Fly on the Wall: the metamorphosis
An excerpt from Fly on the Wall by E. Lockhart, coming to stores in March 2006.
Friday after gym, I'm standing with Katya in the hall outside the locker rooms. Our hair is still wet from the showers. School is out for the day, except for team practices.
The boy's locker room door swings open, and the Art Rats swarm into the hall. Titus, Shane, Adrian, Malachy and Brat. They're damp from the showers, geared for the weekend. As they move past us, Shane bangs a locker hard, just to make noise, and I jump.
Why do boys do stuff like that?
"Friday, Friday, Friday!" Brat yells, his voice echoing down the hallway.
Adrian slams Brat in the back with a basketball, to shut him up, and Brat doubles over, his hands on his knees.
"I'm getting you for that!" cries Brat, turning red.
"Get me, get me, get me." Adrian spreads his arms wide.
"Shut up, losers." Titus.
"Didn't you see him hit me?"
"Just a tap, Tinkerbell," says Adrian. "Not hard."
Brat mutters to himself, and Malachy stops next to us, looking up and down in an exaggerated appraisal. "Girls, girls, girls!" Like he's pretending to be a pimp. "Ready for the weekend?"
"Ready as ever," says Katya.
Hell. Did someone just pinch my butt?
Someone did.
Shane. He's right behind me, laughing.
Why would he pinch my butt?
Why?
He's got a girlfriend. He barely even talks to me.
"Keep looking fine," says Malachy--then drops his pimp-attitude in a fit of giggles. And then they are off down the hall, making noise about pizza and some movie they're going to catch at four o'clock.
"Hell," I mutter to Katya, digging around to find my subway pass in the crazy mess that is my backpack. "I do not understand what they are up to."
"Don't waste your energy," says Katya.
"Aren't they like alien beings?"
Katya puts on some lip-gloss. "You think about them too much."
"What else is there to think about?"
"Drawing. Art. Literature. Politics. What to buy at the grocery store."
"Shane pinched my booty just now, did you catch that?"
Katya shakes her head. "What a schmuck."
"Do you think it meant something?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Maybe he was asserting his male dominance," she concedes, "but it doesn't mean he has leftover feelings for you."
"What male dominance?"
"He's marking territory, like a dog," explains Katya. "Saying, see this butt? I can pinch it if I want. Gretchen won't do anything."
Now I feel like a half-wit, because I was actually flattered that Shane even noticed my booty enough to tempt his fingers in that direction. "Okay," I say. "But I don't think Shane is usually the booty-pinching type. He never pinched it before. Did he ever pinch yours?"
"I doubt it."
"Come on, Katya. Wouldn't you remember if Shane pinched your booty?"
"Okay, he never pinched it," she admits. "But I still don't think it means anything. He was male dominating. Or maybe flirting."
"But why is he flirting with me?"
"It's not the kind of flirting you want, anyway. Someone grabbing you from behind when he thinks he can cop a feel."
"Do you think he wants to be friends again?"
"No."
"Then is he manipulating me?"
"You think about it too much."
"How can there be flirting that doesn't mean anything?" I push.
"There just is." We're outside the school, now, heading towards the subway. Katya lights a cigarette.
"Like you and Malachy?" I ask, feeling annoyed about the smoke and the no-weekend plans.
"I wasn't flirting with Malachy."
I know I’m being a pain--but I can't help it.
My dad is a cheating, disappearing jerk
and I love him like crazy;
Shane is a cold-fish-sometimes-flirty-ex, and I can barely talk when he's in the room;
Titus is a sensitive guy one minute and sidekick to booty-master Adrian the next.
If I can't figure out how to deal with the opposite sex, I'm going to lose my mind.
"Guys suck," I say to Katya. "Then they grow up to be men, and the men suck, too."
"So forget them."
"Ha. That's like Spider-man forgetting he's got Venom following him up a building."
Silence.
"Know what I wish?" I say. We are standing outside the subway, now, before getting on our different trains.
"Hm." She seems distracted. "That you had a life?"
"Katya!"
"Okay. That Titus liked you."
"Besides that. Guess."
"Money? Beauty?"
"Besides those."
"Peace?"
"Besides that."
"Just tell me," sighs Katya. "What do you wish?"
"I wish I was a fly on the wall of the boy's locker room," I say.
###
I go home. The apartment is empty.
I watch TV. I read Kafka.
I order dumplings in hot oil and tofu with black bean sauce and eat as I flip through yesterday's newspaper.
I go to sleep.
###
Saturday morning, when I wake up, I am not in my bed.
I am not in my body, either.
I am standing, already, though I don't remember getting up, and I'm somewhere sunny.
It seems odd that I'm up before I'm awake, and odd that it's so bright in here, since I normally sleep with the shades down--but I only realize something is radically different when I stretch my arms,
and then my legs,
and then my other legs.
Stupid hell, where are these legs coming from?
What, legs, what?
Where did I get extra legs?
They itch. I'll rub them together.
I must be dreaming, still.
I wonder if the hot oil from last night is giving me weird dreams. I don't usually eat so much hot oil.
I'll probably wake all the way up in a minute, and stare at my messy room like usual, and pour a bowl of cereal and watch cartoons on TV and think about going running but not go, and try and call Katya and tell her what a strange dream I had.
Extra legs. I'm sure she'll have some Freudian analysis of the dream, too. Like I have gherkin envy or something like that. Or I want to run away from something. Or stand up for something.
Whatever. I feel like stretching something else.
Hmm, ahh,
what is it I want to stretch?
Ah, yes, my wings,
my wings!
My WINGS.
