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“You're right,” Julia agreed. “I hadn't noticed.”

Oswald pointed at himself. “I have the eye of an artist.”

“I'm not prepared to admit that until I've seen a few pieces from your portfolio,” Julia said.

“All shall unfold as it should,” he said. “Now, can you please take my picture?”

He walked over to the big painting, and I framed it so that he and the whole painting would be in the shot.

“What do you think would happen if he was caught doing this?” Julia asked.

“He'd definitely be arrested for vandalism,” I said. “The only question is, would he get a fine, have to pay for the expense of cleaning the walls, or go to jail?”

“Do you really think jail would be a possibility?” Julia asked.

“If our mayor has anything to do with it, he'd want him jailed for a very long time.”

“Let's just hope he's smart enough not to get caught,” Julia said.

“And more important, smart enough to come up with some new ideas,” Oswald added.

Chapter Six

Einstein was correct—time is relative. It had only been about sixty minutes that we'd been sitting here in the auditorium, listening to the mayor speak, but it seemed more like six hundred minutes. Squeezed into the auditorium with every kid in the school, I felt like the oxygen in the room had all been consumed and the only source left was the hot air streaming out of the mouth of the mayor—what a delightful image.

On stage with the mayor, in two rows of seats, were our teachers and our principal, Mr. Roberts. Watching them squirm and fight to stay awake was my only source of entertainment. And, of course, being in the very front row of the auditorium—the location where Julia as student president insisted on sitting—gave us a great seat for watching but a terrible place for hiding.

The mayor was directly in front of us, so close that I could see the sweat on his brow. He did sweat a lot. Directly behind him were his bodyguards. They were two huge men dressed in almost identical black suits and wearing identical dark sunglasses. Those sunglasses would sure come in handy—nobody could see if your eyes were closed during the speech. I'd heard that the bodyguards went everywhere with him. Was he expecting an attack from some librarian angry about the shorter hours, or thinking a patron of the art gallery would spray him with a paint gun?

I forced myself to stay awake and focus on what he was saying.

“As mayor, I have worked tirelessly to let people know that this city is open for business,” he said.

Unless you were a library, art gallery or swimming pool, of course, and then you were open less often because of him.

“Potholes have been fixed, red tape has been cut and the gravy train at City Hall has been derailed!”

I couldn't help but picture a train off the rails, gravy running through the streets. I wondered if the Wiz had a hotline where I could make suggestions for his next piece.

“Businesspeople who come to this city need to know that this is a place where businesses and private property are respected. We must fight against those who threaten the public good.”

I had an image of him dressed as a superhero in a little spandex outfit with a cape—that was one bad image.

“They are all criminals, whether they wield a gun or a knife or a spray can and whether they rob a bank or deface our public buildings and spaces.”

What an idiot. He was now equating a gun with a spray can.

“And while catching criminals should be left to the police, I have made a personal commitment to remove or paint over any graffiti within twenty-four hours of its being discovered.”

I was more than willing to bet that his commitment didn't involve him personally doing any of the actual work, with or without the superhero costume.

I looked over at Oswald. He was awake and listening, actually on the edge of his seat. Obviously, the mayor had gotten his attention.

“We are involved in an epic battle to reclaim our city!” the mayor yelled, hitting his hand against the podium.

“Wow, an epic battle,” Oswald repeated, loud enough for a number of students to turn in his direction.

“And as mayor, I am the commander in chief of that battle!”

“You're the man!” Oswald yelled out.

The mayor started slightly in reaction, pausing for a split second before he started up again. Mr. Roberts glared in our direction, and I wanted a place to hide or a few seats' separation from Oswald.

“In conclusion,” he said—now he'd gotten my attention—“it is important that we all work hard to leave our mark on the world. But that mark should be at school, on the playing field or ultimately in the profession that you choose, not on the side of some building. Thank you.”

There was a slight pause as people waited, hoping it was actually over, then polite applause. Oswald jumped to his feet and began cheering loudly. I reached out and pulled him back down, but he kept clapping enthusiastically.

Mr. Roberts, one eye on Oswald, walked across the stage and shook the mayor's hand. They exchanged a few words and then, as the mayor sat down, Mr. Roberts came to the microphone.

“We were going to field a few questions, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. Thank you for your polite behavior. You should now proceed to your period-two classes.”

There was a smattering of applause, and kids got to their feet and started to leave.

“What got into you?” Julia asked Oswald.

“I was cheering because that guy is a real inspiration.”

“Him?”

“Weren't you listening at all? He drove himself to the top.”

“It wasn't a very far drive,” Julia said. “He's rich from his family's business.”

“Gee, thanks for destroying the illusion about him being ‘one of us,'” Oswald said, “but still, he's an inspiration—at least to me.”

“And you're now suddenly in favor of him painting over street art?” Julia asked.

“Maybe him painting over it is simply the mayor's attempt to create his own street art,” Oswald suggested. “All I know is that I leave this auditorium feeling inspired.”

Chapter Seven

“The arts have a long history of political comment and protest,” Mrs. Johnson began. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Who knows the next verse?”

“Jack fell down and broke his crown,” a bunch of us chorused. “And Jill came tumbling after.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, who knows what that little ditty is about?”

“I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that it is part of a political comment or protest,” Oswald said.

“It dates from the French Revolution. Jack is King Louis XVI and Jill is Marie Antoinette. They lost their crowns—their heads, which were cut off,” she explained. “Humpty Dumpty is believed to refer to the despised King Richard III of England and his defeat at Bosworth Field in 1485.”

“And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again,” I said. “I guess that makes sense.”

