The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy (26 page)

“And so, I present the best song in
Rent
,” he was saying, “one of the best songs of all time—‘One Song Glory’!”

Damien was hyperventilating with excitement. Trisha gave him a shut-up-or-else glare as Miki F.R.’s pianist started into some arpeggiated rock-opera chords.

“One song,”
sang Miki F.R.
“Glory. One song. Before I go.”

I looked up long enough to see the starry-eyed judges, the head-bopping musicians, the agape audience, and Miki F.R., whose eyes were squeezed shut with passion.

“You are an expert,” I told Baconnaise, who had crossed the green tightrope six times now. “I love you just as much as I hate Miki Frigging Reagler.”

“Every time, Miki!” Trisha said, blinking tears out of her eyes. “Every time!”

“Thanks, Trisha,” said Miki F.R. in an ethereal, faraway voice. “Thanks, everyone.”

“Glory!”
sang Damien.
“From the soul of a young man! A young mannnnn!”

“I am so fricking grateful to have been on this show,” said Miki F.R.

“Wow,” said Trisha, somehow managing to gaze at Miki F.R. while simultaneously glaring at Damien. “Wow.” She gathered herself. “And finally, ballerina Maura Heldsman!”

Maura walked onstage. Instead of wearing a leotard and pointe shoes, she was in all black: leggings, a tank top, sneakers. She could have been going to the gym.

“Maura! You must have something different for us. Tell us about it.”

“I’d prefer to dance first,” said Maura.

And so she danced. The music was atonal. I usually couldn’t interpret dance, but even I could tell that she was expressing Luke’s idea of being pulled between two lives. On stage right, there were exuberant leaps and spins. On stage left, there was nothing. She ran maniacally between the two, and when the music ended—“stopped” would be a better word, because no chord resolved—she sprawled, as if falling, onto the middle of the stage. She stayed there.

There were at least fifteen seconds of silence. All I could do was stare at her. That was all anyone could do. Slowly, the audience began to clap. The applause built until they were standing, and the camera panned to the judges and they were standing too. It was the weirdest dance I’d ever seen, and the most remarkable.

Maura slowly got to her feet and gave an embarrassed smile and a curtsy. Finally, the applause stopped.

“That was—” Trisha began.

“I have to win this show,” Maura said.

“But—” said Damien.

“I have to win this show,” Maura said again.

The judges figured out that they should be quiet. The camera zoomed in on Maura. She was dripping with sweat. It lingered, but she didn’t say anything else. They finally cut to commercials.

Elizabeth hit mute. “You know what?” she said after a minute. “This sucks.”

“It really does,” I said.

“I don’t even like Maura. But I can’t stand the thought of her not winning.”

“Commercials over,” said Jackson.

“Well!” said Trisha. “This last challenge has been
intense
.”

“I got goose bumps when Maura said that,” said Damien.

“Me too,” I said.

Jackson glanced at me, and I swear that if he didn’t have an image to uphold, he would have said, “Me too.”

“ ‘I have to win this show,’ ” Damien was quoting.

“But will she even make it to the finale?” said Trisha. “Contestants, let’s chat.”

“I’m nervous
for
them!” said Damien.

This whole agreeing-with-Damien-Hastings thing was making me uncomfortable.

“Luke. Kyle. Miki. Maura,” said Trisha. “You all have impressed us so much. With your talent, with your dedication. But one of you has to go. Maura, please step forward.”

Maura did so, with a defiant jut to her chin.

“Maura, you are—invited back for the finale!”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. So did I. So did Elizabeth and Jackson, and maybe I’m thoroughly deluded, but I think Baconnaise did too.

“Miki,” said Trisha. I’d never seen Miki F.R. nervous before. “You are—invited back!”

He punched the air with one arm. “Yeeee-ah!”

“And we’re down to Kyle and Luke,” said Trisha. “This was a tough, tough decision.”

“This isn’t about who’s less talented,” said Damien. “It’s about who’s not
as
talented.”

“And the decision, ladies and gentlemen. Your three finalists will be Maura Heldsman, Miki Reagler, and—”

The camera, of course, went to Kyle and Luke.

“Luke Weston!”

Kyle shrugged, smiled, and shook Luke’s hand. Luke pulled him into a man-hug.

“You’re going to go far, Kyle,” said Trisha.

“Though not any farther on this show!” said Damien.

“And it’s sad,” said Trisha, “but compared to Luke’s eloquent poem, Miki’s heart-wrenching song, and Maura’s unbelievable dance, your monologue—well, Kyle—”

All the judges spoke together. “THAT WASN’T ART!” What a lovely catchphrase. Kyle was whisked away.

“Be sure to tune in next week!” said Trisha. “We’ll start at eight with an hour-long recap of the season: the highs, the lows, the drama, the art. And at nine, our live finale!”

“I’m so psyched!” said Willis Wolfe.

“And we’ll be bringing back all the original
For Art’s Sake
contestants for special interviews and unique insights into the show.”

“All that
plus
performances from our three finalists!” said Damien.

“And then, a winner! From kTV’s hit reality show,
For Art’s Sake
—see you next week!”

Elizabeth zapped it. “Our imperative is clear,” she said.

“Now for the details,” said Jackson.

“Listen up,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.”

What we needed for EZRA, scheduled concurrently with the live finale, one week from that day:

“Cantos?”
I said, shoving a newspaper into a freshman’s hand.

