Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything by E. Lockhart

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.

l ate 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.
    “Send it a letter,” says Shane, laughing even though it doesn't make sense.
    Adrian laughs too. “Dear Shane's gherkin,” he says, also in a girly voice. “You're so fascinating, I can't take my eyes off you. Want to go for pizza after school? Yours sincerely, Bradley Parker.”
    “Dear Bradley Parker,” answers Shane, in a deep masculine voice. “I belong to Jazmin LeMaitre, and believe me, she treats me good. I'm busy every day after school. And I do mean busy.”
    “Dear Shane's gherkin, Come on, one little date. I've been admiring you from afar!” Adrian laughs.
    “Dear Bradley Parker,” says Shane. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
    I cannot believe Shane is not only talking in the voice of his gherkin but having it discuss how good Jazmin treats it. Also acting like Brat is madly in love with it.
    There's not even much to be in love with. By now, I should qualify as a gherkin