Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything

by E. Lockhart

  I stretch my arms, wonderful arms, to the ceiling and look at them.

  They have hands.

  They have opposable thumbs.

  I rub them on my face, feeling my skin, my eyes, my lips. They're all there, familiar and new at the same time.

  Suddenly, I'm up and in front of the mirror. I'm looking at myself and jumping up and down, holding my biscuits to keep them from bouncing, and squealing like I'm seeing a long-lost friend.

  Me

  me

  me

  me

  I flip on the radio and dance around like a maniac, waving my arms and shaking my butt and feeling the glorious rug under my toes. Then I put on some sweats and running shoes, grab my keys and two twenties off the kitchen table and run out the door.

  It's early, and the air is still morning-chilly, but the sky is bright. I run down the empty sidewalk, past shuttered drugstores and bodegas, past all-night diners with the stale-coffee smell wafting out, past little shops that sell cheap plastic toys and religious icons. I plan on running over to the East River, breathing the air and looking through my only-two eyes and stretching my only-two legs—but I've only gone four blocks when I pass a bakery that's open. A little chic French place that only in New York City would be squashed in between a decrepit check-cashing place and the Off-Track Betting. They're brewing espresso in there, I can smell it, and buttery croissants are lined up in the window.

  All I've eaten this week is some bits of stray muffin people dropped on the floor, part of a potato chip and some spilled ginger ale. Flies barf on their food to soften it up and then suck it in through their tubemouths, so eating anything at all was gross as hell, and I only did what I absolutely had to to keep alive.

  I finger the twenties in my pocket and go into the bakery. Two almond croissants, a fresh-squeezed orange juice and a hot chocolate later, I am convinced that the existence of French pastry and Florida fruit is enough to make anyone happy to be alive.

  I head to the drugstore and buy three boxes of tissues, two bottles of cough medicine, some more orange juice and some Cold Comfort tea. At home, I tip the contents of one of the medicine bottles into the toilet and leave the sticky, empty container on the bathroom sink. I put the other one on the table by my bed. I fill a couple of glasses partway with OJ and leave them around the apartment. Half the tea goes in the incinerator, and the open box goes on the kitchen counter. I crumple most of the tissues into little balls and fill all our garbage cans with them.

  I listen to the answering machine.

  Ma, sounding happy, calling from Marianne's cell phone. She's sorry again that she yelled at me before she left, she loves me, she's wearing sunblock so don't worry, and don't try to call her back because there's pretty much no reception anyway.

  Katya, checking to see if I'm sick, since I'm not in school.

  My Chinese grandmother, who lives in D.C., hanging up on the answering machine, but I know it's her.

  Pop from Hong Kong, reminding me he'll be home by noon on Saturday.

  I delete everything and look in the fridge. There's some leftover takeout, and I smear it on a stack of plates and put them into the sink. I consider crumpling up clean clothes and putting them in the laundry hamper, but my dad isn't that observant.

  It's still early, but I call Katya anyway. Mrs. Belov picks up and I can hear the little monsters laughing in the background, plus the sound of the television and Mr. Belov saying something in Russian. It takes Katya a minute to come to the phone. I must have woken her up.

  “Where have you been?” she mumbles.

  “I had the worst cold. My snot was green.”

  “Ugh. Way too much information.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I went through two of those giant things of NyQuil. Anyway, I didn't call you back because I had no voice until yesterday. I had to buy that throat spray where you spray it in and it makes you numb. It was the darkest day. I was so sick I couldn't get dressed. I went to the drugstore in my pajamas.”

  Katya laughs. “Did you wear shoes, or go in slippers?”

  “Slippers. It was pitiful. My parents aren't even back yet so I was all alone. I didn't shower for four days.”

  “Poor Gretch.”

  “Well,” I say, cheerfully. “I feel human again now. What happened at school?”

  Katya lets out a squeal. “You won't believe it. Taffy brought in a topless self-portrait. We had to do fullbody, looking in a mirror, and she did topless.”

  I laugh. That is so Taffy. “Did you see the biscuits and everything? Or was it like atmospheric in shadow?”

  “You couldn't see nipple. She had her arms crossed over her chest, like she's so modest. All you could really see was like the edge of one biscuit.”

  “She's not that well endowed.”

  “Hey, a biscuit is a biscuit,” says Katya. “You are so sorry you missed Adrian's face. His tongue was on the floor. I swear he almost fell down.”

  “Why would she go topless?”

  “Oh, she got exactly what she wanted.”

  “What?”

  “Adrian's tongue hanging out.”

  “Can you imagine if Cammie did that?” I ask. “It would be a state of emergency. Because there's no way her arms can hide those biscuits. Every single guy in the whole class would be catatonic.”

  “Biscuit-induced comatosis,” says Katya. “And the floor would be covered in drool. They'd have to call the janitors in to wipe it up so no one would slip.”

  “And special forces would have to come in to roll all the tongues back into the boys' mouths.”

  She laughs.

  “Hey, what are you doing tonight?” I ask. “Do you want to get cake at that place in Soho?”

  “I can't,” says Katya. “I think I have to babysit.”

  “You think, or you know?”

