News traveled quickly at BWH. Like the Cape Town wind—fast and hard, and it didn’t leave a thing unturned. After my two-week suspension was over, I came back to school quite the celebrity. As I walked in heads turned and everyone stared. Suddenly, I was the most popular person at school, and everyone wanted to talk to me. Since the discovery of who Cape Town’s Banksy was, my face had been splashed all over the news. I’d been interviewed on TV, for the papers, and on a radio station, and everyone wanted to know who I was and why I’d done what I’d done. I was a trending hashtag on Twitter, I was on everyone’s Facebook feeds, and the international media had picked up on the story when Natasha’s body had been found thanks to a lead generated by my picture. It was not the ending I’d hoped for, that anyone had hoped for, but it was an ending.
I’d gone to the funeral, expecting it to be nothing but devastating, and it was, but it was also so much more than that. Natasha’s parents had come up to me and thanked me for giving them the closure they’d longed for. Rose’s parents were also there—I recognized them from the news—and they, too, had come over to talk to me. So many different people had come to the funeral that the street outside the church was full. But each and every one of them had something in common; we were all united in this tragedy, putting our differences aside to acknowledge that at the core of it, we’re all human. We love, we lose, we laugh, and we grieve. And not just for Natasha and Rose; we grieved together for every woman and girl who had been harmed and taken. Natasha’s face had made that happen. She’d shone a light on every single missing child in the entire country, and as a result, two girls had been found alive and reunited with their families. Her death had not been in vain—her beautiful smiling face had saved two other lives, and I suppose, I’d played a small part in that. I might not have fully understood what I was doing at the time, but painting her face on that wall had been the single most important thing I’d ever done, and perhaps ever would do.
But overnight celebrity felt strange. What also felt strange was that the day I returned after my suspension, Jake and I had walked hand in hand into the school. And stranger still was how people had reacted to us. I’d expected stares and open mouths and shock. Instead, we were greeted as if it were completely normal. As if, why wouldn’t we be together? The only person who’d treated us differently was Amber—she’d thrown some displeased stares our way and had shaken her head at us as if she was quite put out. But I didn’t care, and when walking past her one day in the corridor, I decided to echo the words of a very wise woman.
“You know, Amber, sometimes us fat girls do get the hot guys.” I smiled at her as I said that, owning every single part of me as I walked on by with a swagger—thighs still rubbing together, ass still shaking, and boobs still doing what the hell they bloody pleased. No one like Amber was ever going to push my head underwater again. I had bobbed up to the surface and saved myself. Sure, I’d had a little help on the way, but really it had been me.
Thembi had come around every single day after school during my suspension with class work. Sometimes we would work together, sometimes we’d just hang out watching Netflix, and other times we would talk for hours about everything, and sometimes nothing at all. You know you’ve become friends with someone when you can do that. Talk to them for hours about absolutely nothing and yet still have had the best time doing it. My community service had started—I was cleaning up streets and parks, which was appropriate, I guess. I’d also managed to find a part-time job in an art store a few afternoons a week to pay for the fine.
But I’d barely spoken to my mother. We’d been passing each other in the huge, empty house like ghosts. Barely looking at each other, barely acknowledging the other’s existence. I knew at some stage I would need to sit down with her and talk, but then I got an email that changed everything . . .
Dear Miss Palmer,
We are pleased to offer you a place next year at the Paris School of Art. As you know, some of the greatest artists have trained here, and we feel you will be an excellent addition to the school. We were impressed by your bold street art—your tone and voice as a visual artist, as well as your voice as an activist. Art should evoke thought and action. It should evoke change, and that is what you have done with your work. We look forward to welcoming you next year.
Yours sincerely,
Marine Lagarde
Head of Fine Arts, Paris School of Art
I closed my computer slowly and walked over to my window and looked out. How did they know about me? I rushed back to the computer and looked at the email again, and there it was. The other address that had been cc’d. I raced downstairs calling out for my mom and found her sitting at the kitchen counter, her computer also in front of her.
“Mom!” I said, out of breath from the stairs.
“I have something for you.” She pushed an envelope across the counter but didn’t look up at me. These were the first words we’d uttered to each other in over two weeks. “Take it,” she urged, tapping her finger against the white marble.
I picked it up and peered inside. “A plane ticket?” I looked at her, and she finally met my eyes.
“Read it,” she stated.
“Okay.” I started reading. “‘Business class, one way, Paris . . .’” I shook my head. “How did you . . . why did you . . . why was your email on the . . . ?”
“I was the one who applied for you.”
“How?”
“It was easy, I just compiled a folder of all the press you received for your art, and emailed it to them.”
“Wait.” I waved the ticket in the air. “I thought you hated my art. I ruined your billboard. You put out a reward. You called the police, I thought . . . why are you doing this?”
She stood up and walked toward me. She almost touched my shoulder, but then pulled away at the last second.
“Some of the things you said to me at the dance”—she looked away as she spoke—“you were right about them. I haven’t been a proper mother to you since the divorce. It’s been very difficult for me, though, not that that’s an excuse, but . . . I always thought your father and I would be together forever. I thought we would grow old together, and enjoy our grandchildren together and go gray and sit in rocking chairs driving you and your brother mad, together, but . . .” She tapered off, her voice shaking a little.
“Did I ever tell you how I met your dad?” she asked, forcing a small smile. I shook my head. “I almost ran him over with my car. I was pulling out of a parking space and I nearly bumped into him. He jumped out of the way and his bag of groceries went flying. Oranges rolling down the road, the milk bottles smashed, eggs broken. I got such a fright. I jumped out and started apologizing and asked if there was anything I could do to help, and you know what he said?” She looked at me and I shook my head. “He said I could take him to dinner because he didn’t have anything to eat now.” She gave a little laugh, as if the memory really was funny. As if the memory still meant something to her. “I thought we were going to grow old together.” Her voice sounded strained and tired, and I realized that she’d never spoken to me like this before.
