49

“What’s going on?” Jake asked.

And then Thembi, Guy, and Andile were also by my side asking the same question. A feeling sank into the pit of my stomach. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it was bad when I saw the look on the principal’s face. He made eye contact with me and shook his head. I looked to his left and that was when I saw Xander.

“Follow me.” Mr. Du Preez’s voice was demanding, and I followed him out of the hall. We walked in silence down the corridor. The only noise was my high heels clicking on the concrete, echoing down the corridor, sounding ominous. When we got to his office and walked inside, I couldn’t hide my shock. My mother was there. She was standing against the wall with her arms folded, and then next to her . . . my blood ran cold. A policewoman.

“Sit down, please, Lori,” Principal Du Preez said.

I looked at my mother. I could see she’d been crying. I looked over at Xander; he looked concerned.

“Mom, what’s going on? Is everything okay? Is Zac okay?”

“Sit down please,” the principal said again. His voice was firmer this time and I obeyed him. And then the policewoman walked up to the desk and slid a file across it. I looked down at it, and then back up at her. Her eyes urged me to open it and so I did.

And there I was. Grainy black and white images of me painting over my mother’s billboard while wearing Jake’s BWH cap.

“Where did you . . .” I started but stopped myself.

“After the reward was put out, the store owner across the road checked his security footage,” the policewoman said. “We recognized the lettering on the cap immediately and came here, and that’s when Mr. Brown identified you.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“Oh. Oh! Is that all you have to say for yourself?” My mom sounded hysterical now. She walked forward and pointed down at the picture. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”

“Let’s just all calm down here,” Xander interrupted. “Let’s all take a deep breath and talk this through calmly.”

“I agree with Xander,” the principal said, looking at me. “We would all just like to understand why you did this.”

“Yes, Lori! Why?” My mom was crying now, and all I wanted to do was roll my damn eyes at her. Maybe even pull them out of my head and chuck them at her, to snap her out of this dramatic soap-opera moment she was clearly indulging in.

And now the policewoman put another file down on the desk. I flipped it open and was confronted by my other art. The crack, Rose, Natasha.

“Did you do those too?” my mother asked in a shocked voice.

“Yes.” The word came out softly at first, as if I wasn’t quite ready to own it yet. But the truth was, I was ready to own this. I had done this. And I didn’t regret it. I stood up, pushed the chair aside, and looked my mother straight in the eye. “Yes,” I said, louder this time. “I did do those. And I would do them all over again.”

“Lori.” My mom threw her hands in the air. “What’s going on with you? Since coming to Cape Town you have been running around, disappearing at night—what has gotten into you?”

I looked at her and shook my head. I didn’t know what to say to her anymore, really. No matter what I said, nothing seemed to penetrate that fake, plastic surface of hers.

I turned and looked at the police officer now, and even though my heart was pounding, I took a deep breath and pulled every last ounce of courage in the world toward me. “I know what I did was illegal, and I’m ready to face whatever the consequences are, but, you must know that I don’t regret doing it at all.”

The calmness in my tone almost frightened me. I was so cool and collected, like I was channeling this power from somewhere. No, not from somewhere. I was channeling the power of all those people at Natasha’s vigil. Their energy was flowing through me now, just like the paintings had.

The police officer looked me up and down for a few moments, and then exhaled. “Your painting of Natasha has had the hotline ringing off the hook. We’ve gotten some good leads.”

“I hope you find her,” I said softly and then waited a while. But when she stayed silent, I couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore. “So . . . what’s happening to me? Am I going to be a-a-arrested?” The word stuck in my throat.

She shook her head. “No. But there’s going to be a fine, and you’re going to have to do some community service, and you’re going to have to stop, unless you apply for the proper permits.”

I nodded. Relief washed over me in bucket loads. Despite my courage, I really didn’t want to go to jail for three months.

I turned to the principal and Xander. “May I go back to the dance now?”

The principal shook his head. “No. I’m afraid we’re going to have to suspend you over this. I can’t have pupils committing crimes, especially while wearing school clothing.”

I hung my head. “I understand.”

“And we’ll have to ask you to leave now,” the principal said, rising from his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Xander added quickly from the sidelines. I looked at him and he gave me a small, encouraging smile, as if he was trying to communicate that he was on my side here, in my corner.

“Look how much trouble you’ve caused, Lori,” my mother moaned from behind me. “When did you become such a troublemaker? You were always such a good girl.” My mom turned to the principal and Xander now. “I didn’t raise her to be like this, I didn’t . . .”

