Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything, Page 2

  I wonder if the school called because of that day I skipped out and went to the movies, but then Pop says: “You know things have been difficult around here.”

  “It's hard to know the best way to say this…,” adds Ma.

  And it hits me. They're getting a divorce.

  They talk about it for a while, saying

  they're so sorry,

  they went to see a marriage counselor,

  they tried everything,

  they can't get along together anymore,

  they just don't know what to do, and

  they're going in to sign the papers tomorrow.

  I won't have to listen to them yelling.

  I won't have to prick up my ears as I fall asleep because I'm not sure if it's the TV or the two of them starting in on each other again.

  I won't have to try and talk them out of arguing in the Kmart

  or Number One Noodle Son

  or the subway.

  And I won't have to hear them say stuff to each other like “You weren't very considerate when we were getting into bedlast night and I was trying to talk to you about the thing that happened right before dinner, do you know what I'm referring to?” or other crap like that before I go out the door to school,

  and then have to have the unresolved parents-fighting ache all day, cold in my chest.

  “Gretchen bubbee, we're going apartment hunting this weekend!” Ma is trying to sound bright, changing the subject to something more pleasant.

  “What?”

  “You and me. Tomorrow. Looking at apartments. Then we can talk about paint colors.”

  “Isn't Pop supposed to move out and get a bachelor pad?” I say. Bitchy.

  “He is getting one,” says Ma, bitterly. “We're selling the apartment.”

  “It's not a bachelor pad.” Pop does that thing with his voice where it's clear he's intent on keeping his temper. “Hazel, don't go putting ideas in her head. Gretch, it's a studio.”

  “Where?”

  “West Twenty-fourth Street. You can come see it. Tell me what I should buy to fix it up.”

  “See it?” I say. “What if I want to live with you?”

  (Not that I do. But come see it? To your kid?)

  “Oh. Um. It's a studio.” Pop stands up and starts clearing the table.

  “And how come you have it already and you're just telling me this stuff now?”

  “I told you she'd be mad,” says Ma. “I told you to get something bigger.”

  “Gretch, don't be like that.” My dad, coaxing.

  “Like what?”

  Suddenly I'm almost crying.

  How weird,

  like you could think you were relieved and then you're crying,

  like you didn't even know you were sad.

  “I'm funding two households now,” says Pop, as if we're both incredibly stupid and he has to spell stuff out for us. “A studio is what I can afford. What do you expect me to do, Ma?”

  Why does he call her Ma? I'm the one who calls her Ma.

  If I ever have a husband I am never letting him call me Ma, even if we have fourteen children. It's probably why they're getting divorced. If he'd have just called her Hazel everything would still be fine.

  There's a hole in my shirt.

  Why would I get a hole right there near the bottom edge? It's not like anything is rubbing on there.

  I wonder if I should darn it.

  If I keep thinking about the hole I won't cry,

  darning is definitely not sexy,

  would black thread look okay on a dark blue shirt? Or do I have to go to the drugstore and get blue?

  I can't believe he's moving out

  moving out

  moving out.

  Now no one will scramble eggs with dried fish from Chinatown and stink up the whole apartment,

  no one will leave the toilet seat up,

  no one will play Sinatra and try to make me dance,

  or drag me to the dog run in Central Park to hang out with the dogs even though we don't have one,

  or buy me comic books and hide them from Ma,

  or watch TV in his ratty bathrobe in the middle of the night when he can't sleep and wake me with his too-big laughter.

  Don't cry don't cry don't cry.

  “I'll miss you, Gretchen,” he says, coming over. “I hope you know that.”

  I haven't hugged him in so long.

  Wait.

  He smells like cigarettes.

  I didn't know he smoked. Since when does he smoke?

  He doesn't. Maybe he's got a girlfriend who smokes.

  Oh hell.

  It's obvious.

  Obvious, obvious, obvious.

  Crap.

  My dad has a girlfriend:

  I can't believe I didn't notice before.

  He has someone else; that's why all this is happening. It explains the late nights and the long business trips and the tie he said the cleaners lost. My father has got some chain-smoking chippie on the side and he's leaving our family so he can cavort around town lighting her cigarettes for her.

  I

  can't

  believe

  he

  would

  do

  this

  to

  us.

  I run into my room and slam the door.

  my room is a wreck. Here's what's on my shelves:

  A stack of collectible Spider-Man comics in plastic sleeves,

  six piles of ratty old comics, which include Spidey, some Fantastic Four, Batman and Dark Knight, Punisher, Incredible Hulk, Doctor Strange, a few Savage Dragon, Witchblade, Grendel, stuff like that. Oh, and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

  A half-open box of old pastels,

  three years' worth of Fangoria magazine,

  some travel souvenirs from Hong Kong, where I went with Pop last year,

  an old laptop computer that doesn't work anymore but seems like it's too valuable to throw out,

  thirteen Pez dispensers (including Tasmanian Devil and Peppermint Patty),

  a semi-huge collection of action figurines including G.I. Joe, Betty and Veronica, Rosie the Riveter, Spidey, Jar Jar Binks (someone gave him to me), and a few vampire-type guys,

  four jars full of little plastic characters from Asia, left over from a phase I had when I was fourteen: Bean Curd Babies, Hellcats, Devil Robots, Snorkin' Labbits and Anti-Potato Head.

