Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything (2 page)

“Oh, don't give me that.”

“What? I'm analyzing the cruel and particularly complicated sociodynamics of sophomore dodgeball.”

“No, you're not.” Katya is drying off now. In the next row over, annoying Taffy is stretching and showing off her dancer's body while listening to our conversation. I hate this tiny-ass locker room.

“What, it's that obvious?” I ask.

“It's all over your face, all the time,” Katya says, grinning. “Titus, Titus, Titus.”

I'm blushing. I can feel it. And my Chinese half makes it so that once my cheeks go pink, they stay that way for hours.

Katya never turns pink. Broad, Russian American face and a lumpy nose and long pale brown hair—you wouldn't think she'd be pretty if you made a list of her features, but somehow she is. She's mysterious. You can't read what she's thinking.

“Well, he's better than the others,” I say, conscious of Taffy in the next row, trying to sound less obsessed.

“Whatever.”

“He is. Let's be objective. He's cuter than Brat Parker. Nicer than Adrian Ip. More interesting than Malachy.”

“What's wrong with Malachy?” Katya sounds annoyed.

“He never says anything. Like having his ears pierced makes him so slick he doesn't have to talk.”

“You don't have to be so mean about everyone, Gretchen.”

“I'm not being mean. I'm doing an objective comparison of the Art Rats.”

Which isn't true. I
am
being mean.

I feel mean. I don't know why. This school is making me evil, maybe.

“It's not objective. It's
subjective.
” Katya hooks her bra behind her back. “It's just what you think, not the truth.”

“Don't bite me, Katya. I'm only talking.”

“Well, you're talking about people you barely know.”

“I know them. They've been in practically every class with me all year. I know Shane.”

“We all know you know Shane. Enough with Shane.” Katya gets into a dress she made herself on her mother's sewing machine.

“Wanna get a slice?” I try changing the subject.

“Can't. I've got to pick the monsters up at day care.”

I wish she didn't have three little sisters. Wish she didn't live an hour-fifteen away from school on the F train, all the way in Brighton Beach.

“You're always busy these days,” I say, and it comes out pitiful and whiny. “That's life, Gretchen,” snaps Katya. “I've got responsibilities. I'll call you later.”

She's out the door. My only friend, really
.

I can't count Shane, even though we said we'd be friends after last October.

We're not, obviously.

Not friends
.

Just people who groped each other for a few weeks at the start of this year, when he was new and sat in front of me in math. One day, he wrote me a note about this nose picker sitting in the front
,

and we wrote notes back and forth about boogers,
which led to notes back and forth about other stuff,
and he ate lunch with me and Katya,
and put funny sketches in my locker,
and we were friends. I thought
.

But one day Shane walked out of school with me when
classes were over
,

and got on the subway with me,
and went home with me, without me even asking him.

He kissed me as soon as we got in the door. We made out on the couch, when my parents weren't home
,

and watched TV on the couch together when they were.

After that, we made out in the hallways of Ma-Ha,
by the boat pond in Central Park,
on the corner by the subway stop,
and in the back of a movie theater.
People saw us. And he was my boyfriend. For a little.

Now, he's just someone whose mouth I stuck my tongue in,
someone whose spit got all over me and I didn't mind at the time.

Now, he's an alien being,
just like all the rest of those Art Rat boys—
or even more than the rest.

It goes to show that if you only have two friends in a whole godforsaken poseur high school, you shouldn't start up kissing one of them, because three weeks later he'll say he doesn't feel that way
,

whatever way that was
,

didn't feel like drooling on me anymore, I guess is what it meant—

and he'll say, “Hey, it was fun and all, but let's cool it now, yeah?”

and “You know we'll always be friends, right? Excellent. Let's hang out sometime, Gretchen, that would be great,”

only not with kissing
,

and not with it meaning anything
,

and then, when it comes down to it, never actually hanging out
,

and never being friends again, unless people ask and then we both say:

“Yeah, we had a thing going for a few weeks there, but then we both decided we would just be friends.”

Only
he's
the one who decided.

And we're not friends, not anymore.

Now he's got the Art Rats and goes out with Jazmin, and little Gretchen Yee isn't worth his time, like she was when he was new in school and lonely.

Hell.

I'll get my stupid slice of pizza by myself, then.

s
o I get some pizza and walk thirty blocks home instead of taking the train. That way, I don't have to hang around my house too long with Ma, who's supposed to be writing her dissertation but never actually is, and who's usually cleaning something and primed to quiz me about my day when I get home.

I slink into my room and read the new
Spider-Man
comic, plus a couple back issues, for an hour. Then Pop comes home from work with a sack of takeout, and we eat tofu in black bean sauce and fried rice cakes and soup dumplings, and it tastes so good I don't even think
about anything for a few minutes—and then Ma clears her throat and says: “Gretchen, your father and I have something to tell you.”

I wonder if the school called because of that day I skipped out and went to the movies, but then Pop says: “You know things have been difficult around here.”

“It's hard to know the best way to say this…,” adds Ma.

And it hits me. They're getting a divorce.

They talk about it for a while, saying

they're so sorry,

they went to see a marriage counselor,

they tried everything,

they can't get along together anymore,

they just don't know what to do, and

they're going in to sign the papers tomorrow.

I won't have to listen to them yelling.

I won't have to prick up my ears as I fall asleep because I'm not sure if it's the TV or the two of them starting in on each other again.

I won't have to try and talk them out of arguing in the Kmart

or Number One Noodle Son

or the subway.

And I won't have to hear them say stuff to each other like “You weren't very considerate when we were getting into bed
last night and I was trying to talk to you about the thing that happened right before dinner, do you know what I'm referring to?” or other crap like that before I go out the door to school
,

and then have to have the unresolved parents-fighting ache all day, cold in my chest.

