Tagged (7 page)

“What is this—”

“Just listen. No questions. You have to go to my locker. In it is Oswald's backpack, and in there are some clothes and cans of spray paint.”

“Spray paint!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“But why is there spray paint?” she asked.

“From last night. Oswald is the Wiz.”

“And neither of you told me?” she exclaimed.

“This isn't about your hurt feelings. You have to go and get it and hide it, destroy it or something.”

“And if I can do that, he'll be all right?” she asked.

“I don't know. They've caught him with paint on his hands, but I figure if they can't find the rest of the stuff, they can't arrest him, although they still have him red-handed, so to speak.”

“Is dumping or hiding the stuff illegal?” she asked.

“Probably. Will you do it?”

“Of course—I'm just confirming.”

“And can you also gather all our stuff from here too and put it in my locker?”

I turned and left the classroom.

“I thought you were getting your things,” one of the officers said.

“I got somebody else to do it.”

“You might want to get somebody else to clear out his locker,” he suggested. “We can't go in there without a warrant, and that won't be coming until after we question him—assuming we get information that would justify a search.”

“My client—I mean, my friend has nothing to hide. Do you?”

Oswald shook his head.

“He's innocent.”

“Lawyer's kid,” the officer said.

Chapter Fourteen

We sat silently in Mr. Roberts' office. Why was it taking my mother so long? But really, what was she going to do? There was the evidence, right on Oswald's hands. I'd seen enough episodes of
CSI
to know the police could match the paint on his hands with the paint on the billboard even without the cans of spray paint or his clothing. With or without my mother, with or without the evidence, he was caught red-handed.

“I was just wondering,” I said. “Why did you come for the two of us?”

“The mayor suggested your names.”

“But how would he know about us?”

“Apparently he had somebody checking out Facebook sites for students at your school and found out that you two had been involved in a couple of things—a protest against school uniforms and something about an Internet campaign against Frankie's Restaurants.”

I shook my head. It was bad enough to be Internet-creeped by your mother, but by the mayor and his henchmen? That was
so
wrong.

There was a knock on the door. Before anybody could react, it opened and Julia walked in. What was she doing here?

“Hi, Mr. Roberts. Sorry—I didn't know you were with people. I just wanted to say hello.” She held up her hand to wave. It was covered in paint! Somehow, in moving the pack, its contents had gotten all over her hand.

The officers saw it too and got to their feet.

“And there are some other people who just wanted to say hello,” she said.

Julia opened the door wide. Standing there outside Mr. Roberts' door was a line of kids. And even from where I sat, I could see that they all had paint on their hands.

The officers walked out into the main office, and we followed. The line of students extended out of that office and into the hall. We walked farther out. The line went down the entire hall and disappeared around the corner. It wasn't just a few students or even one or two classes. It looked like it was all of them, and everybody had paint on one or two hands. Then I noticed it wasn't just the students, but some of the teachers too. Mr. Singh was standing there, his hands as red as his turban. And there was Mrs. Johnson, and two of the gym teachers, and what looked like all of the cafeteria ladies.

“How did you do this?” I hissed at Julia.

“I told them it was for Oswald, that he was in trouble, and everybody just volunteered. Do you know anybody who doesn't like Oswald?”

“Not a soul…except for maybe the mayor.” I paused. “You, Julia, are amazing.”

“Of course I am, and you two jerks should have told me what you were doing.”

“In my defense, I just found out yesterday—or really, in the middle of the night. Wait…defense.” I ran up to the two officers. “I'm not sure if I can get a lawyer for everybody, but I assume that if you're going to interview Oswald, you'll have to interview everybody.”

The officer stared at me. Then he broke into a smile and started to laugh. Not what I'd expected.

Then I heard a bellow. It was Mayor Dumfrey. He must have heard what was happening and come out to see. He stormed up to the officers.

“Arrest them! Arrest them all!”

“You want us to arrest an entire school, including the staff?” the officer asked.

“Yes, all of them. They think they can make a fool of me!”

“I think you don't need any help with that,” I said. “You do a pretty good job of that on your own.”

The mayor's eyes bulged, and for a split second I thought he was going to take a swing at me.

“They're nothing but a bunch of
stupid
students, and you haven't heard the last of this!” he yelled. “None of you!”

I looked around. Many of the kids had their phones out, snapping pictures and taking videos of what was happening. The mayor was right in that last statement—I was pretty sure nobody had heard the last of this.

He turned and stomped away, trailed by his bodyguards. I couldn't help but notice that they both looked amused. A roar went up from the crowd, and the line of students broke and rushed around Oswald and me and Julia and the two officers.

Oswald tapped me on the shoulder and gestured to his mouth.

“Yes, of course you can talk now!”

“Does this mean I'm not being arrested?” he asked one of the officers.

“Arrested? Are you joking? I wouldn't be surprised if they built a statue of you.”

