“Cape Town residents were once again greeted by another work of street art this morning,” the news reporter said while standing by my artwork. “This one was done here, where six years ago college student Rose Maponyane was killed by her boyfriend in a car accident. After an explosive argument that led to domestic violence, she escaped their home by car, only to be pursued by him. The incident of gender-based violence ended in a fatal accident for Rose that night, and the story made national headlines when her boyfriend did not get the maximum jail sentence for his crime. We spoke to her parents.”

I gasped. I hadn’t meant to paint around such a famous cross.

“We love it,” her emotional father said. “Someone has brought our daughter back to life and now she’ll never be forgotten.” The man looked straight into the camera now. “Whoever did it, if you are watching, thank you.”

A tear escaped my eye and snaked down my cheek. The news reporter spoke again.

“But while her parents might be pleased, police spokesperson Relibogile Mashingo warned that under the antigraffiti bylaws, artists must apply for permits before painting in a public space. If they do so without one, it’s considered destruction of public property and comes with a fifteen-thousand-rand fine or three months in jail.”

“Crap!” I inhaled sharply.

“Local residents are also praising the anonymous artist who is taking the neglected and forgotten of Cape Town and breathing new life into it. So, Cape Town, the question is, could we have our very own Banksy?”

I lowered my phone and blinked a few times in utter shock.

“Banksy,” I repeated out loud. I put my hands over my mouth. “Bansky.” I climbed out of my bed and stood in the middle of the floor, looking out over the sea. It looked different this morning. Not as foreboding in some way. Not as big. It was strange to no longer feel dwarfed by the thing that had made me feel so small only last night. I walked back to my computer and opened it again, typing Rose’s name into the search bar. Story after story quickly filled the page. Stories about the surge in gender-based violence in South Africa. Stories about Rose herself—she’d been studying to become a social worker—and stories calling for harsher sentences for perpetrators of gender-based violence. My art had started this important conversation that had now taken flight across the media, and I couldn’t quite believe it. I grabbed my pencil and amended my list once again.

Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer

I’m a good sister.

I’m a real artist (despite what Blackwell says!).

I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!

I tapped my pencil against the list and knew what I needed to do. I got dressed and knocked on Zac’s door.