Read Online Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything by E. Lockhart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E. Lockhart
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slighter, less hairy. Their voices haven't all changed, and the din they make sounds more like playground noise than manly banter.
Then third period is African dance elective. Only two boys come in.
I don't know either of them, and they're shrimpy and scrawny—but African dance is just for juniors and seniors, so they must be at least sixteen. They're probably geeks, since even in artsy Ma-Ha, dance class is only taken by boys who are so far down the social totem pole that they might as well take it if they feel like it. Everyone will think they're losers for taking dance— but everyone already thinks that anyway.
One boy is Latino, with short hair shaved up the sides. He's not more than five foot three, and he's wearing a new-looking orange pocket T-shirt that no doubt his mama bought him, and jeans that hang too high on his hips.
The other boy is only slightly taller, but gangly like a puppy. He's African American, with tight braids across his skull, black Clark Kent glasses and a shirt that reads UP YOURS. They change into sweatpants, leaving their feet bare.
Orange: “You see G this morning?”
Up Yours: “Nah.”
Orange: “Me neither. I actually waited for her out on the steps.”
Up Yours laughs. “You're gone, boy.”
Orange: “Whaddya think she's drawing all the time?”
Up Yours: “How should I know?”
Orange: “She's so intense.”
Up Yours: “You should talk to her. You can't be going on like this forever. She was sitting alone in the lunchroom, I saw her last week.”
Orange: “Yeah, but she
likes
it that way.” He makes what is meant to be a glamour face: “I vant to be aloooone.” He reverts to normal. “She's not like a regular girl where you can ask if she wants potato chips. She'd like, bite my head off.”
Up Yours: “Whatever. But you're gone. You gotta do something about it or switch over to some other girl.”
The boy in orange doesn't answer this; he's rooting around in his backpack for a combination lock.
Up Yours continues: “But she is hot. I give you that. Even I noticed she looked smokin' on Friday.”
Orange: “That tiny tank top? She was workin' that milkshake.”
Up Yours: “Red shirt like her hair.”
They are talking about me.
About me.
I think.
I mean, G is for Gretchen. And I've got red hair. And I sit alone in the lunchroom. And I draw sitting on the steps in the morning.
And I wore a red camisole shirt on Friday, when it was so warm. I can wear them easily 'cause I've got almost nothing on top, so it doesn't matter.
Except maybe it does. At least, these guys were looking. And seeing something.
A milkshake.
I never think people are looking at me. Are people looking at me?
The boy in orange thought I was working the milkshake.
Could I be working it and not even know I'm working it? Have I got anything to work?
I've never even seen these guys before. Never even seen them, and they know who I am and where I like to sit, and what I was wearing last Friday. Like they've got crushes on me, or one of them does. “You see G this morning?”
Someone has a crush on me. Short Orange with the geek pants.
I never thought anyone would have a crush on me. I never thought anyone would like
me
more than I liked
him.
I mean, I don't exist, not next to girls like Cammie and Taffy. I'm the girl who doesn't exist to other people.
The boys head off for class, and I listen to the sound of drumbeats coming from the gym. Afterward, as Orange and Up Yours are standing by their lockers, some of the junior boys start to trickle in for fourth period. And for no reason that I can tell, this guy named Gunther thwaps Up Yours on the butt with a towel. Hehas a thuggy-looking nose. “How's the dancing lesson, ladies?” he asks.
“Fine,” mutters Orange, pulling off his T-shirt and throwing on a clean one without even taking a shower. (The new shirt is also orange, but an older, softer-looking one with ORANGE CRUSH written across the back.)
“Wanna show me some
Then third period is African dance elective. Only two boys come in.
I don't know either of them, and they're shrimpy and scrawny—but African dance is just for juniors and seniors, so they must be at least sixteen. They're probably geeks, since even in artsy Ma-Ha, dance class is only taken by boys who are so far down the social totem pole that they might as well take it if they feel like it. Everyone will think they're losers for taking dance— but everyone already thinks that anyway.
One boy is Latino, with short hair shaved up the sides. He's not more than five foot three, and he's wearing a new-looking orange pocket T-shirt that no doubt his mama bought him, and jeans that hang too high on his hips.
The other boy is only slightly taller, but gangly like a puppy. He's African American, with tight braids across his skull, black Clark Kent glasses and a shirt that reads UP YOURS. They change into sweatpants, leaving their feet bare.
Orange: “You see G this morning?”
Up Yours: “Nah.”
Orange: “Me neither. I actually waited for her out on the steps.”
Up Yours laughs. “You're gone, boy.”
Orange: “Whaddya think she's drawing all the time?”
Up Yours: “How should I know?”
Orange: “She's so intense.”
Up Yours: “You should talk to her. You can't be going on like this forever. She was sitting alone in the lunchroom, I saw her last week.”
Orange: “Yeah, but she
likes
it that way.” He makes what is meant to be a glamour face: “I vant to be aloooone.” He reverts to normal. “She's not like a regular girl where you can ask if she wants potato chips. She'd like, bite my head off.”
Up Yours: “Whatever. But you're gone. You gotta do something about it or switch over to some other girl.”
The boy in orange doesn't answer this; he's rooting around in his backpack for a combination lock.
Up Yours continues: “But she is hot. I give you that. Even I noticed she looked smokin' on Friday.”
Orange: “That tiny tank top? She was workin' that milkshake.”
Up Yours: “Red shirt like her hair.”
They are talking about me.
About me.
I think.
I mean, G is for Gretchen. And I've got red hair. And I sit alone in the lunchroom. And I draw sitting on the steps in the morning.
And I wore a red camisole shirt on Friday, when it was so warm. I can wear them easily 'cause I've got almost nothing on top, so it doesn't matter.
Except maybe it does. At least, these guys were looking. And seeing something.
A milkshake.
I never think people are looking at me. Are people looking at me?
The boy in orange thought I was working the milkshake.
Could I be working it and not even know I'm working it? Have I got anything to work?
I've never even seen these guys before. Never even seen them, and they know who I am and where I like to sit, and what I was wearing last Friday. Like they've got crushes on me, or one of them does. “You see G this morning?”
Someone has a crush on me. Short Orange with the geek pants.
I never thought anyone would have a crush on me. I never thought anyone would like
me
more than I liked
him.
I mean, I don't exist, not next to girls like Cammie and Taffy. I'm the girl who doesn't exist to other people.
The boys head off for class, and I listen to the sound of drumbeats coming from the gym. Afterward, as Orange and Up Yours are standing by their lockers, some of the junior boys start to trickle in for fourth period. And for no reason that I can tell, this guy named Gunther thwaps Up Yours on the butt with a towel. Hehas a thuggy-looking nose. “How's the dancing lesson, ladies?” he asks.
“Fine,” mutters Orange, pulling off his T-shirt and throwing on a clean one without even taking a shower. (The new shirt is also orange, but an older, softer-looking one with ORANGE CRUSH written across the back.)
“Wanna show me some
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