by E. Lockhart
And why a fly? Wouldn't he pick the body of an old woman so I could learn to appreciate youth, or do a body swap with me like in Freaky Friday, where the mom becomes the girl and the girl becomes the mom?
Which would mean I'd be him—
Ooh, unless he's just so freakin' old that he's lost all powers except turning people into flies. Like he wants to turn them into other people, or birds, or horses, but his magical zapper is so weak and his confabulator is so muddled that whatever he's trying to do turns out a housefly.
But that's a little far-fetched, isn't it?
Think, Gretchen. Be practical.
Why would I be a fly?
Why would I be here?
It can really only be one thing. I must have turned into a fly on the wall of the boys' locker room because I wished that very particular thing, out loud.
And the only person who heard me wish it was Katya.
So Katya—what? Turns out to have magical powers?
Okay, even if I go with this idea, that my best friend is some sorceress and can turn people into animals, I don't think she'd have thought I was serious when I wished to be a fly.
It was a stupid METAPHOR. Fly on the wall of the locker room. Like so I could see what went on inside, without anyone knowing I was there.
I wasn't saying I actually wanted to live in the body of a freakin' vermin.
Nothing makes any sense.
Exhausted, I go into a daze and veg out for the rest of the night—until the slam of Hugh's locker wakes me up just in time for a nice Tuesday-morning view of his A-plus booty.
At first, I'm psyched to spend the morning looking at naked guys—and I do gather some more information. Like the student body president wears tight black underwear. And there are guys who pluck their eyebrows. And if left alone half-naked in front of a mirror, even for a second, a surprising number of guys will start flexing. And others will dance.
But after first and second period, I lose interest in the whole voyeur thing. I've seen it all before. Me! Who yesterday morning had never before seen a naked man unrelated to me (and that was ten years ago anyway) has now seen the private equipment of an estimated 110 boys, if you figure I get a decent look at ten guys per class, and eight class periods every day, plus afterschool sports and two classes this morning.
I've seen them pee, I've seen them waggle, I've even seen them hanging out with—shall I say—a certain degree of enthusiasm.
Boys' bodies used to seem alien and intimidating. I thought they'd all look like they do in the movies (smooth, muscular, hairless), except they might also look horrible and gross down in the gherkin department, which was a place I was not even thinking about because it seemed too overwhelming.
And now—it's all different. They're just bodies. They're just people.
third period, after class. Gunther with the thuggish nose gives my little African dance boys a hard time again. “Hey, Tinker Bells, show us your splits. You can do the splits, can't you? Let's see what you got.”
No answer.
“Aw, don't be modest, ladies.”
No answer again, but Xavier (Up Yours) mutters something low under his breath and instantly Gunther turns mean, whomping his backpack into Xavier's arm on purpose.
“What was that for?”
“I told you, don't start with him.” Carlo (Orange) grabs his friend's elbow and heads for the door. “Ignore it.”
“No, what was that for?” Xavier persists.
Gunther bangs a locker, making a huge hollow-metal noise. “To remind you to shut yourself up, Mary Poppins,” he growls. “Don't go messing with me or you'll never do your faggot contractions again.”
“You calling me a faggot?”
“Yes. I am calling. You. A. Faggot.”
“Bite me!” mutters Xavier. He's about to say more, but Gunther's fingers have tightened into a fist, and Carlo grabs Xavier's arm hard and drags his friend away, out into the hall where it's safe.
When they're gone, it's quiet.
Gunther turns and gets changed.
Like nothing happened.
He says hi to some guys coming in for class, laughs with some people, talks about something on TV, talks about the end-of-April sculpture course exhibit. He seems like an okay guy.
You'd never know he'd just been torturing a pair of dance geeks like it was an Olympic sport he was trying to medal in.
fifth period is juniors and seniors again, then sophomores sixth and freshmen seventh. I get bored, so I buzz over to the minilockers and peek inside them. They're mesh baskets with combo locks, labeled with last names. I can sit on the edge of each one and look down to see the contents.