Oswald burst into laughter, and then somebody started chanting, “Oswald, Oswald, Oswald,” and then more and more kids were chanting, and then it was everybody, and it was deafening. Three guys from the football team picked Oswald up, hoisted him onto their shoulders and carried him through the crowd and down the hall.

“Look out for the door frame!” I screamed, but nobody could hear me, and his head clunked against it, almost knocking him off before they reclaimed their grip. He smiled and waved to the crowd.

“Good thing it was his head,” Julia said.

“Good thing somebody was
using
their head. Your idea to get everybody involved was nothing short of brilliant. Don't you ever wonder why I love you so much?” I said.

“Love?” she asked.

“Well…you know.”

“Actually, I do…or at least suspected.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Turn it up,” Oswald said. “I don't want to miss this.”

I hit the remote and turned up the volume so we could hear the news.

“In a stunning turn of events, Mayor Dumfrey has been defeated at the polls,” the newscaster said.

In the background was a picture of the mayor—the
former
mayor. He looked like he'd eaten something very bad.

“Two weeks before the election, the polls showed that he had a commanding lead, which makes his landslide loss even more remarkable. Mayor Dumfrey, who through the power of YouTube is now known internationally as Mayor Humpty Dumfrey, was caught berating the students of a local high school. The video went viral, and over the last three days there have been over 1.1 million hits.”

In the background, the video was playing.

“This all began with some street art depicting Mayor Dumfrey as Humpty Dumpty.”

The background was now the mural.

“I'm glad they got a picture of that,” Oswald said. “You know, for my portfolio. It's already been painted over.”

“In the video that has caught fire, the mayor refers to the youth as ‘a bunch of stupid students.' Throughout the city, almost overnight, a virtual flock of sheep has appeared. Hundreds of sheep have been painted, on walls, stores, billboards and signs, and with each sheep are the words
I'm not just a stupid sheep
, the word
sheep
crossed out and the word
student
written above it.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Sheep were everywhere across the whole city, and Oswald hadn't painted a single one. They'd been created by people we didn't know—lots of them. People who knew they didn't have to be sheep.

Oswald took the remote and turned off the set.

“I'm going to miss that guy,” he said.

“You are?”

He shrugged. “Where am I going to get my inspiration from now?”

“I'm sure you'll find something,” Julia said. “Artists always do.”

“So you admit that I'm an artist?”

“One of my favorites. Right up there with that Rembrandt guy.”

“He's pretty good,” Oswald said. “Did you hear that he was
abnormally
tall, a virtual
giant
?”

“At least eight feet tall is what I heard,” Julia agreed.

“I wish he was here right now. Do you know what street art I could do if I had him to help me?”

“I have a feeling we're going to find out what you can do, even if you don't have him to help you,” I said.

“I guess we'll have to wait and see,” Oswald said. The expression on his face left little doubt that we
would
all see. He was an artist.

About Deadboy

Deadboy is an anonymous street artist whose work first appeared on the streets of Toronto in 2010 and became recognized for his humorous and critical depictions of Mayor Rob Ford, who famously declared “war on graffiti”once he was elected into office.

Working with stencils and posters, Deadboy (who studied visual arts and film) views street art as a way to bypass the snobbery of the “art world” and have direct communication with the public, as well as confronting the issue of just what “public space” is, when it's mostly saturated with corporate media and advertising.

“
I first met Eric Walters at my Solo Art exhibit in 2012. He told me that he was writing a new book about a kid who takes on a power-hungry mayor, using stencils and spray paint. By total fluke, the main character and I share many similarities. After reading
Tagged
I was amazed at how right he was.

Tagged
captures the true essence of Street Art and the freedom and power it can bring to someone who has enough passion and drive to want to make a statement and bring a voice to the voiceless.

I hope this book will inspire a whole new generation to pick up a spray can or paintbrush and show the world around them that imagination is limitless and important, and that one person can make a difference."

—Deadboy

For more information, visit
www.deadboyart.tumblr.com

Acknowledgments

I've been a fan of Banksy since I first became aware of his work. Some of those original pieces I was fortunate enough to see on the streets and walls of London. Then I saw the documentary
Exit Through The Gift Shop
and saw so much more. I was blown away but the sheer brilliance and daring of the work and the power of the political and social messages he was portraying. This book was inspired by Banksy, and others like him, who are not only taking back the streets but asking people to think—outside the box, outside the gallery and outside the boundaries. My thanks and admiration.

Eric Walters began writing in 1993 as a way to entice his grade five students into becoming more interested in reading and writing. Since then, Eric has published over seventy five novels and has won over eighty awards. Often his stories incorporate themes that reflect his background in education and social work and his commitment to humanitarian and social-justice issues. He is a tireless presenter, speaking to over seventy thousand students per year in schools across the country. Eric is a father of three and lives in Mississauga, Ontario, with his wife. For more information, visit
www.ericwalters.net
.