He has that slicked-back,
butter-on-hot-corn-wouldn’t-melt-
in-my-mouth, don’t-touch-me-I’m-cool
look—but doesn’t lean away
not at first.
I can tell he’s checking me out
but isn’t gonna be obvious.
What’s the point in being so shy, I
wanna ask him. Get bold.
“Opportunity curves”
is what I say instead. He grins at me
for a second—then eyebrows raise.
He gets up and changes seats.
The smile
(it wasn’t so
hot after all)
leaves when he clocks me.
I mostly pass—but
I’ve been made enough times to
know the exact second it happens.
And I just wanna say to Mr. Corn-hole
mouth, “Your loss.”
My stop’s next, anyway.
Toss my head, get off
at Evergreen Community College.
Got my GED here.
I tell you now
classes are a habit.
Finish my degree
(social work major),
then it’s off to difference-making
full-time employment
for Angel.
Maybe I can change up some things.
Someone’s gotta do it.
Someone like me, I mean.
Someone who knows simple basics.
You wanna assign roommates
in group homes based on birth sex assignment?
Go ahead, idiot.
Make it easy for thugs to
S m e a r
the Queer.
Three Years Ago
My first day at Evergreen
I was ready for flight OR fight.
Out of the baking August parking lot
and into Admissions. I tell you—
my foster mom hadn’t of been there
I mighta shot back through the door
like some kind of Olympic runner.
Stood at the end of the line,
freezing in my fuchsia tank top,
turquoise skirt, strappy gold sandals.
Girl, that building was icy but
the papers I held were floppy,
my hands sweatin’ so bad.
Finally my turn. Big crabby-looking guy
with beady eyes called, “Next.”
I went up to his window,
handed him my application.
He looked it over, looked at me,
and he
frowned.
People get uptight
when your ID
calls out a gender
different than what you present.
My foster mom touched my elbow
soft — lettin’ me know she was there.
Still, my back was up when
Beady Eyes stepped away
to get a supervisor, muttering,
“Right name, wrong gender.”
And I’d heard it before—
but God was with me that day.
Beady Eyes’s supervisor
came to the window.
“You’re Angel?” Adjusted her
glasses. Looked over them.
At me.
I nodded,
stretched my neck,
made sure my
courtesy-of-a-sadistic-
pervert-john
collarbone scars
showed.
Not afraid of this.
Ready to lay me down some attitude.
“We’re admitting you today
but you might want
to get new state identification.
“You need a note
from your doctor and
signed by a witness,
the identification you have now,
and a special form, DL 328.
“Then your information
will match you better.”
That sweet little old lady
winked at me
and I almost fell over.
Now every time
I pull out my ID
F for Female
feels like T for Triumph.
(Vanessa Girard)
In Ceramics
Hip against a metal plate,
the kickwheel squeaks
getting up to speed.
My hands slick the clay lump in front of me.
breathe focus center
“It’s art, Vanessa, not a competition,”
the teacher, Mr. Mathews, says.
That doesn’t keep him
from entering my pieces
in juried shows.
Contests they win
and I’m not going to lie—I’m proud
because I know
it isn’t luck
or even talent
that takes first place.
It’s practice and work
and the fact that
I stick with things
even when they’re hard.
Centering the Clay
takes concentration
Difficult
when one of your
two best friends
is standing by,
pestering you.
“You’re breaking
Halloween tradition!”
Julie’s practically whining.
“We’re too old for trick-or-treating,” I tell her.
Centering
Centering
Centering
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. Please?
Two blind mice doesn’t make sense.”
Julie, Tanya, and I
have always
coordinated costumes.
When we were younger,
the three little pigs,
the three bears.
In high school we evolved.
Charlie’s Angels,
the Three Musketeers.
Now we’re regressing to the three blind mice?
“Sorry—I promised Brendan
I’d go to Andy’s party.”
And I’m not telling her but
I already bought my costume:
ooh la la, French maid.
Sexier than a hooded sweatshirt,
sunglasses, and a rope tail for sure.
