Read Online Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything by E. Lockhart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: E. Lockhart
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changing clothes for gym class. Some of them are groggy and carry paper cups of coffee from the deli across the street from school, or cans of Coke. Others are boisterous, socking each other on the arms. They invade the space, throwing off their jackets, dropping their pants, whizzing through the combinations on their minilockers.
The boys are wearing boxers and briefs; they're skinny and fat; they're black, white, Latin, Asian. They're all seniors, so some are hairy in all kinds of ways I hadn't really imagined; hairy like the men I see on the beach at Coney Island—some with hair that goes across their collarbones, some with a big stripe of hair down the middle of their abdomens, some with hair on their lower backs, or on the backs of their upper arms. One guy has nipples that poof out a bit in a girly way. Another guy, a quiet boy who everyone knows already had an exhibition of his paintings at a downtown gallery, has a surgery scar across his stomach. A third has a series of tiny white scars crisscrossing his forearms. I think he must have made them himself, with a razor.
They're being macho, most of them, trading insults and laughing loudly. A number of them pee in the urinals. At first it's overwhelming, this stampede of half-naked half-manhood, but they're not all as fine as Hugh, so pretty soon I get ahold of myself and buzz down to inspect more gherkins.
Some are quite pink, while others are surprisingly brown, and it doesn't seem to follow directly from the skin color on the rest of the guy's body. And lots of boys are circumcised—but not everybody. I saw two that still had the foreskin attached, looking like the drawings in the biology textbook.
Also, I had always thought of the gherkin part as the main event, but if you see one that's peeing, or hanging around not doing anything, it's only part of a larger package. By which I mean, the balls are there—and they're nearly as big as the actual gherkin.
This, too: when you see men's booties in the movies, I thinkthey must be waxing because so many of these boys have hair back there or roundabout.
None of the guys checks each other out in the goods department. When they are peeing they all stare straight ahead like there's something fascinating on the wall.
Eventually, there's no more information to be gathered and the guys are mainly in their sweats and shorts anyway, and I hear Sanchez blow his whistle, sharp from the other side of the gymnasium double doors.
The boys slam their lockers and run into the gym. I try to follow them, but the doors are swinging, and I can't time it right, and when I'm flying I don't seem to have a whole lot of precision. I mean, I can go in a general direction but I can't steer exactly through a door above someone's head at just the right second.
I also try landing on a particular person and riding through the doors on him, but the first guy bats me off, and the second one, though he doesn't notice me at all, dislodges me as soon as he starts moving. My legs aren't strong enough to hold on to a moving object like that, and I'm compelled to let go of his sweatshirt. I try again anyhow, but the third one tries to kill me, slamming his hand hard onto his own arm—and I barely escape.
I fly back to my perch on the window and sit there for fortyfive minutes by the locker room clock, listening to what sounds like basketball practice in the gym. Then the seniors troop back in and shower.
The whole shower scene is funny. A few of them are quiet, like I am when I have to shower in public, scooting in and out of the water as fast as they can and wrapping themselves quickly intowels. But a lot of them are horsing around, throwing soap at each other and laughing, having conversations, being rowdy.
The girls never do that.
The bell rings, and the few remaining seniors throw on their clothes and run out. Then a swarm of freshmen come in.
It's the same drill—only, compared to the seniors they look like little boys. They're smaller,
The boys are wearing boxers and briefs; they're skinny and fat; they're black, white, Latin, Asian. They're all seniors, so some are hairy in all kinds of ways I hadn't really imagined; hairy like the men I see on the beach at Coney Island—some with hair that goes across their collarbones, some with a big stripe of hair down the middle of their abdomens, some with hair on their lower backs, or on the backs of their upper arms. One guy has nipples that poof out a bit in a girly way. Another guy, a quiet boy who everyone knows already had an exhibition of his paintings at a downtown gallery, has a surgery scar across his stomach. A third has a series of tiny white scars crisscrossing his forearms. I think he must have made them himself, with a razor.
They're being macho, most of them, trading insults and laughing loudly. A number of them pee in the urinals. At first it's overwhelming, this stampede of half-naked half-manhood, but they're not all as fine as Hugh, so pretty soon I get ahold of myself and buzz down to inspect more gherkins.
Some are quite pink, while others are surprisingly brown, and it doesn't seem to follow directly from the skin color on the rest of the guy's body. And lots of boys are circumcised—but not everybody. I saw two that still had the foreskin attached, looking like the drawings in the biology textbook.
Also, I had always thought of the gherkin part as the main event, but if you see one that's peeing, or hanging around not doing anything, it's only part of a larger package. By which I mean, the balls are there—and they're nearly as big as the actual gherkin.
This, too: when you see men's booties in the movies, I thinkthey must be waxing because so many of these boys have hair back there or roundabout.
None of the guys checks each other out in the goods department. When they are peeing they all stare straight ahead like there's something fascinating on the wall.
Eventually, there's no more information to be gathered and the guys are mainly in their sweats and shorts anyway, and I hear Sanchez blow his whistle, sharp from the other side of the gymnasium double doors.
The boys slam their lockers and run into the gym. I try to follow them, but the doors are swinging, and I can't time it right, and when I'm flying I don't seem to have a whole lot of precision. I mean, I can go in a general direction but I can't steer exactly through a door above someone's head at just the right second.
I also try landing on a particular person and riding through the doors on him, but the first guy bats me off, and the second one, though he doesn't notice me at all, dislodges me as soon as he starts moving. My legs aren't strong enough to hold on to a moving object like that, and I'm compelled to let go of his sweatshirt. I try again anyhow, but the third one tries to kill me, slamming his hand hard onto his own arm—and I barely escape.
I fly back to my perch on the window and sit there for fortyfive minutes by the locker room clock, listening to what sounds like basketball practice in the gym. Then the seniors troop back in and shower.
The whole shower scene is funny. A few of them are quiet, like I am when I have to shower in public, scooting in and out of the water as fast as they can and wrapping themselves quickly intowels. But a lot of them are horsing around, throwing soap at each other and laughing, having conversations, being rowdy.
The girls never do that.
The bell rings, and the few remaining seniors throw on their clothes and run out. Then a swarm of freshmen come in.
It's the same drill—only, compared to the seniors they look like little boys. They're smaller,
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