  A big box of silly makeup from when I was younger: glitter eye shadow and blue lipstick, plus ordinary pink lipsticks Ma gave me when they were nearly worn down,

  all my old picture books,

  all my old chapter books,

  a paper doll collection,

  seven plastic baby dolls, all white babies except one little Asian one, none of which I've played with for years, thirty-one stuffed animals (grimy),

  five jewelry boxes, all given to me as gifts by my Chinese grandmother, all empty.

  Oh, and on my floor:

  dirty clothes,

  clean clothes,

  clothes I tried on and didn't wear,

  “The Metamorphosis,” which I still haven't cracked, art supplies,

  tablets of drawing paper,

  shoes,

  paper clips, all over where they spilled last week, eighteen plates of plastic Chinese food, which I just started collecting,

  tissue packets, partly open,

  and half an old bagel, wrapped in paper.

  I, Gretchen Yee, am a pack rat.

  A pack vermin.

  Divorce. Divorce. Divorce.

  I have to do something to make me stop thinking about it.

  Divorce. And my cheating, lying father—I have to get him out of my head, too.

  I'll do my drawing assignment—not the one where I have to go to the Met—but the one I was supposed to have handed in today. “Draw something or someone you love. Put your emotions onto the page, but draw from life, or from a photograph.”

  Okay, what do I love?


  My stuff. My figurines, my comics, my old toy animals. But there's too much of it all to draw. And everyone will laugh at me if I do that, anyhow; everyone but Katya.

  So not them.

  What do I love? What do I love?

  Ma knocks once on the door and leans in. “Gretch?” She sounds apologetic. “Are you okay, bubbee?”

  “Yeah. I'm doing my Kensington.”

  “Listen. The appointment with the realtor is at nine a.m. tomorrow.”

  How did she get an appointment so fast? It's not like you can call up realtors after working hours on a Friday night and arrange to see apartments.

  Oh.

  Duh.

  She's known about this for weeks. They only now told me. Ma has been on the phone with realtors for ages, planning our move, and is only telling me now, at the last minute.

  “And Gretch?” Ma sits down on my bed. “Just so you know. The place we're gonna move to, it'll be smaller than this one. I mean, money's tight now, and for a two-bedroom in Manhattan, they're asking a lot. But you'll like this one we're seeing tomorrow. It's in Chinatown, and there's an old claw-foot bathtub.”

  She's not only been on the phone with realtors, she's been to see apartments already. She's even picked one out.

  “So. You might want to start thinking about what you want to keep, and what you want to throw away.” Ma executes the should-be-patented Hazel Kaufman switch from sympathetic mother to critical nag.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her.

  “We've got to sort through your junk, Gretchen. We can't bring all of this”—she waves her arm to indicate my stuff—“to the new place.”

  “But I need my stuff!”

  “You don't need all of it. You don't need most of it.”

  “Ma!”

  “Gretch, you have to throw it out. We're starting fresh.”

  “You're starting fresh,” I say. “I'm only moving with you because I'm legally obligated.”

  It came out worse than I meant.

  “Don't be smart with me,” Ma snaps. “Pop and I are going through a difficult time. The least you can do is be cooperative.”

  “Fine.” I yank off my jeans and get into bed in my T-shirt. “I'll pack my stuff.”

  “No, that's not what I said. You'll go through your stuff and get rid of it. There's not room for all these bean curd creatures and whatnot in the new place.”

  “Bean Curd Babies.” I turn out the light. “I'm going to bed now.”

  “This early?”

  “This early.”

  “Aren't you going to brush your teeth?”

  “No.”

  “Gretchen.”

  “I reserve the right not to brush my teeth on a night when my parents are getting a divorce and my mother says I have to throw out all my possessions and live like a monk.”

  “You know I didn't say that.”

  “Yes, you did.” I pout.

  She heaves a sigh. “It's a hard time for all of us.”

  And she's out. The door clicks shut.

  I stare into the dark.

  I still don't know what I love.

  saturday morning, I go see the new apartment with Ma. It's tiny and smells like fish and Chinese food. The white realtor lady asks if I'm adopted—like that's some legitimate, socially appropriate question to ask—and is halfway through a gushy story about her friend's new baby from Korea when I say, “Haven't you ever heard of interracial marriage? It's all the rage in civilized countries,” and she shuts up and purses her lips.

  Then Ma takes me to lunch at the Second Avenue Deli in the East Village, which I usually like, but somehow I can't eat. I've got a grilled cheddar on rye and a side of coleslaw, and there's a huge bowl of good pickles on the table, but I'm not hungry.

  “The new place is quaint, don't you think?” says Ma. Talking with a mouth full of Reuben. “I love those old moldings. And if we switch you to a single bed, your room will feel cozy. Ooh, or maybe a futon on the floor that you can roll up?”

  “It's really small, Ma.”

  “The kitchen is small. I'll give you that. But you know I never cook. Pop did all of that. Anyhow, it's only till I finish my dissertation.”

