Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything (12 page)

Shane, on the other hand, looks great and has a gorgeous chest, but somehow seems hard and untouchable—like you're not really looking at him, but at a coat of armor he wears to keep people away. And Carlo looks better undressed than dressed, because his clothes are geeky. But his relatively nice body still
doesn't do anything for me. He's got no milkshake—or whatever the equivalent is in boys.

Girls' magazines are always saying “confidence is the sexiest thing of all”—but even though that's kind of true for Hugh, Titus is the opposite. It's not his confidence that makes him sexy. He hasn't got any.

When he's got his clothes off, he seems even more naked than anyone else.

At the end of African dance, Xavier and Carlo don't come in right away. The drumbeats have stopped, but they're staying inside the gym for some reason.

Gunther arrives—first in his class as usual. He must have his third period in the sculpture studio right next door. He opens his minilocker and gets his sneakers, then sits down on a bench and starts to change.

I hear the voice of the drummer before I see him. He has a lilt—not African but Jamaican. He plays the bongos for the dance class, and he must arrive at the gym through the teachers' offices, because I've never seen him before. When he enters, Xavier and Carlo trailing behind him, I can see he's short, with shiny dark skin and dreads. Not dressed like a teacher—tan cords and a faded blue T-shirt. He's sweating a bit from playing the drums for so long.

“Is that the guy?” he asks Xavier.

Xavier nods. They must have told the teacher what's been going on with Gunther. And she sent the drummer in, to take care of stuff in the boys' locker room.

“Excuse me,” says the drummer, standing over Gunther. “I wonder if I can talk to you for a second. My men here are having a problem and they asked me to step in and negotiate.”

Gunther looks up. He's bigger than the drummer, but he's sitting down. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I'm hearing things about being pushed into lockers and threats and whatnot. Do you want to tell me what's been going on?”

“What did they say?”

“Look, no one wants any trouble. You want to give your side of the story?”

Gunther pulls on his sweatshirt. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm minding my own crap.”

“You haven't been intimidating my friends here? Because that's what I'm hearing. And that kind of thing can't be happening.”

“I don't even know those guys. I got nothing to say.”

“Oh,” says the drummer, sounding innocent and sarcastic at the same time. “I'm very happy to hear that. Because I would hate to hear someone had been harassing my guys. If I heard any rumors like that again, I'd have to go talking to Mr. Sanchez about it, whereas right now we're keeping it between friends.”

“You're barking up the wrong tree,” says Gunther.

“I'm sure I am. A big man like you would never pick on someone who wasn't his own size. Let's chalk it up to nothing and say I'm happy to meet you.” He smiles and extends his hand. “My name is David Mowatt. And you are?”

Gunther shakes, warily. “Gunther.”

“Gunther what? So I can remember you next time I see you.”

“Hocking-Delancy.”

Mowatt lets go of his hand. “Nice to meet you, Gunther Hocking-Delancy. I hope we understand each other.”

“Yeah, we understand each other,” mutters Gunther.

“Good.”

As if released from a spell, Xavier and Carlo scoot out from behind Mowatt and bang their lockers open. They grab their stuff, wave their thanks and run out into the hall.

S
ophomore lunch, fifth period. The Thursday/Friday juniors and seniors who have gym now have already taken their hot, hairy bodies out for hockey, and the room is quiet. Usually, no one comes in while class is going on except an occasional guy on a hall pass who has to use the toilet, or the janitor to empty the towel bin; but today, I hear laughing from down the hall, and footsteps running, and Malachy comes barging through the door.

He stands still for a minute, looking around to make sure he's alone. Then he peeks under the bathroom stalls for people's feet, and quickly scouts behind the lockers for any lurking seniors. He pulls open the door to the hallway again and beckons someone in.

It's Katya.

Her hair is flowing down her back like she just brushed it, and she's wearing lip gloss. Malachy grabs her hand—they're both giggling—and starts kissing her.

Malachy is kissing Katya.

And it's clear they've done this before. Probably lots of times. His hands go right for her biscuits, and before long, her left hand is rubbing the front of his jeans.

Katya and Malachy.

Malachy and Katya.

