Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything (11 page)

Titus dives in and out of the showers the way he did yesterday, and has on brown cords and a hooded black sweatshirt before I pay him any attention beyond a quick ogle of his narrow backside as he heads into the shower. Once he's dressed, he takes his time with his socks and boots, listening to Adrian talk about saving up for a baseball glove.

As they head out, he stays on the bench.

“You coming?” Adrian, near the door.

“Nah,” says Titus. “I got stuff to do.”

“You sure?”

“See you later.”

“Whatever.” Adrian and the others are gone.

Titus sits there on the bench for a couple of minutes. Just staring into space. Then he walks over to the mirror, the fulllength one that the girls don't even have, and looks at himself.

He turns to the side and looks again. Runs his fingers through his hair. He pulls his sweatshirt up and looks at his pale white-boy stomach. His cords hang loose on his hips. He pulls the shirt up even farther, for a second, to see his hollow, hairless chest, then yanks it back down.

He's acting like a girl. Or like I thought only girls ever acted.

Like he hates what he sees.

He grabs his pack and heads out the door.

Has Titus ever had a girlfriend?

I don't know.

I don't think so.

It was known across school that he liked Winifred last year, but I don't think they ever went out. And I've heard him and Adrian talk about girls like Cammie and Taffy; it seems obvious that he's interested. In girls, that is.

So why hasn't he been with anyone, then?

Malachy has gone out with lots of people. So has Adrian. Shane just got here this year, but he's been with me and now Jazmin. Even Brat, who's kind of a late-bloomer-type. He went out with a freshman girl last October for at least a couple of weeks.

But Titus—no one.

W
ednesday. After an endless night spent waiting and hoping that come morning I'd find myself back in my human body, I wake from a half-sleep instead to find Brat, holding a cup of coffee and
a muffin, sitting on a bench. The clock reads 7:34. He must be early to school.

He's just eating his breakfast and staring into space. When he's done with the muffin, he pulls a novel out of his backpack—
Ender's Game
—and reads while he finishes his coffee.

If they get to school early, most of the Art Rats hang out by the garbage cans, smoking cigarettes and talking. I've gone back there a couple times, first when I was seeing Shane and he was new and trying to get in with them—and then more recently when Katya started smoking and lurking around. But it's smelly, and I always feel shy and out of place, so I usually sit on the steps and draw in my sketchbook until the bell rings.

I always figured Brat was out back. But now I'm guessing he feels out of place too. Here in the locker room, I can see that the Rats barely talk to him, except for Malachy. They let him hang around, but they don't make any effort to include him. Like he's tolerated, but not fully one of them.

A couple minutes before the bell, Brat opens up his backpack and starts to rummage through it. I buzz down and sit next to him on the bench—he doesn't even notice me. His bag is just like his minilocker: jammed with stuff. Gym clothes and sketchbooks and books for class, of course, but also action figures and magazine clippings and tiny notebooks with drawings on the covers that probably contain more lists and notes like the ones I saw before.

He's like me. Like a boy version of me.
No wonder he doesn't fit in.

Brat f inds what he's looking for—a comb—and pulls it through his scruffy red hair without even looking in the mirror. Then he slurps some water from the fountain and takes off.

The morning passes pretty much as usual. The juniors and seniors don't have class on Wednesdays, so the PE staff has a meeting first period. Sanchez and the basketball coach come in and talk shop while they pee. The second-period freshmen aren't much to look at.

After third period, Xavier and Carlo goof around and take showers. No Gunther today. Xavier is trying to get Carlo to talk to me—when I get back from wherever I am.

Could I ever go out with Carlo?

It wouldn't take much courage to start talking to him, if I ever get back in my human body. He's a sure thing.

And I could use a sure thing.

