The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy by Kate Hattemer Read Free Book Online Page A

morons. (Granted, we’d chosen to watch
For Art’s Sake
.) They’d started with nineteen contestants. When they were down to three, the show would conclude with a live finale.
    Cut to the hallway, where Brandon was talking to Miki Frigging Reagler.
    “Sorry, man,” said Miki F.R. “When I see something I want, I take it.”
    “What happened to the dude code? Bros before hos?” said Brandon.
    Unsurprisingly, Miki F.R. broke into song. “When you got it, flaunt it.…”
    This other girl, Kirtse Frumjigger, scuttled over. Analogy: Kirtse is to musical theater as a cockroach is to leftover pizza. She joined in. Brandon stomped off when Kirtse and Miki F.R. started harmonizing.
    Luke muted it. I kowtowed in thanks.
    “I thought Maura and Brandon locked themselves together,” said Elizabeth. I’d finally told them all what I’d seen and, more reluctantly, how I’d seen it.
    “Probably coming up,” I said, shrugging.
    Now they were showing Miki F.R. and Kirtse with their heads pitched together in that obnoxious a cappella bffs-in-harmony way, like the vultures in
Jungle Book
.
    “Unmute,” said Elizabeth. The hosts were about to announce the challenge.
    “This week,” said Trisha, “you must use art to express anger. Rage. Fury. Ire.”
    Luke groaned. “Can we please turn this off?”
    “Shouldn’t you be taking notes for your poem?” said Elizabeth.
    “Good idea,” he said.
    Kyle Kimball, the Shakespeare kid I like, was biting his lower lip and nodding thoughtfully. Miki F.R. was doing a littlesnap-and-bounce as if he couldn’t wait to begin. Maura Fieldsman looked vacant.
    Luke scribbled all throughout the commercials. The shot reopened on my locker.
    “Hey!” I said. “It’s me! I’m on TV! Baconnaise! Look!” I crawled up to the screen and held him close.
    “Move your big head, Ethan,” said Elizabeth.
    I couldn’t see anything through the locker slats anyway, but I knew I was in there. “My debut,” I told Baconnaise.
    “Doesn’t look like it,” said Elizabeth. The image had shifted to the dim backstage. There were two people, their figures indistinct. Now Elizabeth was the one peering at the screen. “I think that’s Maura.”
    Jackson deigned to turn from his video game. “Certainly bony enough,” he said.
    “Slender,”
I said indignantly. “Svelte. Slim.”
    “But I can’t cheat on Brandon!” said one of the figures.
    “Definitely Maura,” said Jackson.
    I dropped Baconnaise.
    “He’ll never know,” said the other figure.
    Now we were back to the locker.
    “I didn’t do
anything
with Miki,” Maura told Brandon.
    Return to the figures backstage. They started groping each other. Ew.
    Locker. “I trust you,” said Brandon. He held up the padlock. “You and me. We’re locked together.”
    Backstage. The faces were sucking at each other. We’re talking vigorous make-outage. The slobbery sort you’d expect from Honey Mustard, not a reasonably inhibited teenager.
    “Oh, Brandon,” said Maura.
    “Oh, Miki,” said Other Maura.
    “Together forever,” said Romantic Maura.
    “Don’t tell Brandon about us,” said Wanton Maura.
    “Us,” echoed Brandon as the lock clicked shut.
    Elizabeth wordlessly handed me Baconnaise. I sat, stunned and anguished, on the couch. Maura Heldsman was
not
a two-timer. Or was she? What the hell was happening?
    Baconnaise nipped at my chin as we watched the contestants attempt to express rage through art. Andy elicited nails-on-a-chalkboard noises from his cello. Adelpha threw paint onto a canvas while screaming like a peacock. Kyle and Josh ranted via monologues, Kirtse and Miki F.R. ranted via show tunes. Miriam bashed the keyboard. Brandon and Scarlett shrieked out some arias. Maura just danced. Then she told the camera, “I’m not here to make friends.”
    “Predictions,” said Elizabeth after they all performed. “Who’s getting cut?”
    “Miki F.R.,” I said.
    “What’s with you guys and your inability to distinguish