Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything (3 page)

So not them
.

What do I love? What do I love?

Ma knocks once on the door and leans in. “Gretch?” She sounds apologetic. “Are you okay, bubbee?”

“Yeah. I'm doing my Kensington.”

“Listen. The appointment with the realtor is at nine a.m. tomorrow.”

How did she get an appointment so fast? It's not like you can call up realtors after working hours on a Friday night and arrange to see apartments.

Oh.

Duh.

She's known about this for weeks. They only now told me. Ma has been on the phone with realtors for ages, planning our move, and is only telling me now, at the last minute.

“And Gretch?” Ma sits down on my bed. “Just so you know. The place we're gonna move to, it'll be smaller than this one. I mean, money's tight now, and
for a two-bedroom in Manhattan, they're asking a lot. But you'll like this one we're seeing tomorrow. It's in Chinatown, and there's an old claw-foot bathtub.”

She's not only been on the phone with realtors, she's been to see apartments already. She's even picked one out.

“So. You might want to start thinking about what you want to keep, and what you want to throw away.” Ma executes the should-be-patented Hazel Kaufman switch from sympathetic mother to critical nag.

“What do you mean?” I ask her.

“We've got to sort through your junk, Gretchen. We can't bring all of this”—she waves her arm to indicate my stuff—“to the new place.”

“But I need my stuff!”

“You don't need all of it. You don't need most of it.”

“Ma!”

“Gretch, you have to throw it out. We're starting fresh.”

“
You're
starting fresh,” I say. “I'm only moving with you because I'm legally obligated.”

It came out worse than I meant.

“Don't be smart with me,” Ma snaps. “Pop and I are going through a difficult time. The least you can do is be cooperative.”

“Fine.” I yank off my jeans and get into bed in my T-shirt. “I'll pack my stuff.”

“No, that's not what I said. You'll go
through
your stuff and get rid of it. There's not room for all these bean curd creatures and whatnot in the new place.”

“Bean Curd
Babies.
” I turn out the light. “I'm going to bed now.”

“This early?”

“This early.”

“Aren't you going to brush your teeth?”

“No.”

“Gretchen.”

“I reserve the right not to brush my teeth on a night when my parents are getting a divorce and my mother says I have to throw out all my possessions and live like a monk.”

“You know I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did.” I pout.

She heaves a sigh. “It's a hard time for all of us.”

And she's out. The door clicks shut.

I stare into the dark.

I still don't know what I love.

s
aturday morning, I go see the new apartment with Ma. It's tiny and smells like fish and Chinese food. The white realtor lady asks if I'm adopted—like that's some legitimate, socially appropriate question to ask—and is
halfway through a gushy story about her friend's new baby from Korea when I say, “Haven't you ever heard of interracial marriage? It's all the rage in civilized countries,” and she shuts up and purses her lips.

Then Ma takes me to lunch at the Second Avenue Deli in the East Village, which I usually like, but somehow I can't eat. I've got a grilled cheddar on rye and a side of coleslaw, and there's a huge bowl of good pickles on the table, but I'm not hungry.

“The new place is quaint, don't you think?” says Ma. Talking with a mouth full of Reuben. “I love those old moldings. And if we switch you to a single bed, your room will feel cozy. Ooh, or maybe a futon on the floor that you can roll up?”

“It's really small, Ma.”

“The kitchen is small. I'll give you that. But you know I never cook. Pop did all of that. Anyhow, it's only till I finish my dissertation.”

She's never going to finish that dissertation. She started graduate school when I was seven and she's been at it for more than eight years. Ever since she finished her coursework, she's been writing this incredibly long analysis of Early American Puritan whatever. “Then I'll get a real job with benefits.”

She's deluding herself. I get all my procrastination tendencies from her. “Now, Gretchen,” she continues. “I have something else to tell you. You know Marianne?”

“The one who drives the Lexus?”