  She's never going to finish that dissertation. She started graduate school when I was seven and she's been at it for more than eight years. Ever since she finished her coursework, she's been writing this incredibly long analysis of Early American Puritan whatever. “Then I'll get a real job with benefits.”

  She's deluding herself. I get all my procrastination tendencies from her. “Now, Gretchen,” she continues. “I have something else to tell you. You know Marianne?”

  “The one who drives the Lexus?”

  “There's more to her than that. She's an incredibly kind person. Anyway, she called me last night after you went to bed and said that she and Gary were supposed to go on this trip to a tiny island in the Caribbean, a resort—and now Gary can't go because of some work obligation. She's furious at him. He's always doing this.”

  “And?”

  “She knows what a hard time I've had separating from Pop, and she said she could switch Gary's reservation over to me, if I wanted. It's all already paid for.”

  “She's taking you on vacation?”

  “She's offering. Only we'd have to leave on Friday afternoon. This Friday. Would that be okay, bubbee?”

  “But Pop will be at that toy convention thing in Hong Kong.”

  “I know, but you stayed on your own that weekend last fall, didn't you? When we went up to the Kesslers'?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gretch, I wouldn't ask but I'm so exhausted I can't tell you.” She's shoving an enormous fry into her mouth and washing it down with coffee.

  “When does Pop get back?” I ask.

  “The following Saturday. So you'll be a week on your own.”

  “Eight days.”

  “Okay. Eight days. And then I'll be back a couple days after that! It's this amazing place. There's a spa where you can get massages, and there are no cars on the whole island. Everyone goes around by bicycle.”

  She's so bright, talking about it.

  She loves the beach.

  She's never been to the Caribbean.

  And Ma hasn't looked bright for a long time, now that I think about it.

  Sometimes I hate my dad. Even before this affair with the chippie,

  and even before this divorce,

  it seemed like all he did was make Ma unhappy.

  Maybe they're just too different. Because he's Chinese American and she's Jewish.

  Or because he owns a small toy company and she's trying to be a scholar.

  Or because she's a blabbermouth and he's quiet.

  Or he's a man and she's a woman.

  “Sure, go on and get a tan.” I try to smile. “I can deal.”

  “We can leave the extra key with Ramón down the hall.” Ma squeezes my hand. “And I'll take you grocery shopping and leave you money and all that.”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure you'll be all right, on your own?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Aside from the übervillains and murderers and vermin wandering the streets. Yeah, I'll be fine.

  i escape from Ma and head up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to do my Kensington homework. There's beautiful stuff in the Jaharis Gallery of Greek art, and I sit down with my pad and begin sketching a statue of a naked man reclining with a bunch of grapes.

  This is hard. The stone makes the body look different; softer. Plus he's lying down. Superheroes never recline on their elbows, draping themselves around like that. They're always in action.

  How do I make it look like stone?

  How did the sculptor make stone look like skin?

  Eraser,

  eraser,

  dust off—

  hell.

  A smudge.

  Shoulder, shadow, forearm, shadow;

  this one is coming out okay.

  Maybe Kensingt
on will actually like it. I do draw bodies better than most people in class. That's not conceited, it's true. Katya's bodies always look like they're stiff, like she's drawn a doll instead of a person.

  Do men really look like this?

  This guy has no hair.

  I may not have seen any naked boys up close, but I've walked through Chelsea in the summer when all the men have their shirts off, and even people who wax themselves stupid still have hair on their arms, or their underarms, or somewhere. And lots of the nonwaxers are seriously furry.

  Was it an aesthetic decision—like the sculpture looked better with no hair—or is it just too hard to carve chest hairs out of stone? Or were they waxing in ancient Greece?

  Thank goodness I don't have to draw a gherkin, that's all I can say.

  Fig leaf.

  Titus is Greek. Titus Antonakos.

  Titus.

  Titus.

  I wonder what he looks like naked.

  “—I was thinking about basketball next year but I don't know. I don't actually like it that much.” I hear a voice from the back of the room.

  Titus! Could he be here, doing his Kensington assignment?

  Don't turn around.

  Don't turn around.

  “Do we have to be on a team?” the voice continues. “What's the deal?”

  “That's what I heard: everyone has to. But whatever—it's better than gym. And it's good for college.” That's definitely Adrian Ip.

  “I can't think about college already,” says Titus.

  “You just don't want to play a sport, fag.” I can hear the sound of Adrian socking Titus on the shoulder.

  I hope they don't see me.

  No, I hope they do see me.

  “Hey, isn't that Gretchen Yee?”

  “Hair like that, who else?”

  “Shut up!” Titus sounds like he's socking Adrian back.

  They slide onto the bench next to me, pushing my pencil box out of the way.

  “Naked man, eh?” jokes Adrian.

  “My specialty,” I sneer, heart beating fast. “What's up?”

  “You doing the Kensington?”

  “Looks like it.” Me, trying to be slick.

  “We saw Taffy and Cammie drawing Egyptian stuff in the other gallery.” Titus opens the zipper on his backpack.

  Are they gonna stay here? And like, do the Kensington with me?

  He gets out his sketchbook. “Cammie's looked good, actually.”