It's rather disappointing, actually. If we had them, the girls' minilockers would be full of shampoo and conditioner and deodorant and moisturizer and makeup, plus extra socks and water bottles. You could tell so much about a girl from what was in her minilocker. Mine would have this great rose-scented lip gloss that you can also use as a moisturizer or to get your bangs to go over to the side, because it's really just nice-smelling Vaseline. Plus this conditioner I bought in Chinatown that's good for Asian hair that I've tried bringing in my bag, only the top comes loose and it leaks all over. Katya's would have this purple gel soap I know she's crazy about, and a gray eye pencil and her perfume that smells like aloe vera.
But hardly any of the boys have that kind of stuff. There are a few things of deodorant, and a couple jars of hair gel. Otherwise, most of them have sneakers and nothing else.
They don't even need these lockers. It's so unfair.
Titus's minilocker has a pair of New Balance sneakers and some deodorant that says COOL WAVE. I crawl up and smell it. Gross, I know, but I do. It has an ocean scent. Shane's has two pairs of sneakers—one that looks like it's for basketball, the other for running. Adrian's has a knee brace that I've sometimes seen him wearing. Only Brat's is really interesting. It's absolutely packed with stuff, and doesn't even have any sneakers in it at all. It looks like he shoves things in there from his backpack, maybe that he doesn't want to carry around or put into his hall locker for some reason. There's a pile of magazine clippings, held together with a paper clip. I can't see the rest of them, but the top one is a picture of a girl wearing red lipstick, so dark it's almost black. There are four small notepads, all covered with scribbly handwriting—lists of stuff to do, diary entries, phone numbers. The top page of one reads “eggs 4 mom, electric toothbrush, zit stuff, nail clipper.” A list of things to buy before he goes home. The top page of another, also a list, reads
Ip—a schmuck. Sometimes. Too much of the time.
Titus—slick.
Malachy—a listener.
Shane—repressed. But what?
Cammie—babe.
Taffy—cipher.
Katya—nice. To everyone.
Gretchen—?? An enigma.
Kensington—a bitch.
There are doodles around the edge. I can't read anything on the other notebooks or pages.
There's also a pack of cigarettes and three worn-looking packs of matches, a tube of anti-itch cream, a tube of Blistex, a thing of little round stickers with puppies on them, a blue plastic egg that looks like it has a toy inside, a key chain with a sillylooking rabbit on it and no keys, some baseball cards, a couple of charcoal pencils, a bunch of Post-it notes and a Bean Curd Baby in a small, clear plastic box. A Bean Curd Baby!
I love those things.
the bell rings after seventh and the Art Rats trickle in as the freshmen swarm out. As the door to the hallway swings, I catch a glimpse of Shane pushed up against the brick wall by Jazmin LeMaitre, his girlfriend.
His hand is on her butt and she's licking his neck.
Not like I haven't seen it a million times. The two of them are very PDA. But it gives me a sick feeling anyway. Like, why does Jazmin have everything so effortlessly? Sophistication, talent, Shane. She wants something, she goes after it and gets it. She's always wearing some interesting combination of clothes and her photograp
hs hung in the citywide exhibition and she's got a boyfriend who's devoted to her.
She wants it, she takes it.
Why can't I?
Titus has his shirt off now. I can't think about anything else.
Titus
Titus
Titus
Before he can pull on his gym sweatshirt, Adrian grabs one of Titus's sneakers and tosses it up on top of a locker.
“Ip, you madman!” yells Titus. He reaches up, trying to reach the top of the locker, and I can see the narrow muscles of his back ripple; his left shoulder blade sticks out sharply.
I want to draw him so bad. To capture what I see.
But the moment is gone,
and I can't draw him because I'm only a freakin' fly,
and Titus is moving fast, pulling his sweatshirt on and tackling Adrian. “You threw it up there!” he cries, laughing. “So you go get it.”