“There's more to her than that. She's an incredibly kind person. Anyway, she called me last night after you went to bed and said that she and Gary were supposed to go on this trip to a tiny island in the Caribbean, a resort—and now Gary can't go because of some work obligation. She's furious at him. He's always doing this.”

“And?”

“She knows what a hard time I've had separating from Pop, and she said she could switch Gary's reservation over to me, if I wanted. It's all already paid for.”

“She's taking you on vacation?”

“She's offering. Only we'd have to leave on Friday afternoon. This Friday. Would that be okay, bubbee?”

“But Pop will be at that toy convention thing in Hong Kong.”

“I know, but you stayed on your own that weekend last fall, didn't you? When we went up to the Kesslers'?”

“Yeah.”

“Gretch, I wouldn't ask but I'm so exhausted I can't tell you.” She's shoving an enormous fry into her mouth and washing it down with coffee.

“When does Pop get back?” I ask.

“The following Saturday. So you'll be a week on your own.”

“Eight days.”

“Okay. Eight days. And then I'll be back a couple days after that! It's this amazing place. There's a spa
where you can get massages, and there are no cars on the whole island. Everyone goes around by bicycle.”

She's so bright, talking about it.

She loves the beach.

She's never been to the Caribbean.

And Ma hasn't looked bright for a long time, now that I think about it.

Sometimes I hate my dad. Even before this affair with the chippie
,

and even before this divorce
,

it seemed like all he did was make Ma unhappy.

Maybe they're just too different. Because he's Chinese American and she's Jewish.

Or because he owns a small toy company and she's trying to be a scholar.

Or because she's a blabbermouth and he's quiet.

Or he's a man and she's a woman.

“Sure, go on and get a tan.” I try to smile. “I can deal.”

“We can leave the extra key with Ramón down the hall.” Ma squeezes my hand. “And I'll take you grocery shopping and leave you money and all that.”

“Okay.”

“You sure you'll be all right, on your own?”

“Absolutely.”

Aside from the übervillains and murderers and vermin wandering the streets. Yeah, I'll be fine.

i
escape from Ma and head up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to do my Kensington homework. There's beautiful stuff in the Jaharis Gallery of Greek art, and I sit down with my pad and begin sketching a statue of a naked man reclining with a bunch of grapes.

This is hard. The stone makes the body look different; softer. Plus he's lying down. Superheroes never recline on their elbows, draping themselves around like that. They're always in action.

How do I make it look like stone?

How did the sculptor make stone look like skin?

Eraser
,

eraser
,

dust off—

hell.

A smudge.

Shoulder, shadow, forearm, shadow;

this one is coming out okay.

Maybe Kensington will actually like it. I do draw bodies better than most people in class. That's not conceited, it's true. Katya's bodies always look like they're stiff, like she's drawn a doll instead of a person.

Do men really look like this?

This guy has no hair.

I may not have seen any naked boys up close, but I've walked through Chelsea in the summer when all the men have their shirts off, and even people who wax themselves stupid still have hair on their arms, or their underarms, or somewhere. And lots of the nonwaxers are seriously furry.

Was it an aesthetic decision—like the sculpture looked better with no hair—or is it just too hard to carve chest hairs out of stone? Or were they waxing in ancient Greece?

Thank goodness I don't have to draw a gherkin, that's all I can say
.

Fig leaf.
Titus is Greek. Titus Antonakos.
Titus.
Titus.
I wonder what he looks like naked.

“—I was thinking about basketball next year but I don't know. I don't actually like it that much.” I hear a voice from the back of the room.

Titus! Could he be here, doing his Kensington assignment?
Don't turn around.
Don't turn around
.

“Do we
have
to be on a team?” the voice continues. “What's the deal?”

“That's what I heard: everyone has to. But whatever—it's better than gym. And it's good for college.” That's definitely Adrian Ip.

“I can't think about college already,” says Titus.

“You just don't want to play a sport, fag.” I can hear the sound of Adrian socking Titus on the shoulder.

I hope they don't see me.
No, I hope they do see me.

“Hey, isn't that Gretchen Yee?”