  “I'm pretty sure I do.”

  “Ask your mom, then—isn't she right there?”

  “She's making breakfast for the monsters, I don't want to interrupt her.”

  “Katya.”

  “I'll ask her later.”

  “Katya!”

  “What?”

  “You're not babysitting,” I say.

  “What? I swear, I am.”

  “You're going out with Malachy.”

  She is silent for a second. “No. Malachy and me are through. I'm too depressed to go out.”

  “Oh.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Last Friday,” I say, “from the way you talked about him. And the way he looked at you in the hall. And the way you're always busy now.”

  “Yeah.” Katya's voice is heavy. “Sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't think you'd approve.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don't know. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. We had this big fight and I broke up with him.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh, it's so involved. Let me switch phones.” The line crackles, and I listen to the monsters yelling in Russian until Katya picks up the phone in her parents' bedroom and yells, “Hang it up in there!” and finally, someone does.

  “Yeah, well,” she says, as if she's changed her mind. “I don't think I can explain it. We've been going out together a long time, actually.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since winter break,” she says. “Remember you couldn't come to the big Hanukkah thing my family had? Well, I ran into him the day before, and I kind of mentioned the party, and he showed up with a box of almond cookies. That's how it started. No one else from school was there.”

  “He's a great guy, Katya. I really think so.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he's quiet and I don't really know him, but haven't you seen how he's nice to Brat when all the Rats blow him off? And he's an amazing artist. Not a show-off like Shane and Adrian, he doesn't strut around like he's all that. He's just himself, if that makes sense.” Now I feel awkward. “There aren't a lot of guys like that.”

  “Ugh.” Katya laughs bitt
erly. “Don't tell me that now. I'm being mad at him.”

  “Sorry. Do you want to say why?”

  She thinks. “No. I guess not. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it before.”

  “That's okay,” I say.

  “You know what?” she says, suddenly sounding brighter. “Now I'm changing my mind. Maybe I'll call him.”

  “You should.”

  “Okay, I'm going to.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah. Before I lose my nerve. I'll call you back.”

  And she hangs up.

  Half an hour later, she rings to say everything's better. They're together again.

  When my dad's key turns in the lock at twelve-thirty, I'm back in bed, back in my pajamas, reading comic books and drinking juice.

  I'm still mad at him but I'm glad to see him anyway. He stands in the doorway of my room, wearing a trench coat and holding his computer bag.

  “Oh, Gretch,” he says first thing. “Are you sick?”

  “I was out all week. I didn't want to get you worried, so I didn't call.” I give the green-snot, can't-speak, drugstore-in-my-pj's story. It goes over big.

  “I brought you something.” He comes and sits on my bed.

  “What?”

  “From the toy convention.”

  He pulls a bag of small, clear plastic boxes out of the outside pocket of his bag. Inside each one is a Bean Curd Baby. “It's the new generation,” he says. “You can't get them over here yet.”

  They are perfect. I love them. Even though I haven't collected them since I was fourteen.

  Ma would never buy me these. She always wants me to be interested in literature and rare books and the history of the Puritans. Pop sucks in lots of ways—but he knows what I like and he doesn't think it's stupid.

  I lean in to kiss him on the cheek,

  and he smells like cigarettes again.

  Why would he smell like them now?

  He just got off the plane.

  He can't have gone to Hong Kong with the other woman, can he?

  But he must have—

  He must have just left her— Hell, they've shared a smoke-filled cab from the airport.

  Couldn't he stay away from his chippie at least until Ma and I got out of the freakin' house?

  Does he have to make a sex holiday out of a legitimate business trip when his wife is still picking up his dry cleaning?

  Hell—

  and then an open pack of Camels falls out of his coat pocket. It's lying on my rug. He's talking about how the new generation Bean Curd Babies also include Bean Curd Pets, and he tries to bend down and get them as if nothing happened, but I'm too fast for him and I pick them up.

  “What, Pop, why do you have these?”

  He looks stunned. “Uh, yeah, Gretch, I—”

  “What?”

  “I started again when Ma and I began talking about the divorce.”

  “They're yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You're not holding them for a friend?”

  “No. You know, I smoked in college—”

  “What?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “Three packs a day, actually. Nicotine fiend. I gave it up right before you were born, and I didn't touch them again for seventeen years. But I've been so unhappy about everything here. I mean, I haven't talked about it with you, I didn't want you getting upset, and anyway, Ma and I had an argument one day and I went out to get some air, and before I knew it I had bought a pack. Now I'm up to a pack and a half a day,” he sighs. “I didn't want you to know. It's such a bad example.”

  “You should quit, Pop,” I say.

  “I know, but I can't do it right now. I don't think you know how sad I am these days, Gretch.”

  He's not having an affair.

  Late nights and a lost tie: there have always been late nights. He runs his own company. And he's definitely one for losing things. Keys, wallets, receipts, pens. They go missing every day.

  There is no someone else. No chain-smoking chippie on the side.

  My dad is not a cheater.

  He's a smoker.

  Just a regular person who can't get along with his wife anymore and takes up an old bad habit.

  “I kind of know,” I say. How sad he is.

