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“The ‘I'm above fashion' fashion statement.”

“I'm not sure about being above fashion, but you're certainly apart from it.”

“What it really means is that my mom skipped a week of laundry and these are the closest things I have to clean.”

“That I not only understand but appreciate.”

Julia was waiting in front of her house. She was always on time, and I knew we were a little bit late. She looked at her watch as we drove up—her not-so-subtle way of letting us know we'd kept her waiting. I opened the door and scrunched against the dashboard so she could push my seat forward and squeeze into the backseat. I slammed the door and we started off.

“We're going to the art gallery,” I announced.

“Yeah, right. Where are we really going?”

“We are,” Oswald said. “We'll take in a little culture and then buy you one of your two free lunches. I just don't know why everybody is questioning my choice of activities. How can I become an artist if I don't go to see art?”

“Does the new Oswald know that the art gallery may not be open this early?”

Julia asked.

“It's open.”

“Are you sure? It's had its hours reduced as part of Mayor Dumfrey's cost-saving program,” Julia said.

The art gallery, libraries, community theater, parks and rec programs, bus routes and pools had all had their hours or services cut to save money.

“Are you questioning my knowledge of the art world?” Oswald asked.

“That goes without saying,” said Julia “Weekdays, with the exception of Monday and Tuesday, when it's closed, it is open from ten until seven. Saturday, it is open from eleven-thirty until six, and Sunday from three until six.”

“Obviously, somebody called and asked,” I said.

“Or perhaps I just know intuitively. Art is my life…remember?”

“Right, and when was the last time you were even at the art gallery?” Julia asked.

“I can guarantee I was there much more recently than you,” he said. She didn't respond. “But of course you have been to a couple of outdoor art showings,” he added.

“That's not art—it's just fancy graffiti,” she said.

“At least she's admitting that it's fancy,” I said.

“Fancy or not, it's still graffiti.”

“I guess that makes you and Mayor Dumfrey the same,” I said.

I'd read enough in the papers to know how much he was campaigning against the city being “defaced.”

“There can't be two people who are more different than him and me,” she protested.

“I guess we'll have a better chance to compare the two of you next week when he comes to speak at the school,” I said.

“A sure sign that the election is coming up,” Julia said. “I'm already tired of his commercials—law and order, budget cuts, encouraging business, cutting taxes. So far, the only things he's cut are things I need.”

“But it does sound like you support his program to paint over graffiti,” Oswald said.

“Well, I guess I do. Don't you get tired of seeing people spray-painting their names and initials and symbols all over?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But there's a difference between scrawling your initials on a wall and genuine art on that same wall.”

“It's all still illegal.”

“But one takes real skill.”

“So if I rob a bank in a really skilled way, then it shouldn't be a crime?” she asked.

“Of course it's still a crime, but this is different. It's public property,” I argued.

“Transit buses are public property, but that doesn't mean I'm allowed to just take one and drive it anywhere I want, does it? What about the rights of the rest of the public?” she asked.

It was obvious that she'd been giving this a lot of thought. Winning an argument with her was always difficult, and almost impossible when she'd prepared.

“Then what about that billboard up there?” Oswald asked, pointing to a massive sign.

“What about it?” she asked.

“Doesn't that infringe on my rights?”

“How?” she demanded.

“Shouldn't I have the right not to be attacked by the product that they're trying to sell? They shouldn't be able to inflict their product on me as I drive along a public road,” Oswald explained.

Obviously, she wasn't the only one who had been thinking about this.

“That's different,” she said. “They paid for that sign. It's not even on public property.”

“But I am. Even worse, they are sending that stupid message through public property, into my eyes, and trespassing on my brain. Public space belongs to everybody, not just those who have money.”

“Again, very different. If you rent a space, you can put up your message,” she said.

“Any message?” he asked. “Could I rent it and put up racist comments, or pornography or—”

“Of course not!” she protested.

“So even you admit there are limits to what can go up on a billboard, even if it's paid for.”

“Of course I do. Just like there are limits to what should be painted on a wall with spray paint.”

It
was
hard to win an argument with her.

We pulled up to the parking lot beside the gallery.

“We really are going to the art gallery,” Julia said.

“That's what I told you.”

“Good. I don't care what either of you say—my definition of art doesn't include graffiti on the side of a building or on a sewer pipe.”

“Let's not argue,” Oswald said. “Let's just enjoy the art on the walls of the gallery.”

He gave me a little look—one that Julia hadn't picked up on. He was up to something.

Chapter Four

There was no lineup for tickets and not many people inside the gallery either. Maybe cutting the morning hours of operation hadn't been that big a deal, since nobody was here even now.

“Some of my favorites in the entire collection are in this wing,” Oswald said as he led us down a hallway.

“Obviously, you've been here recently if you have favorites,” I said. “Impressive.”

“I'm just impressed he used words like
wing
and
collection
,” Julia said, shaking her head. “Other than collecting chicken wings from other people's plates, I never thought I'd hear you talking like this.”

“Part of my ongoing evolution.”

“How is that portfolio of yours coming along?” I asked.

“Still a lot to do, but it's developing.”

“And when do we get to see it?” Julia asked.

“I'll release it slowly. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you. It all takes time. I can't just draw something. I have to wait for the muse to whisper in my ear and inspire me.”

Both Julia and I started to laugh and then stopped. He was serious. I didn't know anything about a muse, but I did know that he was working on something. We'd seen less of him over the past three weeks than ever before. I missed having him around, but really, it was almost like preparing for next year. High school was ending, and most likely the three of us were heading in different directions. I didn't even want to think about that.