I never even suspected, though I should have figured she had someone. She's been so evasive.

Duh: where has she been on weekend nights?

With Malachy.

Why can't I ever reach her on the phone?

She's with Malachy.

Why is she smoking cigarettes and eating lunch out back with the Art Rats, instead of with me?

To be with Malachy.

Why hasn't she had me over in ages, why is she always too busy?

She's been with Malachy.

But why didn't she tell me? I mean, we're best friends— aren't we?

After a few minutes, which I spend mainly buzzing around the ceiling trying not to watch this make-out session that is none
of my business, Katya pushes Malachy away. “I'm thirsty,” she says. “Just a second.”

She heads over to the water fountain and drinks. He comes around and hugs her from behind. “Want to come to the end-of-April sculpture exhibit thing with me?”

“Hm.” She stands up and walks over to the sinks, pulling her hair into a ponytail while she looks in the mirror. “It's probably not a good idea.”

“Why not? People have gotta find out sometime.”

“It's Gretchen,” says Katya. “She'll be weird about it. She's so judgmental.”

“You said that before. But who cares what Gretchen thinks?”

“I do.”

“What, she doesn't like me?”

Katya hesitates. I think about all the times I've said Malachy was nothing much, that he never says anything and thinks having his ears pierced makes him slick. “No, she likes you all right,” Katya lies. “But she doesn't know you. And she's all hung up about men. Like you guys are aliens or animals or something.”

“We
are
animals,” says Malachy, nuzzling her neck.

“I just feel like she'll be all mean about me having…” She pauses.

“A boyfriend,” supplies Malachy. “I'm your boyfriend, right? So say it.”

“Boyfriend,” says Katya. “But she'll be mean about it, like I'm a traitor. And she'll say something dismissive.”

“So?”

“So I'll know what she says is wrong, but I'll care what she thinks anyway—and then everything will have a taint on it.”

“Katya, you worry too much. Just come with me now and walk down the hall and hold my hand.”

Katya shakes her head.

“What's gonna happen?” Malachy asks. “Gretchen's not even in school.”

“She'll hear about it anyway. She'll be mad I didn't tell her.”

“So tell her, then.”

“Not yet. I can't. She's still obsessed over what happened with Shane, and the two of you guys are friends, and…I just think she'll freak out. Trust me on this, okay?”

Malachy moves over to the window and stares at the frosted glass, right underneath where I'm perched. “You care more about what she thinks than you do about me.”

“That's not it. Come on.”

“I'm sick of sneaking around.”

“Gretchen's been my best friend for two years. Don't ask me this.”

“I am asking you,” he says. “I am asking you this.”

There's a rustle outside the door to the gymnasium. The juniors and seniors are heading back in to change their clothes. “I gotta go,” says Katya, peeking out the door that goes to the hall, making sure no one will see her leave. “I'll call you later.”

“Call me with an answer,” Malachy shouts as she runs out.

Then he sits there,

like a statue,

while the older boys slap each other with towels and complain.

t
he Art Rats have finished showering after gym. Shane and Titus are talking about getting pizza. Malachy's eating a chocolate bar. Adrian is jumping on and off one of the benches for no apparent reason.

And I am thinking that the hierarchy they had at the start of the school year—with Titus at the top, then Malachy, then Adrian, Brat and Shane (the new guy)—has shifted now.

Today Shane, with his good looks and sports skills and hot girlfriend, is on top. And Brat's pushed to the bottom, even farther down than Shane ever was—because Shane doesn't like him. Then Malachy is one up from Brat.

Adrian, because he can keep up with Shane and since he's the “booty master,” has got the number two slot. Which puts Titus in the middle at number three.

I wonder what he thinks of the shake-up.

f
riday morning, at the end of third period, Gunther is waiting for Xavier and Carlo to come in after African dance. The bell hasn't rung yet; he must have cut out of sculpture early to be here. He's standing right by the gymnasium door, and as soon as Carlo
enters, Gunther grabs him by the elbow and slams him against the wall. “You rat on me and you think that's gonna save you?” he grunts. “Some Mary Poppins teacher telling me to keep the peace?”