Yeah, he's an African-dance geek. But bring on the African dance geeks, as far as I'm concerned. It's ridiculous that in a school where everyone's trying to be such a unique individual
,

I mean, people are wearing saris

and Pink Panther dolls

and smoking from forties cigarette holders for God's sake
,

that guys still get crap for taking a freakin' dance class. Even me—I used to think they were wimps, prancing away with the girls instead of doing team sports—but now I can see they're only doing something they think is fun. Something I'd probably think is fun too.

Plus, they've got some guts, given the crap they've got to take just for doing contractions to a drumbeat.

What do I want in a guy, anyway?

I might be pretty happy dating a geek who can really shake it.

l
ate in the afternoon, Shane and Malachy are taking showers while the others are sitting on the benches, pulling on clothes.

“Yo!” Shane barks at Brat all of a sudden, switching off the water and wrapping a towel around his waist. “What are you looking at?”

“Huh?” says Brat. He might have been looking, but he might have just been thinking about something else, or tired from playing hockey.

“Don't be faggy,” says Shane, turning off the water and grabbing his towel.

“I wasn't looking at you,” says Brat.

“Oh yeah? Then what were you doing with your eyeballs, then?” interjects Adrian, boffing Brat on the back of the head with a dirty sweat sock. His tone is friendly, teasing. “Everyone saw you.”

“I was—”

“You were looking, that's what.”

“I know I'm gorgeous, booty boy,” says Shane in a girly voice, pulling open his locker and getting out his clothes, “but this merchandise ain't for sale.”

“Shut up,” says Brat. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Thinking about Shane's gherkin,” says Adrian.

“Send it a letter,” says Shane, laughing even though it doesn't make sense.

Adrian laughs too. “Dear Shane's gherkin,” he says, also in a girly voice. “You're so fascinating, I can't take my eyes off you. Want to go for pizza after school? Yours sincerely, Bradley Parker.”

“Dear Bradley Parker,” answers Shane, in a deep masculine voice. “I belong to Jazmin LeMaitre, and believe me, she treats me good. I'm busy every day after school. And I do mean busy.”

“Dear Shane's gherkin, Come on, one little date. I've been admiring you from afar!” Adrian laughs.

“Dear Bradley Parker,” says Shane. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

I cannot believe Shane is not only talking in the voice of his gherkin but having it discuss how good Jazmin treats it. Also acting like Brat is madly in love with it.

There's not even much to be in love with. By now, I should qualify as a gherkin expert, and his equipment isn't anything special. I mean, in a purely observational capacity, I've seen nearly a hundred gherkins every day for the past three days and I can attest that Shane's gherkin is a certifiably ordinary gherkin and he shouldn't be so cocky about it.

There is no
big
reason for Brat to be staring.

If you get what I mean.

It's funny. A week ago, it would have killed me to hear Shane
talking about messing around with Jazmin. Even yesterday, it freaked me out when I saw them together in the hall, and I used to hate having to sit in the same room with her during math and art history. She was so slick, and so unaware of me, and yet I'd sit there looking at her like she was my replacement
,

because Shane thought she was better than me
,

and so that meant she probably
was
better than me
,

and I'd wonder—what's the secret of her sex appeal? Is it the way she licks her lips, or the size of her biscuits?

And I'd think about them fooling around—

not because I wanted to, but because those stupid thoughts would jump into my head—

and picture them hot on Shane's couch with the lights all dim—

and I'd feel sick to my stomach and full of jealousy and obsession and rejection.

But now, when his gherkin is talking about how good Jazmin treats it, and I know for sure he's going all the way with her or at least doing oral, all I think is
,

I'm glad it isn't me he's bragging about in the locker room.

Brat looks shocked when Shane says “Leave me the fuck alone”—and it really is unfair for Shane to get mean about it, since at this point it's Adrian who's putting all the focus on Shane's gherkin, anyway.

Brat grabs his jacket from his locker and runs out of the room. The sound of the swinging door echoes against the tiles.

“You didn't have to be such assholes just now.” It's Malachy.

“What?” says Adrian. “We were kidding around.”