“But those are just nursery rhymes,” somebody said.

“Which we all know is a form of art,” Mrs. Johnson replied. “Let's turn to what is unquestionably one of the most famous art pieces in history by one of our greatest artists. Michelangelo hated one of the cardinals, so he painted his face into the Sistine Chapel.”

“That sounds more like a compliment than a protest,” I said.

“Perhaps you need to do a little research and see where he put that face. The cardinal was furious and complained to the Pope, who replied that he should talk to God instead. Another example is Picasso's famous work
Guernica
, which he painted in response to the German bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War. Can anybody come up with modern examples of art as protest or comment?”

“Political cartoons in the editorial section of newspapers,” somebody mentioned.

“And the comics, like
Doonesbury
,” another added.

“
The Simpsons
and
South Park
are always making fun of politicians,” Oswald added.

“All great examples. By using the medium of art, the artist is given not only a platform but also some protection,” Mrs. Johnson explained.

“This stuff is so amazing,” Oswald said to me as an aside. “Who would have thought you could actually learn things in school?”

“I think that's sort of the idea behind the whole school concept.”

“Really? Good to know. Now, would you keep it down? I'm trying to learn here.”

Chapter Eight

“I'm beginning to think the mayor isn't the only person engaged in an epic battle for the walls of this city,” I said as we stared up at the latest street-art piece.

“And it's a battle between a half-wit and a true wit,” Julia added.

“So obviously you like it,” Oswald said.

“I like it a lot.”

We were looking at a new piece by the Wiz. It was as tall as a billboard, occupying the whole side of a building. There were about twenty sheep in it, and in the middle there was a big black wolf. The wolf was wearing a sheepskin and saying, “I'm just like you—I like sheep.” Off to one side were two more sheep, one saying to the other, “He always drools when he says that.” The face of the wolf looked a lot like the mayor's.

“That wolf really does look like Dumfrey—that same smug, self-satisfied little smile,” Julia said.

“He did capture him pretty well,” I agreed.

“And even the words he's saying. He said that at our school, didn't he?” Julia said.

“He said he was a sheep?” Oswald asked.

“Of course not!” Julia said. “He said that he was just like us, right?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Wait…does that mean that the Wiz is a student at our school?” she asked.

“Wow, I hadn't thought of that. It
must
be.”

“I guess the cat is finally out of the bag,” Oswald said. “I'm sorry for keeping it from you, but I'm the Wiz.”

“Yeah, right,” Julia said. “And I'm really Catwoman.”

“No, really I am,” Oswald said.

“It's more
likely
it's me,” Julia said.

“That would make perfect sense,” I agreed. “All that stuff about you hating it was your cover, sort of like Bruce Wayne not speaking well of Batman.”

“I bet it's one of those artsy kids, the ones nobody pays any attention to,” she said.

“I can identify with that,” Oswald said.

“Wait a second,” I said. “It might not be somebody from our school. I bet the mayor says pretty much the same speech all the time. I can't imagine him making up a new one wherever he goes.”

“You're right. I think I've read some of those same comments in the newspaper and heard little clips from him on the news saying just about the same things,” she agreed.

“But it just would have been cool if the Wiz did go to our school,” I said.

“Very cool,” Oswald agreed. “But one thing is for sure—I think another shot has been fired in the epic battle for the walls of our cities. And speaking of shots, could you take my picture with it, please?”

Chapter Nine

I turned up the volume on the
TV
. I'd already caught a little of the story on the early news broadcast at 6:00—Julia had called and told me to tune it in—but I wanted to see all of it on the 11:00 news.

“In local news, our election has taken a most unexpected turn,” the announcer said. “It appears that the greatest challenger to our mayor isn't even on the ballot.”

The scene shifted to Mayor Dumfrey, standing in front of “his” mural along with a woman—a very attractive woman—holding a microphone. This was the interview I'd seen a little of. The cameraman had angled the shot so that you could see the mural being painted over, but the wolf in sheep's clothing hadn't been covered yet. The resemblance between the mayor and the wolf was amazing.

“Mayor Dumfrey,” the interviewer began, “what are your comments on what we see going on behind us?”

“As we can all see, I'm keeping my word to battle the misguided young person or people who are defacing our city.”

“You must admit that there is a certain amount of talent involved in this street art,” she said.

“Please don't legitimize an act of vandalism by referring to it as
art
. This is simply vandalism. Real art is hanging in the gallery.”

Obviously, he hadn't seen the fire hose in the City Center Art Gallery. Maybe if he hadn't reduced the hours the gallery was open, he would have seen it.

“This is nothing more than a criminal activity. It is an affront to the good and honest citizens of this fine city,” he continued.

“And, some might say, an even bigger affront to you personally?”

“All criminal activities offend me,” he said.

“I'm referring to the face on the wolf,” she said. “The resemblance between you and the wolf is remarkable.”

The screen switched to a two-shot—the mayor and the wolf. It
was
a great replica.

“I personally don't see it.”

“And the cartoon word bubbles,” she went on. “They are paraphrasing some of the words from your speeches.”

“Imitation, even misguided imitation, is the most sincere form of flattery. Even in his twisted mind, this criminal still sees some wisdom in my words.”

I had to give him credit for twisting things around. He might even get some votes out of this.

“I guess in some ways he's paying me a compliment without even meaning to. In the same way a criminal knows a good policeman—and our city has some of the finest in the world—he knows me. And if he's watching right now,” the mayor said, looking directly into the camera, “I want him to know there's a lot more gray paint where this came from. I can paint over anything you do, so stop wasting your time and get a real job.”