LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 1

      Rebecca

      I’m not just a fly. I am The Fly on the Wall. I’m the one everyone wishes they could be. And it’s no wonder; the fly on the wall really does see and hear everything! A fly’s life is generally short so I must get on with the telling of this tale from my view on the wall. I’m just glad I’ve escaped the relentless fly swatters enough seasons to be able to tell you this story of my friends, Rebecca and Heart.

      I’ll start with the first year of my life. I was born in the garbage heap outside the orphanage known as Somewhere Else here in London sometime in the late 1930s. There were more garbage heaps everywhere in those days. They say it was like that around the world. I wouldn’t know about the rest of the world, but here at Somewhere Else, that was certainly the way it was. In London, the rich were wearing older clothes, eating smaller meals, and the poor, well, they just got poorer. Even the garbage heaps were definitely lacking interest.

      This is how Rebecca and the other poor girls came to be at Somewhere Else. Families who had no food sent the girls Somewhere Else, the name of the orphanage on the outskirts of the city. Mothers hoped they would have better nutrition there. Babies were left in their baskets and blankets on the steps of St. Paul’s with all the other hungry little birds. Family pets were turned loose to forage for themselves. The times were hard.

      Now, me, I’m not an orphan. In fact, I have a big family with many siblings and cousins. I just happened to be born in the orphanage garbage dump just outside the orphanage classroom. And that’s how I first met Rebecca.

      The classroom where Rebecca spends her mornings is in a large factory building, refitted as the orphanage. There were more orphans than factory jobs in those days, you see. Whenever the girls had to leave home, it was just explained “they are visiting Somewhere Else.”

      The girls who live at the orphanage have school in the morning and work in the afternoon. The older girls go into the city to work at cleaning homes, tending little children, and running errands. Younger girls, like Rebecca, work at the orphanage, dusting, sweeping, and gardening.

      That suits Rebecca. She likes every day to be like the one before, with no change, and no surprises. She wants to be left alone. I’m a little like that myself, actually. I learned a lot about Rebecca from watching her in the classroom. Now that you know these things, let me begin the tale.

      On this particular day, I see Rebecca; she’s sitting at her desk swaying to and fro. I rest on the window ledge enjoying the spring breeze that blows into the classroom. The fresh scent of blossoms wafts after the odor of factory smoke and sweetens the enticing aroma of the garbage dump.

      Rebecca and I both recognize the new scent of the blossoms immediately. The others in the classroom don’t seem to notice. Rebecca stops swaying. Her eyes look toward the window, but she isn’t looking at me. She cocks her head upward. One branch hangs directly in front of the window. Looking out the corners of her eyes, she studies the blossoms on the branch. I look through my seven hundred and fifty eye facets. We admire the blossoms and their sweet perfume. No one else in our classroom takes any notice.

      Suddenly the classroom gets very noisy as the girls file out the door; class is over for the day. Rebecca covers her ears. She doesn’t like the sound of all the voices talking at once clanging together like the pots and pans in the kitchen. She detests noise. It hurts her ears and her mind swirls in confusion when the kettles bang noisily. She hums loudly to drown out the sound of the noisy voices and she rocks to the rhythm of her own soft humming, which only I can hear.

      The girls glance at Rebecca as they pass her desk on their way out the door. They roll their eyes to each other, snub her, and giggle. I hear one of them whisper something most unkind. I think about buzzing their rude little faces just to annoy them.

      The teacher scowls. “Remember the Golden Rule, girls,” she says.

      Well, all right then, I won’t annoy them. This time. You know what the Golden Rule is, don’t you?

      As days pass, I notice Rebecca never leaves her seat until all the other girls are out of the room. She sits at her desk with her hands over her ears, swaying to and fro, swirling with the noise and humming to herself until the classroom is empty and quiet.

      Over time I come to understand her, as I watch and follow her through her days at the orphanage. What I can’t figure out is why everyone thinks she’s “odd.” Every girl in the class, every girl in the orphanage, is different from another. There are no two alike, that I can see.

      Rebecca listens to the girls’ footfalls on the wooden floors. She knows who’s coming by the sound of their step. No two girls walk alike; even I know that.

      From the back of the dining hall she watches them eat. Every girl eats differently. Some girls like peas, some don’t. Some gulp hungrily, others pick at their food. Some talk while they chew. Some chew quietly, a long time.

      They all look different, too. No two girls’ hair is the same color and texture; some wear braids, some have curls. Some brush their shiny long hair. Others, like Rebecca, never touch their matted and stringy hair.

      Girls come in an assortment of sizes, shapes, and colors. I find that fascinating. In my family, Muscidae, we all look exactly the same.

      Every girl has a distinct voice. Rebecca can identify each voice without seeing who speaks. She knows which one stutters, who lisps; she knows who whines, which one is bossy. She prefers low voices to high voices. Rebecca’s own voice is rarely heard. When she speaks, it’s a low monotone. It’s not odd, just different. Like everyone else, she is different. Though none of the other girls think she ever looks at them, she, in fact, knows a lot about them.

      I notice Rebecca is quite keen on smell. She knows who has washed

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