  He kisses me on top of my head and heads down the hall to take a shower. When he's done, we walk across town to see his new apartment. He smokes three cigarettes on the way, looking into space as he lights each one, like he's trying to pretend he's not doing it in front of me.

  The place is tiny—one room and a galley kitchen, but it has a long, exposed brick wall that runs from one end to the other. “I want to build shelves here,” Pop says, waving his arms. “Floor to ceiling.”

  “Ooh!” I nearly yell.

  “What?”

  “You know how Ma is on me to get rid of all my stuff, my comics and all that?”

  “I couldn't miss it.”

  “Well, what if I stored some of it here? When you build the shelves? I mean, I know there's not a bedroom, but couldn't I keep some stuff here?”

  He says yes, and we go right away to this big store down the block where they sell containers and boxes for almost anything you could ever think of. He buys me ten plastic bins and a set of magazine boxes for the comic books, and we arrange to have them delivered to the old apartment. Then we pick up Chinese at this amazing place on Twenty-fourth and Ninth, and walk home fast.

  When the food is eaten, we go in my room together and sort through some of my stuff. Pop's excited about the plates of plastic Chinese food; he wants to display them on his shelves, so we put them in a cardboard box to go to his apartment. Then the doorbell rings with the container delivery, and we put the collectible comics, the action figurine collection, the Pez dispensers, the Fangoria backlog, the jars of plastic characters (Anti-Potato, Bean Curd Babies, etc.) and the Hong Kong travel souvenirs all into stacking bins and magazine boxes so they can go live at his place.

  Pop helps me pick up the spilled paper clips and the tissue packets, then convinces me to throw out the box of glitter eye shadow.

  We shove the stuffed animals and the baby dolls into the laundry machines in the basement. They fill three washers. When they're clean, I keep Yellow Baby and Rollo, plus my old teddy bear, and put the rest in a bag for the Salvation Army store. I know it's stupid, but I whisper goodbye to them and tell them I love them.

  When we declare ourselves done, my floor is still covered with art supplies, shoes and clothes. My shelves still have all my old picture books on them, plus the chapter books, six stacks of noncollectible comic books and a whole lot of stuff not even worth mentioning.

  But I feel lighter.

  Pop goes to bed early because he's jet-lagged. I do the full-length portrait assignment Katya told me about, so I won't be massively behind in Kensington's class.

  Head,

  ear,

  shoulders,

  shirt.

  I am not sharing my biscuits with the whole art class, thank you very much.

  Legs,

  fabric of jeans,

  and feet.

  It is reasonably like me. A figure of a girl with her chin tilted up. I look like I'm gazing into the sky.

  With shading and detail, it's semilikely to please Kensington, since there are no panels, no hard edges and no hypermuscled superheroes.

  But: I

  don't really want to please Kensington

  after all,

  now

  do I?

  So I add a huge, ornate pair of wings to my selfportrait. I shade the figure, and add the details of my shirt pocket and my bracelets, and the clip in my hair. But I concentrate most of my effort on the wings, making them transparent and fragile, but also strong and aerodynamic.

  I am a winged girl.

  i spend Sunday afternoon down in Brighton Beach with Katya. We walk along the boardwalk and she tells me how she snuck into Malachy's apartment last night after everyone was asleep, and they
made out on his bed for nearly two hours.

  She's got a hickey on her neck.

  I tell her about the divorce.

  Ma won't be home until Tuesday, but I buy her some Russian candy as a coming-home present. They have it in big bins upstairs in one of the grocery stores, wrapped in brightly colored paper and marked with writing I don't understand.

  At home, Pop cooks dinner, and we avoid discussing Ma, or the move, or anything heavy. I spend some time on the computer while he does the dishes, and then we watch TV until I'm falling asleep on the couch.

  monday morning, I wear the red vinyl miniskirt that's been lying on the floor of my closet ever since I bought it.

  Milkshake.

  I'm at school early, and I don't go sit on the steps with my coffee and my sketchbook, the way I usually do. I walk around the block to the back of the building where the garbage cans are.

  No one's there yet except Brat. He's got coffee and a muffin and Ender's Game and a cigarette and he's multitasking unsuccessfully. He ends up with some ash on his muffin.

  “Hey, Brat.”

  “Gretchen. You been out sick?” His face is toward the sun, so he squints.

  I go through my green-snot drugstore-in-pajamas story.

  “You missed some high drama,” he says.

  “Katya told me about Taffy and her biscuits.”

  “Yeah. She took crap about it, but it's like it rolls right off her. I guess she likes the attention.” He looks down at his coffee and swirls it around. “Hey, here's one you don't know. Shane and Titus got in a fistfight Saturday. We were all down in Battery Park. Them and me and Ip and Malachy.”

  “A fight like they were punching each other?”

  “Well, Titus only put his hands up to his chest to defend himself, but Shane really swung. Titus has a black eye.” He exhales a cloud of smoke. “Your friend Titus fights like—”

  “Don't say ‘like a girl.’ ”

  “Like a mouse,” laughs Brat. “He got his ass kicked.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I don't know. Some macho crap.”

  I'm sure he's lying, but that's okay. “Are they friends again?”