’t quite believe it. I grabbed my pencil and amended my list once again.
Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer
I’m a good sister.
I’m a real artist (despite what Blackwell says!).
I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!
I tapped my pencil against the list and knew what I needed to do. I got dressed and knocked on Zac’s door.
“Hello,” I called quietly, and then pushed it open. Zac was sitting on the floor, surrounded by dozens of batteries that he was busy attaching together with wires.
“What you doing?” I asked.
“I am going to create the world’s biggest battery, and then I’m going to be in the Guinness Book of Records.”
“I bet you are.” I sat down on the floor next to him. “Can I help?”
He nodded, and then showed me what to do. We sat in silence, working for a while before I spoke.
“I’m really sorry about last night. I lost my temper and it wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “Who was on the phone?”
I sighed. “Just this lady.” I brushed it off.
“From where?”
“From this place that I wanted to study art.” My stomach knotted.
“Why do you need to study art, you are so good at it already. You should also be in the Guinness Book of Records.”
I gave him a smile. “Thanks. But I reckon you’ll make it into the Guinness Book of Records before I do.”
He observed me for a while. “Probably.” And then he looked back down and continued making his battery.
“So, are we cool?” I asked softly.
There was a long pause between us, and I waited for him to speak again. Waited for him to forgive me. “Can you google Tutankhamun and tell me about him?” he finally said, breaking the prolonged silence.
“Sure.” I pulled my phone out, went to Wikipedia and scrolled. “Look at this.” I turned my phone around and showed Zac. “This is made of pure gold.”
Zac leaned in. “Is that his face?”
“I think so.”
Zac studied the face for a while. “You know gold is the best conductor of electricity.”
“I didn’t know that.” I put my phone away and carried on attaching the batteries to the wires. “Maybe,” I leaned over to him and whispered, “we should borrow some of mom’s bangles and attach them to this giant battery and see what happens?”
At that, his face lit up. I smiled. I loved it when his face lit up like this. When his mind grabbed onto something that interested him. When something deep inside that diverse web of firing, flickering neurons sprang to life in a way that I would probably never understand. But then his face fell.
“What?” I asked.
“Promise you won’t be mean to me like that again?”
My heart thumped in my throat. “I promise.”
“Promise?” he repeated.
“Cross my heart,” I said.
He looked confused and I quickly realized my mistake.
“What does cross your heart mean? How do you cross your heart? With what?”
I shook my head and smiled. “Never mind, it’s a stupid saying.”
“It is, because you can’t cross your heart. Your heart is inside your body, how do you cross it?”
“You’re right.” I put my head down and attached another two batteries until my mother stuck her head around the door.
“Lori, you’re up?” she said in a strange tone.
“Mom.” Zac jumped up. “I need one of your bangles.”
She looked at him curiously but slipped one off and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it.”
He shook his head and stared at the bangle with such intensity that I knew he was about to go into one of his happy creation bubbles.
“Can I talk to you downstairs?” my mom asked, forcing a big, white, veneered smile.
“Sure.” We walked downstairs and as soon as we had, she jumped straight into it.
“About last night,” she started. “I’m sorry you didn’t get into Blackwell, I know how much it meant to you. But there’s an excellent art degree at the University of Cape Town, and then you would be able to see Zac more.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to go to Blackwell.
“Anyway, I know I’ve been very busy lately with the move and my business, and now also trying to build my online personal brand.”
If I had to hear the words personal brand again, as if my mom was Kim Kardashian, I thought I might get sick.
“So why don’t you go out today, go out for the whole day and tonight, do whatever you like. Go to a party, stay out late. Whatever. I’ll look after Zac. And also, I wanted to tell you that I think we should start looking for a nanny to help on some afternoons, because all the responsibility is falling to you at the moment, which isn’t fair. I’m sure you have lots of other things you need to do.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll have to interview them very carefully, though.”
“Of course.”
“They need to have experience with kids like Zac.”
“Of course,” she repeated. “I’ve already contacted a very reputable agency that deals specifically with that.”
I looked at my mom, and she smiled at me. I was a bit taken aback by this sudden change of heart she seemed to be having. But I also felt grateful for it too. I was excited about the idea of having some time on my own. But when she and Zac went out, I felt strangely alone in this massive house and had no idea what to do with myself. I flopped down on the couch and pulled my phone out. If I was in Joburg, the guys would come over. We might watch some Netflix, we might go out for coffee, or go to Maggie’s and sip whiskey and pretend it tasted good because we looked so cool doing it. We might go scrounging through some secondhand shops, seeing what treasures we could find there. And then I thought of something. I reached into my bag and pulled out Thembi’s business card. I stared at it for ages before typing her a message.
LORI: What you doing today?
THEMBI: Nothing. You want to go fabric shopping?
LORI: Sure
THEMBI: What’s your address, I’ll come fetch you
I sent her my address and was about to put my phone away when I remembered something she’d said. I went to Google and typed in @fullerfigurefullerbust. I followed the link to her Instagram page, and when I saw the pictures, I sat up straight on the couch. I stared at them, thumbing over the screen as the pictures flew by.
She was absolutely gorgeous. This voluptuous redhead with perfect, flicked eyeliner and red lips. Posing in sexy lingerie, not caring that her stomach had rolls or her legs had cellulite. She looked so confident and sexy and . . .
I burst out laughing. Looked nothing like me.