The Fly on the Wall read by E. Lockhart
I’m E. Lockhart, author of Fly on the Wall
Enter Gretchen Kaufman Yee.
Collector of plastic Chinese food.
Gretchen’s in search of a big life. A superhero life.
Enter the Art Rats, a group of guys at her NYC art school.
They’re loud. Sweet. Annoying. Confusing.
Gretchen can barely look at them, goes mute whenever they’re near.
Especially, Titus. Delicious and smart. Absolutely on the radar.
Gretchen wishes she could be a fly on the wall of the boys’ locker room, just to see what these guys are like when they think no one’s watching.
And then… there she is.
A fly. On the wall of the locker room.
And nothing is what she thought.
This is a little bit from the beginning of the book.
Life as an Artificial Red Head
I am eating alone in the lunchroom.
Ever since Katya started smoking cigarettes, she’s hanging out back by the garbage cans, lighting up with the Art Rats. She bags her lunch, so she takes it out there and eats potato chips in a haze of nicotine.
I hate smoking, and the Art Rats make me nervous. So here I am: in my favorite corner of the lunchroom, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. I’m eating fries off a tray and drawing my own stuff–not anything for class.
Dull point; must sharpen pencil.
Hell! Pencil dust in fries.
Whatever. They still taste okay.
KA-POW! Spider-Man smacks Doctor Octopus off the edge of the building with a swift kick to the jaw. Ock’s face contorts as he falls backward, his metal tentacles flailing with hysterical fear. He has an eighty-story fall beneath him, and–
Spidey has a great physique. Built, but not too built. Even if I did draw him myself.
I think I made his butt too small.
I wish I had my pink eraser, I don’t like this white one.
Connecting to: leg . . . and . . . quadriceps.
There. A finished Spidey outline. I have to add the suit. And some shadowing. And the details of the building. Then fill in the rest of Doc Ock as he hurtles off the edge.
Mmmm. French fries.
Hell again! Ketchup on Spidey.
Lick it off.
Cammie Holmes is staring at me like I’m some lower form of life.
“What are you looking at?” I mutter.
“Then. Stop. Staring,” I say, sharpening my pencil again, though it doesn’t need it.