“But that’s not your problem, though. I’m the adult. I shouldn’t have allowed my feelings to affect you and Zac so much. But I did. I failed you guys.” She finally looked up at me, her eyes full of tears, and my heart broke for her.
“Mom.” I stepped forward. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t really know what I was saying sorry for—for the divorce, for Dad, for painting over her billboard, for her pain, for my pain, for Zac’s autism . . . but I felt sorry. I felt so damn bloody sorry for all that we’d gone through these past four years.
A tear rolled down my cheek now as the realization hit me in the guts. I shook my head. “I can’t go to Paris, Mom. Who’s going to take care of Zac?”
“But haven’t you always wanted to go to the best art school in the world? Isn’t that your dream?”
“It is, but . . .”
“I’ll take care of Zac. I’m his mother and that’s my job. I’ve let you do it for far too long, too much responsibility has fallen on you.”
“I can’t leave him.” Another tear joined the other, rolling down my cheek, carving a cool, wet line into it.
“But you also can’t live your life for him,” she said. Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Right in the rib cage and it hurt like hell. There was so much truth in that statement. For the last four years I’d made Zac the center of my world. My relationship with him had become the most important relationship of my life. At times it had been one of the hardest too. But despite that, I’d poured everything into it, even if sometimes it felt like a one-way street, like pouring water into an empty well that never filled up and never gave water in return. I lived for those small in-between moments, when he let me hug him or hold his hand, when he told me I was pretty or placed his little hand on my cheek.
“It’s my responsibility to parent Zac.” My mom finally broke the silence. “Not yours. I haven’t been doing a very good job, and I want to change that.”
I looked down at the ticket in my hands, a part of me wanted to go so badly, a part of me wanted to get on that flight but . . . Zac?
“Zac is going to be fine,” she said. “He’ll adapt and you’ll come home on holidays, and he’s enjoying his new school and keeping busy.”
“But the change to his routine will throw him so much—”
“Lori! Stop!” My mother cut me off. “You cannot live your life for him,” she said again, slowly, emphasizing every single word.
And then another thought hit me. Jake. I took a step back.
“What?” my mom asked. She pulled a chair out at the kitchen table and sat down; I did the same.
“There’s this guy,” I said softly. “I think I really like him.” An involuntary warm flush came over me as I said that out loud.
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Let me give you some advice. I haven’t given you much motherly advice over the last few years, so let me make up for it now.”
I looked at her and waited. She looked like she was gathering her thoughts, choosing her words. “I once lost who I was because of a man. Lost my identity and lost my sense of self.” She forced a small smile. “Don’t do that, Lori. Go and become who you’re supposed to become and if it’s meant to be with him, it will be. And if it isn’t, there’ll always be guys lining up to be with my amazing, talented, now-famous daughter.”
I hung my head because I couldn’t keep it up, it was too full of thoughts. Thoughts of Jake, thoughts of Zac—but it was also full of other thoughts: thoughts of walking down the streets of Paris at night, the Eiffel Tower lit up, the Seine rushing past. I imagined jazzy music spilling out of the quaint coffee shop–lined streets. I imagined sitting in those lecture halls, the ones that the greatest artists of all time had sat in—maybe I would sit in Monet’s chair—absorbing the knowledge of a hundred years that was embedded in the fabric of the place, and most of all, I imagined who I might become if I went there. Art had been my escape from the world, it had been my everything, and I owed myself the chance to see how great I could become.
I had a voice! I hadn’t set out to find it on purpose; maybe it had just found me. Or maybe it had always been there, inside me, just waiting to come out. And now that it was out, it didn’t want to be silenced.
I raised my head after what felt like forever and smiled slowly. “Thank you. For doing this.” I said softly.
“I didn’t do anything, you did. You did it when you became Cape Town’s Banksy.”
“You’re not mad about your billboard anymore?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? Do you know how much new business I’ve gotten from it?”
I stopped smiling and looked at her sternly.
“Don’t worry, I’m officially going to be working half days now. Since Palm Luxury Realty has exploded, I’m in the position to employ two full-time realtors who’ll be running the business. But I’ll remain the face of the company, obviously.” She swooshed her hand around, and I smiled.
“Can I make a suggestion, then, since you’re the face of the company?” I said.
“What?”
I paused, not sure if I should say this, but this was as good a time as any. “Please do yourself a favor and skip next month’s Botox, and please don’t put anything in your lips again. You’re perfect, just the way you are.”
“Only if you promise to do something for me,” she countered.
“What?”
“Never, ever, think of yourself as a disappointment to me, ever again. Ever. You’ve never been a disappointment to me for a single second. And if I ever made you feel like that—” she paused and looked me straight in the eye, tears welling up in hers. “If I ever made you feel f—”—she shook her head—“I can’t even say that word, because you’re too beautiful, Lori. You know the day you were born, you had this mop of bright-red curly hair, and the nurse who delivered you was so shocked she called all the other nurses because she said she’d never seen such a beautiful baby before. You were beautiful from day one, and you have grown more and more beautiful since then. And if I ever made you feel like you weren’t, aren’t, absolutely beautiful and perfect just the way you are, then I am so very, very sorry.”
And then she did something that she hadn’t done in ages: she reached across and pulled me into a hug. My heart felt like it was going to explode and in that moment, I realized that this was the start of us rebuilding our relationship. The relationship had been broken and damaged, and had once lain like leaves discarded in the soil, but now it was time to give it water, a little bit of sunlight, and see if we could start regrowing. So much damage had been done, and five minutes wasn’t going to erase that, but this was a start.
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’m getting better 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.