The hallway was lined with paintings and sculptures. We had been moving from painting to painting as we talked. Some were very good. Some were, well…less good. Some were just plain bad. I didn't mind bad if there was at least some skill involved. There was no question that the stuff done by the Wiz was better than at least half of the things in here. Was that Oswald's plan? To show Julia that just because it was hanging in a gallery didn't mean it was good?

“One of my two favorites is on this wall,” Oswald said. “See if you can pick it out.”

There were five paintings. Two very large abstracts, a still-life drawing of a cityscape, a photograph of the northern lights and a little picture of…was that sheep playing poker? I was stunned. I stared at it. I recognized those sheep—five sheep playing cards, made to resemble that famous dogs-playing-poker poster.

“I see you've picked it out,” Oswald said to me. “Have you read the inscription?”

I bent down to study the little nameplate beneath it. It read
Five of a kind, wool on sheepskin, created in the twisted mind of the Wiz, posted May 10 to demonstrate that nobody notices much
.

Oswald turned to Julia. “So does that make it art now that it's hanging in a gallery?”

She was, shockingly, speechless. Almost. “I'm just surprised…it's all right…I'm just confused that it's here.”

“Not as confused as the board members of the art gallery will be when they finally discover it,” he said.

“You mean they don't know about it?” I asked.

“Of course not. It's guerilla art. He just put it here, and nobody has noticed. It's been almost two weeks.”

I laughed. “How did
you
know about this?”

“You're not the only one connected to social media,” he said. “I'm surprised you didn't get a tweet about it. He has one other exhibit in the gallery. Come on and I'll show you. It's even better.”

“You've seen it?”

“I told you guys I'd been here recently, it's just that neither of you believed me.”

He led us out of the hallway and into the main display area. There were now other people in the gallery examining the paintings and pieces.

“There it is. The big one—the one on the far left.”

“Do you mean the painting of the fire hose?” Julia asked.

“That's the one. I love realism.”

“I was expecting sheep,” I said.

“I think the Wiz's artistic tastes run beyond livestock.”

We walked across the room toward the painting.

“I have to admit,” Julia said, “it
is
very realistic-looking.”

“She's right. There's a three-dimensional quality to it,” I said.

Oswald reached over and opened up the “painting.” It was a fire hose! Around it was a wooden frame to make it look like a gallery display.

“Read the tag,” Oswald said smugly.

If you frame it, people will admire it. Next time, I frame the urinal. Wiz
.

Oswald closed the door on the piece of art.

“So I guess we have no arguments. It's on the walls of a gallery, so it must be art.”

Julia didn't look convinced. Or happy.

Chapter Five

We stood on a busy street in front of the newest work by the Wiz. It was a big sheep lying in a big bed, trying to get to sleep by counting people, who were drifting overhead. Two other sheep were off to the side, one saying to the other, “Even if he does get to sleep, he'll only have nightmares about mutton.”

“I'm not particularly impressed,” Julia said.

“Shocking, you not being impressed,” I said. “Would you be more impressed if it was hanging
on
a wall instead of painted
onto
a wall?”

“It's just not that good.”

“I think it's
very
good,” I said.

Oswald yawned loudly.

“Look, even Oswald the great artist finds it boring,” she said.

“He's just tired. Probably up late working on his portfolio.”

“I was working late on it,” he said, “but I think Julia's right. As I'm standing here looking up at it, I don't think it's as good as the others. Just too derivative.”

“Wow,” I said. “Is that, like, your word for the day?”

“Oswald is right. It's like he wants to keep the same theme of sheep but without any new, really good ideas. A sheep counting humans to get to sleep is not creative or original,” Julia explained.

“Do you think it's easy to come up with new ideas all of the time, to hit it out of the ballpark every time up to bat?” Oswald asked.

We both stared at him. He seemed to be taking this way too personally.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to insult your favorite artist,” Julia said.

“I guess I just know how hard it is…artist to artist.” He handed me his phone. “Anyways, I'd still like a picture of it. Somebody needs to record it before it's gone.”

“I heard the swimming sheep are gone,” I said.

“Why didn't they leave that one alone?” Julia protested.

“Sounds like you started to appreciate it.”

“I didn't
not
like it. Besides, it wasn't like it was hurting anybody there, under the bridge. Why didn't they take the money it cost to remove it and apply it to longer hours at the library?”

“Or the art gallery. I wonder if his two things are still on display?” I asked.

“The sheep playing poker is gone,” Oswald said.

“So somebody finally discovered it was a fraud,” Julia said.

“Nope. Finally the glue holding it on the wall failed, and it fell to the floor,” Oswald explained. “I heard the fire hose is still drawing rave reviews.”

“This one here isn't going to last very long,” Julia said. “It's too busy, with too much traffic passing by during the day.”

She was right. There was a steady stream of cars and pedestrians, not to mention the hundreds of apartment windows that overlooked it.

“It's a lot quieter at night,” Oswald said. “Well, it must be, and of course darker, right?”

“Darker, but not dark. There are a lot of streetlights,” I said.

“But part of Mayor Dumfrey's cost-savings program is that he's not replacing burned-out streetlights as often, so maybe it isn't that light,” Julia said.

“Still, even at night, even with some lights out, even with not many people being on the street, it still would have taken hours to paint.”

Oswald shook his head. “Not hours. He's using a couple of stencils, so it would be fairly fast.”

“Stencils?” Julia asked.

“Big cardboard or paper cutouts. See how the two sheep at the bottom are identical, and the flying humans are based on two basic shapes,” Oswald explained.