“Gretchen bubbee, we're going apartment hunting this weekend!” Ma is trying to sound bright, changing the subject to something more pleasant.

“What?”

“You and me. Tomorrow. Looking at apartments. Then we can talk about paint colors.”

“Isn't Pop supposed to move out and get a bachelor pad?” I say. Bitchy.

“He
is
getting one,” says Ma, bitterly. “We're selling the apartment.”

“It's not a bachelor pad.” Pop does that thing with his voice where it's clear he's intent on keeping his temper. “Hazel, don't go putting ideas in her head. Gretch, it's a studio.”

“Where?”

“West Twenty-fourth Street. You can come see it. Tell me what I should buy to fix it up.”

“See it?” I say. “What if I want to live with you?”

(Not that I do. But
come see it
? To your kid?)

“Oh. Um. It's a studio.” Pop stands up and starts clearing the table.

“And how come you have it already and you're just telling me this stuff now?”

“I told you she'd be mad,” says Ma. “I told you to get something bigger.”

“Gretch, don't be like that.” My dad, coaxing.

“Like what?”

Suddenly I'm almost crying.

How weird
,

like you could think you were relieved and then you're crying
,

like you didn't even know you were sad.

“I'm funding two households now,” says Pop, as if we're both incredibly stupid and he has to spell stuff out for us. “A studio is what I can afford. What do you expect me to do, Ma?”

Why does he call her Ma? I'm the one who calls her Ma.

If I ever have a husband I am never letting him call me Ma, even if we have fourteen children. It's probably why they're getting divorced. If he'd have just called her Hazel everything would still be fine.

There's a hole in my shirt.

Why would I get a hole right there near the bottom edge? It's not like anything is rubbing on there.

I wonder if I should darn it.

If I keep thinking about the hole I won't cry
,

darning is definitely not sexy
,

would black thread look okay on a dark blue shirt? Or do I have to go to the drugstore and get blue?

I can't believe he's moving out

moving out

moving out.

Now no one will scramble eggs with dried fish from Chinatown and stink up the whole apartment
,

no one will leave the toilet seat up
,

no one will play Sinatra and try to make me dance
,

or drag me to the dog run in Central Park to hang out with the dogs even though we don't have one
,

or buy me comic books and hide them from Ma
,

or watch TV in his ratty bathrobe in the middle of the night when he can't sleep and wake me with his too-big laughter.

Don't cry don't cry don't cry.

“I'll miss you, Gretchen,” he says, coming over. “I hope you know that.”

I haven't hugged him in so long.

Wait.

He smells like cigarettes.

I didn't know he smoked. Since when does he smoke?

He doesn't. Maybe he's got a girlfriend who smokes.

Oh hell.

It's obvious.

Obvious, obvious, obvious.

Crap.

My dad has a girlfriend:
I can't believe I didn't notice before.

He has someone else; that's why all this is happening. It explains the late nights and the long business trips and the tie he said the cleaners lost. My father has got some chain-smoking chippie on the side and he's leaving our family so he can cavort around town lighting her cigarettes for her.

I

can't

believe

he

would

do

this

to

us.

I run into my room and slam the door.

m
y room is a wreck. Here's what's on my shelves:

A stack of collectible
Spider-Man
comics in plastic sleeves,

six piles of ratty old comics, which include Spidey, some
Fantastic Four, Batman
and
Dark Knight, Punisher, Incredible Hulk, Doctor Strange
, a few
Savage Dragon, Witchblade, Grendel
, stuff like that. Oh, and
League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

A half-open box of old pastels,

three years' worth of
Fangoria
magazine,

some travel souvenirs from Hong Kong, where I went with Pop last year,

an old laptop computer that doesn't work anymore but seems like it's too valuable to throw out,

thirteen Pez dispensers (including Tasmanian Devil and Peppermint Patty),

a semi-huge collection of action figurines including G.I. Joe, Betty and Veronica, Rosie the Riveter, Spidey, Jar Jar Binks (someone gave him to me), and a few vampire-type guys,

four jars full of little plastic characters from Asia, left over from a phase I had when I was fourteen: Bean Curd Babies, Hellcats, Devil Robots, Snorkin' Labbits and Anti-Potato Head.

A big box of silly makeup from when I was younger: glitter eye shadow and blue lipstick, plus ordinary pink lipsticks Ma gave me when they were nearly worn down,

all my old picture books,

all my old chapter books,

a paper doll collection,

seven plastic baby dolls, all white babies except one little Asian one, none of which I've played with for years, thirty-one stuffed animals (grimy),

five jewelry boxes, all given to me as gifts by my Chinese grandmother, all empty.

Oh, and on my floor:

dirty clothes,
clean clothes,
clothes I tried on and didn't wear,

“The Metamorphosis,” which I still haven't cracked, art supplies,

tablets of drawing paper,

shoes,

paper clips, all over where they spilled last week, eighteen plates of plastic Chinese food, which I just started collecting,

tissue packets, partly open,

and half an old bagel, wrapped in paper.

I, Gretchen Yee, am a pack rat.

A pack vermin.

Divorce. Divorce. Divorce
.

I have to do something to make me stop thinking about it
.

Divorce. And my cheating, lying father—I have to get him out of my head, too.

I'll do my drawing assignment—not the one where I have to go to the Met—but the one I was supposed to have handed in
today. “Draw something or someone you love. Put your emotions onto the page, but draw from life, or from a photograph.”

Okay, what do I love?

My stuff. My figurines, my comics, my old toy animals. But there's too much of it all to draw. And everyone will laugh at me if I do that, anyhow; everyone but Katya.