“Not me.” Adrian giggles. “I didn't throw anything.” They are laughing and play-f ighting. “Did you see me throw anything, Malachy?” Malachy shakes his head and doesn't get involved.
“Ip, you liar, I saw you throw it—”
“No, it flew—”
“If you don't fetch it, I'm gonna make you eat it—”
“I'm just getting you back for third period—”
“Fetch it, you madman!”
“You fetch it, I have to be in class!” Adrian breaks free and runs, laughing and stumbling, into the gymnasium.
Titus sits on the floor for a minute, giggling helplessly as the rest of them troop in for hockey; then he drags the towel bin over to the locker, climbs up on the stack of dirty towels from earlier in the day and retrieves his shoe.
When class is almost over, I can hear Sanchez giving a pep talk from the other side of the gymnasium doors. He does that once in a while. Blows his whistle early, makes everyone sit on the floor, sweating, and gives a speech about “just doing it” or “being a team player” or “setting fitness goals.”
It's crap.
This time, he's talking about junior year, and what our fitness goals should be over the summer, which is starting in eight weeks. Right now, he's saying, is the time to sign up for youth basketball league at a local community center, or start saving money to buy some weights, or arrange a weekly soccer game in the park. Keep fit all year round! Practice your skills!
Let's face it. No team from Ma-Ha is ever gonna win a championship. None of us artist-types is ever going to compete in the Olympics or play professional sports. Sanchez's goal isn't athletic excellence. He's just trying to make sure we have wholesome activities to distract us from the millions of degenerate things we could get up to in New York City.
As if playing soccer once a week is gonna stop you smoking crack if that's what you feel like doing.
Now Sanchez is lecturing on this requirement Ma-Ha has, starting junior year. Everyone has to try out for sports teams.
Everyone.
Even if they suck at sports. The only alternative is to take African dance, which a lot of girls do.
The gym program can't accommodate everyone for four years, so Ma-Ha makes us take it every day freshman and sophomore year, then forces all the juniors and seniors into afterschool sports practice, and runs fewer gym classes for those grades, meaning upperclassmen only have to do gym two days a week instead of five.
“So think about your sports for next year!” cries Sanchez. “And come to me with any questions.”
Everyone explodes into the locker room. It's such a din, I can only make out snips of what they're saying. Shane will do basketball and baseball; Adrian, baseball and swimming; Brat wants baseball too, but no one listens to him. Malachy thinks maybe fencing, likes basketball but knows he's probably too short. He talks to Shane about playing pickup games over the summer to improve his chances.
Titus dives in and out of the showers the way he did yesterday, and has on brown cords and a hooded black sweatshirt before I pay him any attention beyond a quick ogle of his narrow backside as he heads into the shower. Once he's dressed, he takes his time with his socks and boots, listening to Adrian talk about saving up for a baseball glove.
As they head out, he stays on the bench.
“You coming?” Adrian, near the door.
“Nah,” says Titus. “I got stuff to do.”
“You sure?”
“See you later.”
“Whatever.” Adrian and the others are gone.
Titus sits there on the bench for a couple of minutes. Just staring into space. Then he walks over to the mirror, the fulllength one that the girls don't even have, and looks at himself.
He turns to the side and looks again. Runs his fingers through his hair. He pulls his sweatshirt up and looks at his pale white-boy stomach. His cords hang loose on his hips. He pulls the shirt up even farther, for a second, to see his hollow, hairless chest, then yanks it back down.
He's acting like a girl. Or like I thought only girls ever acted.
Like he hates what he sees.
He grabs his pack and heads out the door.
Has Titus ever had a girlfriend?
I don't know.
I don't think so.
It was known across school that he liked Winifred last year, but I don't think they ever went out. And I've heard him and Adrian talk about girls like Cammie and Taffy; it seems obvious that he's interested. In girls, that is.
So why hasn't he been with anyone, then?