There wasn’t much shoving involved, actually. Everyone welcomed having something to do. It was 7 p.m. on Friday, March 23, and the live finale of
For Art’s Sake
would air in two hours. They’d forced the student body, the studio audience, to come early for some technical sound-check reason. The details mattered little to us once we realized how it would work to our advantage: when you’re facing two hours without entertainment in a dim, crowded auditorium, any distraction is welcome.

We were wearing the balaclavas again, and we’d made
Selwyn Cantos
shirts for the pretense of authority. We distributed
a newspaper to every student within ten minutes flat. I’d just furtively looked around to see whether it was safe to de-mask when one last group approached.

“Cantos!”
said Elizabeth brightly. She stuffed a newspaper into Coluber’s face. He was with some kTV guys, the ones in blazers and fancy jeans who always hung around the set looking arrogant.

Good thing he’s a self-centered tool: he didn’t even notice that she was wearing a ski mask. He didn’t even glance at her face. “Okay,” he said. Cramming the newspaper under his arm, he held the auditorium door for the producers.

He had no idea what he was holding.

But he’d know soon enough. He’d hear the rustles, or one of his minions would, maybe even BradLee. If he couldn’t find the newspaper Elizabeth had given him, he’d stick out his forked tongue to nab another copy. He’d peruse the front page, where he’d see nothing of interest. It was just the
Selwyn Cantos
, just the school newspaper in a special Finale Edition with in-depth reporting on the show:
FOR ART’S SAKE TO CLOSE SEASON WITH SUSPENSEFUL CLIMAX
,
we’d headlined the article.

Then he would open the paper. And inside, it was
Contracantos
. Pure
Contracantos
. Not the bastardized, bowdlerized version that Luke read on kTV, but a poem Elizabeth had lettered, I had illustrated, and all three of us together had written. It wasn’t a work of genius, but, I’d realized, Luke’s original
Contracantos
wasn’t a work of genius either. I’d once thought you had to be a genius to write a long poem. It turned out that you mostly just had to try.

Coluber would read the poem. He’d get angrier with every
word, but he would follow the instructions therein. He would have to. He’d have no other choice.

Assuming everything went to plan.

Shizzit, I was nervous. I gave Baconnaise a little squeeze in my pocket, and he nipped my finger reassuringly.

The lobby had emptied, so we peeled off our masks and
Cantos
shirts, leaving all-black techie clothing. “Lead the way, Jackson,” said Elizabeth. He was already heading up the stairs that led to the balcony, and we followed him through an unmarked door, around the winding passageways that girded the auditorium, down another flight of stairs and through another door and down more narrow stairs until he raised his finger to his lips and, his hand on a metal doorknob, whispered, “Backstage.”

We knew our respective tasks.

“One hour, forty-nine minutes until go time,” said Jackson. “Godspeed.”

“You text us when you’ve done it,” Elizabeth told him.

“Roger.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Just because this is a covert operation doesn’t mean you have to say roger.”

“Roger.”

Elizabeth
pfft
ed and Jackson disappeared back up the stairs. She pulled the door open. We were in the wings. It was a mess of kTV cameramen and lackeys and officious twenty-somethings with clipboards and walkie-talkies, and nobody noticed as we walked confidently to the rearmost side curtain, drew it open, and stepped behind it.

The curtain settled over us with dusty grandeur. I knelt down and brushed off some floor. “Milady, a seat?”

Elizabeth gracefully sunk into a lotus position. “Roger, milord.”

This was a weird time. We were nervous but we had an hour and forty-eight minutes to kill. And if the plan was working—
if if if
—then it was working as we sat behind the velour curtain, bored and overwrought all at once.

I’d taken Baconnaise out of my pocket, and he was languishing on my lap. He didn’t move much these days.

“We can talk, right?” I whispered.

“This must be soundproof,” said Elizabeth, poking at the curtain. “It’s sure airproof.” She fanned herself with her hands, but that just stirred up dust. She broke into a coughing fit.

“I hope it’s soundproof.”

“I’m sweating already,” she said between hacks.

“I’ve been sweating for like a week.” And I couldn’t believe that the time had come, that EZRA was happening now. I patted Baconnaise, and he gave me a lazy, appreciative peck.

“They’re all reading it now.”

We were silent as we imagined what it was like to be in the auditorium with nearly every other member of the student body. They’d all be digesting the announcements in our
Contracantos
. The whispers would start softly, and then they’d rise to the point that the kTV sound engineers would have to yell for silence. Then the whole cycle would start over again.

It was big news, after all. And they’d want to debate where it came from, and what it meant, and whether it was true.

*   *   *

What our
Contracantos
told them:

Of course, none of this was true. Yet. By presenting it as true, it would become true. That was our hope: that art would become life.

We figured that Number 1 would be the easiest, because the Parent Board and Student Council, two perpetually power-hungry organizations, would immediately be like,
Yeah!

Number 2, of course, was more difficult. Coluber would read about the new scholarships. He may have been reading it that very second, while we inhaled dust and sweated behind the curtain. And he’d rack his brains for a way to get out of it, and—we hoped—he wouldn’t think of anything. He’d realize that he had to give the scholarship money. If he didn’t, the students would boo, rebel, call him out on live national TV. Even if he exposed the issue as a fake, the students would still demand scholarships for their classmates. We hoped.

And Number 3. Our plan hinged on Number 3, because Number 3 was a lie. We weren’t going to wait for Coluber. If he decided to brazen it out and not make the announcement, the students
might
call him out—but it was more likely that they’d be confused and the show would move swiftly onward and before they realized they needed to do something, everything would be finished, the cameras off, the season over. Coluber would have slithered out of everything.