Xavier comes in, sweat glistening on his chocolate forehead, and sees Gunther all over Carlo. “Hey, what the—?”

Gunther's elbow is fast. He jabs it backward into Xavier's stomach, knocking him into the towel bin, which rolls across the floor. Xavier stumbles, but keeps his balance. “Why don't you leave us alone?”

Gunther doesn't say anything. He simply punches Carlo in the face, and as Carlo crumples to the floor in the corner by the door, he turns around to face Xavier. Blood is trickling from Carlo's mouth.

Xavier backs up, clearly frightened, and Gunther walks toward him menacingly. “You faggy little twerp,” he says.

Xavier's right fist is clenched, like he's trying to get up the nerve to hit Gunther, but Gunther's not hesitating. He grabs Xavier's T-shirt in one hand, yanks him forward and hits his nose with an open palm. There's a crack, like Xavier's nose is breaking, and he collapses backward into a locker.

Carlo is on his feet again, and he runs at Gunther, trying to tackle him to the ground. But Gunther is stronger than both of them combined, and though he hits the floor when Carlo runs into him, it's only a second before he's sitting on Carlo's chest, delivering a solid punch to the neck. Carlo's head lolls to the side, and Xavier jumps on Gunther, trying to pull him off.

But Gunther is a smart fighter. He's done with Carlo, and he
lets Xavier pull him up, only to flip around and slam him up against the full-length mirror, cracking it from top to bottom. Small pieces of glass splinter onto the tiles. “You shut the fuck up about me,” says Gunther, his face close to Xavier's. “You keep your faggy ass out of my business, like I told you. You understand?”

Xavier nods in fear, his eyes looking over at Carlo, who's not moving.

Then Gunther knees Xavier in the balls and tosses him to the floor like a used tissue. As both boys lie there, moaning, he grabs his pack and bangs out into the hallway.

Everything is silent for a minute. Then Carlo sits up on his elbows, moving his neck gingerly, as if he feels like his head might fall off his body. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck,” moans Xavier.

“So much for your stupid David Mowatt plan,” says Carlo.

“Yeah, so much for it.”

“Fuck, he split my lip.”

“I think he broke my goddamn nose, motherfucker.”

Carlo sits up and scootches on his butt over to where Xavier is lying. “Nah. It's bloodied up, but you're not gonna have a badass boxer nose or anything.”

Xavier sits up. “Your lip is swelling like you got Botox.”

“Collagen.”

“What?”

“It's collagen that they put in their lips.”

“Whatever.”

They chuckle and sit there in silence.

I wonder if they've been beaten up before.

Then Xavier says, “We better get out before anyone comes in and asks us about the glass. What you got now, math?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna skip it and get lunch?”

“Yeah,” says Carlo. “I want that sushi from the little takeout place.”

“I want papaya drink,” says Xavier. “And a monster hot dog.” He gets to his feet slowly and offers his hand to Carlo, who takes it and stands up carefully, as if his head hurts. “Let's go.”

And with a quick glance in the broken mirror at their own mangled faces, they are gone.

Seconds later, the bell rings and the rest of the juniors start coming in for class. Gunther comes back, moving stiffly, and kids around with his friends as he puts on his clothes.

I'm so mad, I don't know what to do.

There's nothing
to
do.

Would be nothing even if I had my human body.

I could tell a teacher, sure, but there's no explanation for how I know what I know—and even if someone believed me and Gunther got suspended, he'd just come back and beat the crap out of Xavier and Carlo again later.

It's stuff like this that makes me love comic books so much. Because in real life, we are powerless. Guys like David Mowatt can step in and try to help, but in the end, they don't do any good. In the Marvel Universe, though, a person can make a difference.

A person can save the world.

e
ighth period, the Art Rats come in. Shane and Adrian are throwing a basketball back and forth over the top of the set of lockers. Malachy is sulking a bit; he shoves a chocolate kiss into his mouth as he changes clothes, then heads into the gym while the others goof around.

Titus and Brat are a little late, eating red licorice. They probably ran off campus in between the bells to buy it.

“Hey, fags, where you been?” says Adrian, tossing the ball to Titus.