Julie rolls her eyes.
“Of course you promised Brendan—I
guess we’ll do something else.”
Centering.
Centering.
Centering.
“Meet us at Andy’s?”
The invite for show—out of guilt
because if all works out
we won’t be there for very long.
The clay
on the wheel goes
a little side
ways.
“Whatever.” She’s
already turning away.
“We’ll see.”
At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door
I grab keys to the Beamer,
hoping to escape while
Mom gives Snickers
to a warlock and a ninja.
She shouldn’t get a good look
at what I’m wearing.
Her fashion sense
is more L.L.Bean than Ooh La La.
(And for some crazy reason
my dad doesn’t seem to mind.
So much for the widely touted
French sense of style—
I’d say he just left it behind
when he moved to the U.S.
but somehow he’s managed
to keep it for himself.)
“Not too late!” Mom calls.
Pretending not to hear
is what I do best.
I’m picking up Brendan
and even though we’ve been together a long time
my rib cage has that great fizzy, funny feeling.
I’ve liked him since
I was a freshman.
He’s a year older—and the only wrestler
who was nice to me when I joined the team.
I’ve loved him since
I was a sophomore.
I got my license that September—
wasn’t supposed to drive
anyone else for six months.
Oops.
Two weeks after I got it
I saw Brendan hunching
toward the bus stop,
his Miller Prep uniform
damp with October rain.
I offered him a ride.
We got to his house,
sat in the car for another hour
talking about
everything.
He called when I got home
and we talked for three more.
He knows my secrets.
(When we visit my father’s family in Cannes
I’m embarrassed for my mom.
My tantes élégantes talk about her in French
she doesn’t understand.
I do, but don’t defend her.)
I know his deep darks, too.
(He got superlethargic
when his parents split up.
Wouldn’t get out of bed
on the weekends.
His mom thought he just
needed time to adjust.
His dad and the court disagreed.
Brendan’s bitter about the compromise:
custody for Mom, Zoloft for him.)
For three weeks
we were just friends
until the night
of the crazy windstorm.
He was babysitting Courtney.
I stopped by to say hi
and she’d just gone to sleep
in spite of the wail
of a seventy-mile-an-hour wind
that snapped power lines
and slammed
Southern California
into darkness.
He got out flashlights lit candles.
Our hands made
shadow puppets
on the wall.
First fingertip kisses then lips.
The Santa Ana Wind
gusts down
desert canyons.
Hot. Dry. Electric.
Some say
it ignites tempers.
I say
it ignited us.
It howled around outside,
battering the house
with dried palm fronds.
Debris snatched up
flung down
snatched up again.
A wind so greedy
it couldn’t bear
to discard the tiniest scrap.
A greedy wind that wanted it all.
And when
our lips touched
for the first time
I flamed up
greedy too
and the pounding in my ears
could have been
the rush of my blood
or the Santa Ana wind
shrieking
for more.
A Year Later
we still
remind
each other
of that
first kiss.
“It’s windy,”
I’ll say
every time
he comes up
behind me,
lifts my hair
off my neck,
gently blows
just behind
my earlobe.
“It’s windy,”
he’ll whisper,
arms wrapped around me.
And I’m still greedy. Greedier, in fact.
We’ve talked about it—
kissing’s not enough anymore.
We haven’t discussed specifics, like
exactly when or where,
but I have a few ideas.
So, Mom?
Tonight I could be home late.
How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?
(A) When you’re in love?
(B) When your body aches for something more?
(C) When you’ve both decided you’re ready?
(D) All of the above?
Hope my drive-your-man-crazy costume
keeps its promise.
In wrestling I’m hot
and sweaty
like the guys.
So off the mat,
I admit I tend to go
girly overboard.
But is it enough?
When I get to his house
he slumps into the car
and I taste his funky mood
in our kiss.
“You didn’t dress up.”
Like he needs me
to point it out.
“There’s no law,” he says.
“But it’d be fun, right?
Last year you looked so cute!”
“Last year sucked.”