Malachy has gone out with lots of people. So has Adrian. Shane just got here this year, but he's been with me and now Jazmin. Even Brat, who's kind of a late-bloomer-type. He went out with a freshman girl last October for at least a couple of weeks.
But Titus—no one.
Wednesday. After an endless night spent waiting and hoping that come morning I'd find myself back in my human body, I wake from a half-sleep instead to find Brat, holding a cup of coffee and a muffin, sitting on a bench. The clock reads 7:34. He must be early to school.
He's just eating his breakfast and staring into space. When he's done with the muffin, he pulls a novel out of his backpack— Ender's Game—and reads while he finishes his coffee.
If they get to school early, most of the Art Rats hang out by the garbage cans, smoking cigarettes and talking. I've gone back there a couple times, first when I was seeing Shane and he was new and trying to get in with them—and then more recently when Katya started smoking and lurking around. But it's smelly, and I always feel shy and out of place, so I usually sit on the steps and draw in my sketchbook until the bell rings.
I always figured Brat was out back. But now I'm guessing he feels out of place too. Here in the locker room, I can see that the Rats barely talk to him, except for Malachy. They let him hang around, but they don't make any effort to include him. Like he's tolerated, but not fully one of them.
A couple minutes before the bell, Brat opens up his backpack and starts to rummage through it. I buzz down and sit next to him on the bench—he doesn't even notice me. His bag is just like his minilocker: jammed with stuff. Gym clothes and sketchbooks and books for class, of course, but also action figures and magazine clippings and tiny notebooks with drawings on the covers that probably contain more lists and notes like the ones I saw before.
He's like me. Like a boy version of me.
No wonder he doesn't fit in.
Brat f inds what he's looking for—a comb—and pulls it through his scruffy red hair without even looking in the mirror. Then he slurps some water from the fountain and takes off.
The morning passes pretty much as usual. The juniors and seniors don't have class on Wednesdays, so the PE staff has a meeting first period. Sanchez and the basketball coach come in and talk shop while they pee. The second-period freshmen aren't much to look at.
After third period, Xavier and Carlo goof around and take showers. No Gunther today. Xavier is trying to get Carlo to talk to me—when I get back from wherever I am.
Could I ever go out with Carlo?
It wouldn't take much courage to start talking to him, if I ever get back in my human body. He's a sure thing.
And I could use a sure thing.
Yeah, he's an African-dance geek. But bring on the African dance geeks, as far as I'm concerned. It's ridiculous that in a school where everyone's trying to be such a unique individual,
I mean, people are wearing saris
and Pink Panther dolls
and smoking from forties cigarette holders for God's sake,
that guys still get crap for taking a freakin' dance class. Even me—I used to think they were wimps, prancing away with the girls instead of doing team sports—but now I can see they're only doing something they think is fun. Something I'd probably think is fun too.
Plus, they've got some guts, given the crap they've got to take just for doing contractions to a drumbeat.
What do I want in a guy, anyway?
I might be pretty happy dating a geek who can really shake it.
late in the afternoon, Shane and Malachy are taking showers while the others are sitting on the benches, pulling on clothes.
“Yo!” Shane barks at Brat all of a sudden, switching off the water and wrapping a towel around his waist. “What are you looking at?”
“Huh?” says Brat. He might have been looking, but he might have just been thinking about something else, or tired from playing hockey.
“Don't be faggy,” says Shane, turning off the water and grabbing his towel.
“I wasn't looking at you,” says Brat.
“Oh yeah? Then what were you doing with your eyeballs, then?” interjects Adrian, boffing Brat on the back of the head with a dirty sweat sock. His tone is friendly, teasing. “Everyone saw you.”
“I was—”
“You were looking, that's what.”
“I know I'm gorgeous, booty boy,” says Shane in a girly voice, pulling open his locker and getting out his clothes, “but this merchandise ain't for sale.”
“Shut up,” says Brat. “I was just thinking about something.”
“Thinking about Shane's gherkin,” says Adrian.