“Brat's tough, he can take it,” agrees Shane. “Besides, those eyeballs of his are always wandering.”

“Who cares about his eyeballs?” says Malachy. “You don't have to pick on him.”

“It was a joke,” says Adrian. “He's gotta learn to take a joke.”

“C'mon, Malachy. It was funny. Dear Shane's gherkin.” Shane chuckles again as he pulls on his jeans.

“Brat didn't think so. I'm gonna catch him up. Later.”

And Malachy is gone.

Shane and Titus and Adrian finish getting dressed.

Titus doesn't say anything at all. When he leaves, saying he's got homework and can't hang out after school, Adrian and Shane stand in front of the sinks for a minute, messing with their hair.

“He's freakin' out,” says Adrian.

“Who, Titus?”

“Um-hm. About the sports thing next year.”

“Well, he should freak. I love the guy, but he objectively sucks. It's like he's the most uncoordinated man on the planet.”

“I know. Poor wuss.”

“He's gonna end up like Gunther and those other geeks who have to take gym four days a week.”

“You think?”

“That's what they do if you can't even qualify for JV bench. They make you take double gym.”

“That sucks. Sanchez is such an ass.”

“Titus should try swimming.”

“Nah, he'll never make it. He barely floats.”

“Did you see the poor guy cowering when Taffy came at him with the hockey stick?”

“She took that puck like taking candy from a baby.”

Shane grins. “There's only one way out for him, then.”

“What?” asks Adrian.

“African dance.”

W
ednesday night. In the deep darkness. From all the way across the room, I can hear the spider spinning new threads in her web.

The clock ticks.

A sink is leaking occasional drops of water onto the floor. One of the toilets runs funny.

There is no other sound.

The night is endless. I feel like I've been a fly forever.

I've got to turn back sometime. Somehow.

But how? And when? What if my fly body dies of old age before whatever powers made this happen reverse the spell?

Oh hell oh hell oh hell oh hell
Get me
out
of
here.
Someone.
Please.

t
hursday morning, I am grateful to be distracted by a new crop of seniors. Hugh is Monday/Tuesday gym. These guys are Thurs-day/Friday. I feel like it's Hanukkah—the new day brings new presents to unwrap.

Two guys come in early and steal a kiss inside a toilet stall, still wearing all their clothes. Then they head to different sides of the locker room and change for gym like nothing happened.

Like they're straight.

More filter in, and they change slowly, sluggishly. A couple of them wear their gym shorts to school and carry their jeans in their backpacks. Lots of them have coffee cups or soda cans, and when they go into class they leave them sitting on the sinks and benches, as if they'll only be gone for a minute.

I do like looking at them.

I do, I do.

Have I become a bad person, then?

I know I'd think badly of a guy for going to strip clubs or reading pervy magazines or spying on girls in the locker room. I'd think he was objectifying women or violating people's privacy.

But I'm doing it myself—the spying part—and I fully enjoy it.

And would it still be wrong if the guys knew about it and agreed to it—like if they were models or in a video?

Could I really be the type of girl who would buy a dirty video?

I don't know. I'm so full of hormones, anything seems possible.

I used to think beauty was something you could put your finger on. Of course, I knew it changed according to fashion—like long ago people used to prefer weak chins and rosebud mouths on women, whereas now we like strong jaws and wide grins; or good-looking men used to have big fuzzy sideburns that grew all the way down across their cheeks, and now that kind of facial hair looks mangy.

I know the svelte women we admire these days would have been considered scrawny things with no figures in previous centuries. But even so, I still thought: the good-looking people are the good-looking people. They are the ones people want to date, because good looks are what make people attractive. If a person has flaws, his rating goes down. Attractive is attractive is attractive.

And it turns out that's not so. Like what about Hugh? I think he's sexier now than I did when I'd only seen him with his clothes on—even though his clothes hide his bad skin and objectively there are problems with his body. He's sexy naked because he walks around in his argyle socks, drinking coffee. He's comfortable in himself.