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“No, that's Luigi,” I said.

“Okay, then this Angelo guy was an inventor, right? Didn't he invent spaghetti and submarines or submarine sandwiches?”

“That was Da Vinci, Leonardo Da Vinci. He invented the submarine. He was a painter, sculptor and a genius!” said Julia.

“Not to mention my favorite Ninja turtle,” Oswald said.

Julia was so frustrated, she looked like she was going to explode. Oswald loved bothering Julia. He'd spent so much time playing the fool that he had it down to perfection. I worked hard not to laugh.

“So I guess I'm right. Some artists did use ladders,” he said.

“But not Rembrandt,” she said, looking for some satisfaction in the argument.

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Some of his paintings are over ten feet tall, so he had to be standing on something.”

“Come to think of it,” Oswald said, “I read something about him being remarkably tall. I think he was
huge
, so maybe he didn't need a ladder.”

“Rembrandt was huge?” Julia asked.

“Of course. The book said that he was a
giant
in art. To be called a giant you have to be pretty big, so he could have been seven or even eight feet tall.”

“That meant that he was—” Julia stopped. She suddenly realized that Oswald was just making fun of her.

“I wonder what the Wiz was trying to say with this piece,” I said, changing the subject to stop the argument.

“Probably something pretentious, like that humans are sheep,” Julia said.

“Or maybe he was stressing the importance of sheep learning to swim,” Oswald said.

“Maybe he just likes sheep,” I added.

“Or really doesn't like sheep. After all, he is drowning them,” Oswald replied.

“Or he's telling us that sheep don't float well.”

“Or only float upside down and—”

“Can we just go now?” Julia asked, cutting Oswald off.

“It's probably best that we
do
go,” I said. “We really shouldn't be down here. This is trespassing.”

At that moment we heard voices and turned around to see half a dozen kids about our age sliding down the concrete embankment.

“It's over here!” Oswald called out.

They smiled and came in our direction.

Oswald turned to Julia. “Not millions of people, but nine is a start. Look out, Eiffel Tower.”

Chapter Two

“Ian, can you hurry up and finish eating?” Oswald said to me. “I don't want to be late for class.”

“Relax, we have plenty of time,” I replied. “Lunch isn't over for another fifteen minutes.”

“Besides, when did you start getting all worried about being late for class?” Julia asked.

“Are you questioning my dedication as a student?”

“More remembering that you were late for biology twice last week,” she said.

“It's the first period. It's hard to get up that early. Besides, whose bright idea was it to move the start of school from eight forty-five to eight?”

“Probably Mr. Roberts,” I said.

Our principal is a former Marine, and the Marines were into getting up early—that and being as tough as nails.

“Either way, the two of
us
seem to manage to get there on time,” Julia pointed out.

Biology was the only class the three of us shared this semester.

“I guess I just need my beauty sleep more than you two,” he said.

“Which would explain why you fell asleep in biology when you did get there yesterday,” she said.

“No way! I was sleeping?” He turned to me. “Ian?”

“You were even snoring,” I confirmed.

“Was Mr. Singh mad?”

“Not really. He said something about you finally making a contribution to class discussion. He even made you part of the lesson. He explained the role of sleep as a biological function,” I said.

“I'm surprised more people don't display that biological function in his class. Mr. Singh is a great guy, but that is one boring class. Not like art appreciation. Who would have thought the class would be
that
great?”

I raised my hand. It was my suggestion—one that Oswald had agreed to and Julia hadn't. Instead, she took advanced calculus.

“Jules, you should come to class with us today,” Oswald suggested.

“I have a class. Calculus.”

“So miss a class. What's the worst that could happen? You only get a 95 instead of a 96?”

“Every mark counts.”

“Right, that's the one that's going to stop you from getting into a good university. Come with us—Mrs. Johnson won't mind an extra student. Besides, don't you want to see the class that changed my life?” Oswald asked.

“Changed your life?” she repeated. “I think we've all been hoping for that for quite a while.”

“I'm serious. Because of that class I'm giving real consideration to applying to art college next year.”

“You?” both of us asked in unison.

“I don't understand the surprise. I'm very artistic,” he explained.

“Again—
you
?” Julia asked.

“Sure, you've both seen samples of my work.”

“When?” Julia asked.

“Where?” I asked.

“My notebook. You know I always draw all over my books.”

“That's doodling! Just because you can write your name in 3-D and draw cartoon animals doesn't qualify you to go to art college.”

“That's why I'm working on my portfolio,” he said.

“Portfolio?” Julia questioned.

“A portfolio is a collection of an artist's work that is representative of the range of his talent and skills, offering samples and complete—”

“I know what a portfolio is,” Julia said, cutting him off. “I just didn't know you were working on one or even knew what it was.”

“Well, I didn't until I starting working on one. It's hard work. That's what I've been so occupied with lately.”

I knew he'd been too busy to hang out a couple of times, but I'd just figured he was playing video games or watching bad movies and didn't want to be disturbed.

“It's coming along pretty well,” Oswald said.

Julia got up. “Let's get going. I really
do
have to go to this art class.”

“I'm so happy to have you sit in on our class, Julia,” Mrs. Johnson said, “although since you're only a visitor, I'm going to ask you not to take part in our discussions.”

“Of course. I understand,” Julia agreed.

Oswald and I exchanged a look. We were both thinking the same thing—could Julia keep her opinions to herself for a whole period?

“A lunch,” Oswald said to me out of the side of his mouth so that Julia, sitting a few seats over, couldn't hear. “The first one to say something that makes her talk gets lunch bought by the other.”

“Deal. You bring your wallet and I'll bring my appetite.”

“All right, let's get started,” Mrs. Johnson announced.

People settled into their seats.