“Hair like that, who else?”

“Shut up!” Titus sounds like he's socking Adrian back.

They slide onto the bench next to me, pushing my pencil box out of the way.

“Naked man, eh?” jokes Adrian.

“My specialty,” I sneer, heart beating fast. “What's up?”

“You doing the Kensington?”

“Looks like it.” Me, trying to be slick.

“We saw Taffy and Cammie drawing Egyptian stuff in the other gallery.” Titus opens the zipper on his backpack.

Are they gonna stay here? And like, do the Kensington with me?

He gets out his sketchbook. “Cammie's looked good, actually.”

“Cammie always looks good,” says Adrian, smirking.

“I meant the drawing, you vermin.”

Titus remembers
vermin,
too. I like that.

“I'm just a red-blooded Korean love machine,” says Adrian. “You can't miss that Cammie milkshake.”

“Whatever. I wasn't in the mood to do those Egypt ones, so we came over here.” Titus shrugs.

“What he means is, they wouldn't talk to us.” Adrian laughs.

Uh-oh. Does Titus like Cammie, then? Or, please no, Taffy?

“That's true,” Titus giggles, “they wouldn't. But only because Ip made some crap comment.”

“What did he say?” I ask.

“It's not for your ears.” Titus busies himself digging around for a pencil.

“Why not?”

“It was disgusting, that's why.”

We are having a full-out conversation. Me and Titus, and Adrian.

“Adrian, what did you say?” I push.

He holds his hands up in self-defense. “I'm not saying it again. I got in too much trouble last time.”

“Try me. It's not like I'm some innocent.”

“Oh, don't worry,” he says, cracking a smile. “I don't think
that.
”

What does he mean by
that?

Has Shane been talking about me?

What do those guys know about me and Shane? It's not like we went so far
.

Would Shane talk about it?

Oh hell, would he talk about that time in the back of the movie theater?

“Ip was being a half-wit,” says Titus. “And now he's learned his lesson and he's keeping his trap shut.”

“That's true,” confesses Adrian. “Hey, Titus, what's up? Are you staying here and drawing this naked guy?”

Titus answers without looking at him. “I'm thinking yeah. I'll see if I can do better than Gretchen.”

Does that mean he thinks I draw well?
Or he thinks I draw badly?

“I'm not drawing any naked dudes,” says Adrian. “Way too gay. Come on and look for some ladies with me.”

“Oh, all right, booty master.” Titus laughs. “Your wish, my command.” He shoves his pencil back in his backpack and tucks his sketchbook under his arm. “See you, Gretchen.”

“Bye.”

And they're gone.

What did he mean, do better than Gretchen?

What did he mean, booty master?

What did Adrian say to Cammie?

“Hair like that,” Adrian said. Does that mean stupid fake red hair, or sharp electric sex-goddess hair?

And what did Shane say about me?

l
ater Saturday night, Ma is banging pots around in the kitchen, cleaning up after a strained family dinner. Pop is letting her do it, sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand. He's handsome, my dad. He doesn't look forty-five.

“It's starting, Gretch,” he says to me as I clear the last of the dishes from the dining table. “Don't you want to come sit down?”

No. I don't want to sit down
.

He's unfaithful.

He's leaving for the Hong Kong toy exhibition tomorrow
.

He's leaving our family for a bachelor pad in Chelsea.

I am not watching
Star Wars
on TV with him.

I don't care how hot Harrison Ford used to be.

“I gotta call Katya.”

“Didn't you call her earlier?”

“She was out. I have to talk to her about something.”

“She'll call you back when she's in.”

“I don't think her mother gives her messages.”

Why hasn't she called me back? I need to dissect the whole Titus/Adrian conversation and she hasn't been in all day.

Which is weird, since she said she was watching her sisters.

I go in my room and speed-dial her. Mrs. Belov picks up, sounding frazzled, and says Katya is still out. I leave another message. Then I try to sort through my stuff, which Ma has been on me about like six times since we first discussed it, even though it was only yesterday.