His flat voice shuts me out.
“Besides, I didn’t have time.
I had to take Courtney out.”
Moody Brendan’s in the house.
“What kind of a mother
schedules a boob job three days
before Halloween?”
“One with small tits?” I ask,
hoping for a smile that doesn’t come
but he does reach over,
rest his hand on my leg.
I start the car.
We drive a block.
Then two.
Then three.
“C’mon—what’s wrong?”
“Halloween’s just
not my thing.”
“So that’s why
you didn’t
mention my costume!”
I’m trying for flirty, and
he looks over.
“Nice.”
But there’s no smile.
And it’s no use.
I turn the corner,
a deflated French maid
in fishnet stockings
and a short skirt.
(E) Quiz postponed.
Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations
Andy’s house, a parent-free zone tonight.
Light spills out the open front door—
party’s on downstairs,
upstairs windows are b l a c k.
I park the car. Brendan
sits, doesn’t get out.
I love him but know
there’s no way to rescue his m o o d.
If that were possible, I’d go in,
say hi, steal beer, and park
somewhere—talk, laugh, kiss.
Whatever it t o o k.
He’s complicated. Sometimes
just shy. Antisocial. Or
depressed. And I’m okay
when it’s only u s.
Tonight the situation sucks.
I blew off fun with my best friends
to be with Brendan. I’d do it again but sometimes
I wish there was a way to be with b o t h.
Still, if it came right down to it?
A forever choice?
I’d choose him.
Always.
Some Truths Don’t Go Over So Well
Especially not with friends
you’ve had since fifth grade.
This past summer Julie and Tanya bitched
I never spent time with them,
but that wasn’t true.
We hung out a lot
when Brendan went away
to see his dad.
But when I pointed that out,
Tanya said it didn’t count.
And even though I DID
invite them to this party,
I know they’re mad at me
for ditching our
trick-or-treat tradition.
They just don’t understand—
Julie’s never been serious about a guy
and Tanya’s never had a boyfriend at all.
I can’t he
lp it if
I’d rather be with him
than anyone else.
That’s love.
(BRENDAN)
Last Night’s Mistake
Throbbing music.
Throbbing bodies.
Throbbing headache this morning.
Wish we’d just gone in,
said hi, stolen beer,
parked somewhere.
But Vanessa wanted to party.
And I knew I wasn’t good company.
Barely over the threshold,
it was Andy.
“You fag, you didn’t dress up!”
Loud over booming bass.
“Good to see you, too.”
He couldn’t hear me.
Instead, he handed me
a half-empty
bottle of Jack and then
pulled on his hockey mask.
“Dude, we’re going
to the graveyard!
We’re going to
have a séance
for Mr. Fredricks!”
Like this was a good idea?
Slasher movies aside,
didn’t he think
kids + Halloween + graveyard =
trouble of the police variety?
But how can someone who
doesn’t speak up
be the voice of reason?
So I went along
with the crowd.
Bottle concealed
under my sweatshirt,
Vanessa at my side.
Trick-or-treaters were
home by that time,
counting their loot
or in bed already
and the two blocks
of asphalt
between Andy’s house
and that of the dead
were empty.
Except for the fifteen or so of us,
a small mob of pirates, witches,
ghosts, and zombies, like something
out of the Charlie Brown
Halloween special.
The foggy mist felt
good on my skin
and oddly enough
(while heading to a cemetery)
my mood started to get better.
Over the wrought iron fence,
we scattered apart
in and around
the stone garden.
I pulled Vanessa along
with one hand,
held the bottle
with the other,
and tried to keep up with Andy
weaving between headstones and
jog-walking past the mausoleum.
Mr. Fredricks, the choir director,
had a heart attack my freshman year.
Now his grave’s like
a Halloween tourist attraction.
He’s buried in the corner
farthest from the road,
relatively safe
from a getting-in-trouble
standpoint.
Me and Andy and Vanessa
were the first to get there,
I thought. We stood, staring
at his name carved
on a metal-plated block.
Freakboy Page 2