“Last week we were discussing how art may take many forms,” Mrs. Johnson began. “That it is not simply painting or sculpture but includes poetry, plays, music, dance and more.”

“Which means comic books, movies, TV, novels, hip-hop, commercials, music videos and video games,” Oswald said proudly.

His first attempt to get to Julia. She didn't blink.

“All of those and more,” Mrs. Johnson agreed. “Although some might argue about a few of those forms being art.”

Judging from Julia's expression, I figured she was one of them.

“This week we'll focus on the way that artists not only shape their society but are shaped by it.” Mrs. Johnson paused. “Let me explain. Raise your hand if you like techno-pop dance music.”

A few girls raised their hands. I had to stop myself from gagging.

“In order to have techno-pop, you first need to have techno. Without the electronics, it wouldn't be possible. How many people like it when a musician releases an acoustic CD?”

Almost all hands went up, including mine.

“Then you would have loved music prior to 1900, when all music was acoustic. Not to mention it was live, since there were no recording or broadcasting techniques. No CDS, tapes, videos, MTV or satellite radio.”

“But aren't you just talking about the tools of a culture rather than the entire culture?” I asked.

“In part. There's also no doubt in my mind that if Beethoven were alive today, he'd be playing either electronic keyboards or synthesizer. But what would Shakespeare be writing?” she asked.

“Plays,” Julia said, so quietly I could hardly hear her though I was sitting right beside her.

“He certainly wouldn't be writing plays,” Mrs. Johnson said. Julia didn't react.

I couldn't help but wonder, if it was Mrs. Johnson who got her going, should Oswald and I buy her lunch?

“He'd probably be writing for tv or movies,” somebody at the back chipped in.

“The contemporary version of playwright would be screenwriter,” Mrs. Johnson said.

“So if Shakespeare was writing today, then
Romeo and Juliet
would have been a date movie,” Oswald said.

“And
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
would be a buddy movie,” I added.

Julia made a slight huffing sound, but no words came out.

“
Hamlet
would definitely be a horror movie,” Oswald said.

“With major special-effects potential. Maybe a car chase,” I said.

“Enough about Shakespeare,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Others?”

“What about Jane Austen?” Oswald asked. He knew Jane was Julia's favorite writer.

“I don't know her,” another student piped up. “Is she a writer?”

Julia made another little sound but didn't speak. Good—I didn't want to buy anybody else lunch.

“She wrote sweeping epic novels involving tragic relationships and romance,” I explained.

“That is so easy,” Oswald said. “If Jane Austen was alive today, she'd be writing Harlequin romance novels.”

I almost burst into laughter but stopped myself. I turned slightly to look at Julia. I think she was biting her bottom lip to stay quiet.

“Potentially
very good
Harlequin romances,” Mrs. Johnson said. “She was a wonderful writer.”

I think Mrs. Johnson's comments were the only thing that saved Julia from exploding or imploding.

“Maybe she would have teamed up with that Willy Shakespeare guy to write chick flicks,” Oswald suggested.

He was on a roll. If I didn't come up with something, I'd lose this bet for sure.

“What about a famous poet like Walt Whitman?” I asked. Walt was one of Julia's favorite poets.

“Yeah, we don't really listen to poets much anymore,” a girl said.

“Actually, you listen to them all the time, but, reflecting our culture, they now write lyrics,” Mrs. Johnson said.

I laughed because I saw my opening. “So if Walt Whitman was alive today, he'd be a rapper. I see him throwing down some beats. I can even think of a couple of rapper names for him.”

“You can?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“Sure. Either he'd be W Squared”—kids laughed—“or, because he wrote so much about snow and ice, he could be known as The Iceman.”

There was laughter and a round of applause. Julia didn't cheer, but she didn't talk. She'd been shaken, but she hadn't broken.

The bell rang to end class. The period had just zipped by.

“Well, what did you think?” I asked Julia as we walked out.

“Interesting class, but it confirmed two things that I already knew.”

“What things?” Oswald asked.

“That you two are
such
idiots.”

“I'm surprised you needed further confirmation of that,” Oswald said. “I thought that was already a proven fact. Sort of like gravity or—”

“Did you really think you could get me to react to those cracks about Jane Austen and Walt Whitman?”

“Cracks?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. “We were simply trying to make the class more relevant for you.”

“Was there a bet involved?” she asked.

“Lunch,” I admitted. “Loser was supposed to buy lunch.”

“In that case, since I'm obviously the winner and you two are even more obviously losers, I should get two lunches. Do either of you have any objections?”

We both shook our heads in agreement. Fair was fair.

Chapter Three

I could hear Oswald before I could see him. His car needed some work on the exhaust system, but he was trying to avoid doing it—“I don't want the muffler to be worth more than the rest of the car” was how he'd put it.

Then the car came around the corner and into view, rumbled up and stopped, brakes squealing. Oswald popped open the door from the inside—it didn't open from the outside.

“Good morning,” he sang out.

“Good morning to you too. It's rare to see you up this early on a weekend.”

“Weekends are the only times I can sleep to my full potential. You know me, always trying to be the best that I can be.”

“So where are we off to?”

“To pick up Julia and then to the art gallery.”

“No, really.”

“Don't you want to pick up Julia?” he asked.

“Of course I do, but where are we really going after that?”

“We are going to the City Center Art Gallery. Seriously.”

“This new you is a little hard to predict,” I admitted.

“Not really. When you think of me, just think of culture, the arts and perhaps fashion.”

“Fashion? Did you look in a mirror this morning?”

Oswald was wearing trackpants, no socks, lime-green Crocs, a black hoodie and a safari hat.

“Don't you think this makes a statement?” he asked.

“And just what statement were you going for?”