“Raise me?” I turned and glared at her. “Raise me?” I repeated, letting the question hang in the air. The tension in the room was palpable now, and the question hung in it like the smell of sulfur after a fireworks display, catching in your throat and making your eyes sting. And when my mom said nothing in response, when she didn’t even open her mouth to attempt anything, I felt something happening inside me. Something big that was just fighting to get out. I took a stride toward her and in the calmest tone I could muster, I found my voice and spoke my truth.

“Mom, you haven’t ‘raised me’ for years. Not since the divorce. You haven’t been a real parent to me, or Zac, and I think it’s time you acknowledge that.”

Her face and lips went white and she looked around the room, shaking her head and forcing a smile as if desperately trying to keep up appearances, even though they were slipping fast with every word I spoke.

“That’s not . . . it’s not . . . true,” she said through a big, fake grin. Default Cheshire grin. The one she always plastered across her face, no matter what she was really feeling.

“Mom, when was the last time you looked in the mirror?” I continued.

“Sorry, what?” Her fake smile faded now.

“Because I don’t even recognize this person standing in front of me as my mother anymore. You have become this weird caricature of a person that I don’t even know.”

I heard the principal clear his throat. “Maybe now is not the time for—”

“It’s never the time.” I turned and cut him off. “Because she never has any time. And this time is as good as any.” I turned back to my mom. “And I’m sorry Dad fell in love with someone else. I’m sorry he divorced you and blew up your perfect picket-fence life. I’m sorry you gave up your career to look after us and allow Dad to build his career and then when he got successful, he went and shared that with someone else. Someone young and beautiful. And I’m sorry that that makes you feel so insecure about the way you look that you pump toxins into your forehead and lips. And I’m sorry you feel the need to define your life with material things, and I’m sorry that you have an autistic son, and a daughter who is clearly a big, fat disappointment to you . . . literally. I’m sorry! Okay!” I paused and watched to see if any of my words had sunk in. If they’d even penetrated the surface. I wasn’t sure, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if my words were simply falling on deaf ears, shooting out of my mouth only to collide with some impenetrable wall and die there.

But I didn’t stop. There was more to say. “Mom, you have to grow up now. I feel like I’m the only adult in the house sometimes and I am, I’m, it’s . . .” And then I started crying. It was the last thing I wanted to do because it made me feel so naked and exposed, but I couldn’t help it. “Sometimes I feel like I am cracking under all the pressure. I love Zac so much, I do, but I shouldn’t be the one reminding you to do his OT homework at night. Sometimes I feel like my life is not mine. I feel invisible to you and Dad, and you don’t care about my feelings. All you care about is yourself, being Barbara Palmer of Palm Luxury Realty. I feel forgotten, and maybe that’s why I did all that stuff, Rose, Natasha.” I turned to the policewoman now. “At least I could make someone else less forgotten. I could give someone else a voice, because I was voiceless.” I wiped my tears and squared off in front of my mother. Her eyes were shining now, too, and I wasn’t sure if it was sadness or if she was just embarrassed. We looked at each other for the longest time, the tension in the room buzzing and crackling with a static energy that felt like it was giving me short, sharp, painful shocks. And then, when it felt like the tension had to subside or it would explode the air around me, four faces appeared by the door. They were all wide-eyed and worried-looking. Jake stepped forward.

“I helped with one of the paintings! It wasn’t just her,” he shouted into the room.

“Jake? What are you talking about?” The principal stepped forward.

“The painting on the museum wall, of Natasha. I was there too. I also participated, so if you’re punishing her, you can punish me too.” He stepped into the office. And then Guy also stepped forward.

“Me too. I was also there. You can punish me too!”

And just as soon as he was finished, Thembi stepped forward too.

“Sorry, who are you?” Mr. Du Preez asked, staring at Guy.

“We’re both guilty,” Jake said, looking at the policewoman now.

The principal let out a loud, long sigh. “Out! All of you, out. Just leave. Get out of my office.” He waved his arm in the air as if he was fed up with this whole thing. He probably was.

I looked over at the policewoman one more time, and she gave a small nod, as if concurring. So we did—we all turned and walked out.

“Where do you think you’re going?” my mom asked, her voice quivering.

“I’m going with my friends,” I replied.

“No, you’re not. You’re coming home, right now.” I could see she was trying to hold on to any semblance of power she still thought she had as a parent.

I shook my head. “No, Mom, I’m not. You don’t get to have this both ways. You don’t get to be my mom when it’s convenient for you.”

And with that, I walked away.

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 have a voice. There is power in my art.

I am brave!

I am a great kisser!

I’m a good friend (even if I don’t really want to be just a friend).

My voice can start a movement!

My body is a work of art!

I have great boobs. I mean . . . AHMAZING!

I am hot!

I stand up for myself.