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

gives my little African dance boys a hard time again. “Hey, Tinker Bells, show us your splits. You can do the splits, can't you? Let's see what you got.”
    No answer.
    “Aw, don't be modest, ladies.”
    No answer again, but Xavier (Up Yours) mutters something low under his breath and instantly Gunther turns mean, whomping his backpack into Xavier's arm on purpose.
    “What was that for?”
    “I told you, don't start with him.” Carlo (Orange) grabs his friend's elbow and heads for the door. “Ignore it.”
    “No, what was that
for
?” Xavier persists.
    Gunther bangs a locker, making a huge hollow-metal noise. “To remind you to shut yourself up, Mary Poppins,” he growls. “Don't go messing with me or you'll never do your faggot contractions again.”
    “You calling me a faggot?”
    “Yes. I am calling. You. A. Faggot.”
    “Bite me!” mutters Xavier. He's about to say more, but Gunther's fingers have tightened into a fist, and Carlo grabs Xavier's arm hard and drags his friend away, out into the hall where it's safe.
    When they're gone, it's quiet.
    Gunther turns and gets changed.
    Like nothing happened.
    He says hi to some guys coming in for class, laughs with some people, talks about something on TV, talks about the end-of-April sculpture course exhibit. He seems like an okay guy.
    You'd never know he'd just been torturing a pair of dance geeks like it was an Olympic sport he was trying to medal in.

f ifth period is juniors and seniors again, then sophomores sixth and freshmen seventh. I get bored, so I buzz over to the minilockers and peek inside them. They're mesh baskets with combo locks, labeled with last names. I can sit on the edge of each one and look down to see the contents.
    It's rather disappointing, actually. If we had them, the girls' minilockers would be full of shampoo and conditioner and deodorant and moisturizer and makeup, plus extra socks and water bottles. You could tell so much about a girl from what was in her minilocker. Mine would have this great rose-scented lip gloss that you can also use as a moisturizer or to get your bangs to go over to the side, because it's really just nice-smelling Vaseline. Plus this conditioner I bought in Chinatown that's good for Asian hair that I've tried bringing in my bag, only the top comes loose and it leaks all over. Katya's would have this purple gel soap I know she's crazy about, and a gray eye pencil and her perfume that smells like aloe vera.
    But hardly any of the boys have that kind of stuff. There are a few things of deodorant, and a couple jars of hair gel. Otherwise, most of them have sneakers and nothing else.
    They don't even need these lockers. It's so unfair.
    Titus's minilocker has a pair of New Balance sneakers and some deodorant that says COOL WAVE. I crawl up and smell it. Gross, I know, but I do. It has an ocean scent. Shane's has two pairs of sneakers—one that looks like it's for basketball, the other for running. Adrian's has a knee brace that I've sometimes seen him wearing. Only Brat's is really interesting. It's absolutelypacked with stuff, and doesn't even have any sneakers in it at all. It looks like he shoves things in there from his backpack, maybe that he doesn't want to carry around or put into his hall locker for some reason. There's a pile of magazine clippings, held together with a paper clip. I can't see the rest of them, but the top one is a picture of a girl wearing red lipstick, so dark it's almost black. There are four small notepads, all covered with scribbly handwriting—lists of stuff to do, diary entries, phone numbers. The top page of one reads “eggs 4 mom, electric toothbrush, zit stuff, nail clipper.” A list of things to buy before he goes home. The top page of another, also a list, reads
    Ip—a schmuck. Sometimes. Too much of the time.
    Titus—slick.
    Malachy—a listener.
    Shane—repressed. But what?
    Cammie—babe.
    Taffy—cipher.
    Katya—nice. To everyone.
    Gretchen—?? An