Freakboy
Page 4
to look at me.
“God, your costume is hot.”
So What if Last Night Didn’t Go as Planned?
Good things come
to those who wait.
This morning I got a call from
our neighbor two doors down.
The Smiths are going away for Thanksgiving
and need me to feed their cat.
They’ll leave house keys in our mailbox.
The thought of a private place
just for me and Brendan
fills my chest
with a cozy something,
makes me smile.
I peer out the windshield again
sipping my latte and
wondering which Brendan
will show.
Don’t get me wrong.
It’s not like he’s totally schizo—
but with him you can’t
always predict who you’ll get.
Sweet Brendan
Hilarious Brendan
Driven Brendan
Playful Brendan
Soulful Brendan
Distant Brendan
depending on the day, the mood.
Inside
and out
different
aspects
combine, make up the whole.
I love them all
because
I love him.
(BRENDAN)
Lucky
She waits
for me
Warm coffee
cold hands
First thing
I say
I know
I’m lucky
And aren’t I
Late night,
too tired
this morning
to think
Our kiss
feels good.
In the Gym
“Hello, ladies.”
Coach’s daily greeting
and he’s not addressing Vanessa.
Partner up
spin drill, shoot the tube,
take down, hip heist, sprawl.
Tired.
Distracted.
Reeking.
The stink of
last night’s Jack,
this morning’s sweat
ignored by Coach when he demos
a punishing arm drag.
Hot breath in my face,
mat burn on my elbow,
a gasping glance
at the clock.
Caught.
“Quit being a pussy, Brenda.”
Vanessa Snags My Water Bottle
After
wind sucking sweat dripping
conditioning
hot room close bodies
bad enough
she outwrestles me
it’s worse when
Coach rides me
and I look like a loser.
So I have
a rule for us.
No contact.
Don’t look don’t talk
In wrestling
you’re not my girlfriend
you’re just one of the guys.
She goes along
but thinks it’s stupid,
always makes a point
of catching my eye holding it
and drinking my bottle dry.
At Home After Dinner
The Interloper and Courtney
go out for ice cream
and the soothing sound
of a harp glissando
battles thoughts
in my
propeller brain.
Mom’s recovered enough
to lift her arms—
her music slides up
the staircase once again
the sound track to my homework.
Tomorrow I have
6 a.m. wrestling, AP Bio test,
quiz on the first act of Hamlet,
after-school conditioning,
endless homework.
Whirling brain gets stuck
on princess dream
and won’t come loose
on girlfriend.
Not gay.
Then what?
Maybe lots of guys dream
of being turned into girls?
For some reason
I’ve never asked Dr. Andrews.
(He’s not big on talk therapy.
Just the same questions.
“Suicidal thoughts? Tendencies?
No? Here’s your scrip.”)
Prescriber of Zoloft.
Reliever of paternal anxiety.
Dad:
“Hey, buddy, you seem down,
a doctor can help with that.”
Fulfiller of court-ordered
maternal duty.
Mom:
“I don’t know if James thinks
Brendan’s really depressed, or if
he’s just trying to make things harder.”
Voilà! My twice-yearly visit to the shrink
mollifies one and absolves the other.
Because my busy brain
uncertain moods
ulcerative anxiety
and general malaise
are my own fault. Right?
I toss aside the calculator
and grab my MacBook,
(a bribe from
the Interloper)
Start to type
Dreams of being a girl.
My fingers hesitate,
I swallow.
Type
Want to be a girl
instead.
Links pop up
and I see the word
“transsexual.”
When I Was a Little Kid
my dad gave me
a green plastic submarine.
It had a tiny compartment
that you’d shake baking soda
into—and that
made the thing
bob
and dive.
I’d play with it
for hours
wrinkled fingers
pruney palms.
Sometimes
I’d hold
the sub
underwater
thumb half covering
the topside hole,
watch baking soda fizz
to the surface
where
bubbles
would pop.
And if I held the
little hatch closed,
then let go of the toy,
the whole thing would
shoot out of the water.
Splash.
The prickle of feeling
I have when I wake
from a dream
of being in the right skin
of catching my reflection
in the mirror when
I’ve gone too long
without a haircut
of being into how that
softens the angle
of my jaw,
frames my face
like a girl’s
those are fizzy bubbles
rising
on THAT word
up to the
top and
pop.
Thinking that being in love
with Vanessa
should have made it
all go away,
that’s me
holding the submarine
deep
under
water—
compartment closed and
I don’t want to let go.
Splash.
When That Word Bursts
up from the depths,
a drop of water
clings to it.
Small but visible
to my naked eye.
A tiny drop
to hold so much;
inside it is my princess dream.
And a horror that
starts small,
multiplies
with other droplets containing
<
br /> drowsing sensations,
fleeting desires.
The water gathers until
certain knowledge that this
ugly word applies to me,
becomes a tidal wave that
knocks me
over.
Transsexual
Snap
screen
shut.
Grab my bus pass,
charge downstairs.
I have to move
get out
get away.
Transsexual
“Going to the library,”
I shout toward the
music room’s
closed door,
and then
I’m outside
running
Transsexual
past wide
lawns,
huge
Band-Aid-colored
stucco houses,
fake streams,
and fake waterfalls.
Transsexual
Skid to
the stop.
A bus pulls around
the corner and
I don’t look at
which one it is
don’t care
where it’s headed.
I just need to
ride
Transsexual
for a long time.
When it
gets too quiet
the word
too loud.
Transsexual
I get off
at stops
familiar
unfamiliar.
Take the next one
that comes my way
zigzag across the city
and back.
TRANSSEXUAL
I stare
into the dark
until a guy
about my age
about my size,
gets on
grunts
across
the aisle.
Cigarette smell
bar code–tattooed neck
ring-pierced eyebrow
announce him.
He’s Tough Guy.
And he’s looking at me. For a fight?
I turn my head
Transsexual
my face feels ugly
I make it uglier
just in case.
When the bus
stops I get off
on a dim street.
Am I looking for a fight?
Tough Guy
doesn’t follow.
But my fists
don’t unclench.
I was looking for a fight.
The bus heaves off
into the late night.
I turn around
and BAM
Willows Teen Center
looms ahead
on the empty block.
I get closer, see the
smaller letters painted
on darkened windows.
A PLACE FOR LGBTQ YOUTH.
Transsexual
My heart slams
into my throat
exactly like that night
in the graveyard
but my stomach
is sick, too.
Is that why the girl
was so nice?
Did she think I was gay?
Is there something about me?
Something obvious
I don’t recognize but
others do?
How can other people
see something in me
that I have never seen
in myself?
Transsexual
No breath
deserted block.
Transsexual
Next to the curb
a river stone
just bigger than
my fist.
Rounded, smooth,
like something
you’d see in the back
of a landscaper’s truck
nestled with others
of its kind.
Transsexual
Here,
out of place,
lonely
in the middle
of the sidewalk.
Transsexual
My fingers close
around it
cool
to the touch
heavy
in my palm.
A current rushes
my body
shoots through
my arm,
a hand that isn’t mine
hurls a rock
it wasn’t holding
right through the
T for Teen Center
T for
Transsexual
Glass Shatters
shocks my ears
and I’m off
running
up the block
away from
here.
What the hell
what the Hell
what the HELL.
Alarms should
be screaming.
Lights should
be flashing.
People should
be shouting.
But the street sleeps on.
I round the corner just
in time for the next bus.
It picks me up,
takes me toward home as if
everything
is fine.
(Angel)
Sometimes the Real World Hurts
’Specially when you’re looking
at it through a hole some
homophobic asshole made
by throwing shit
through the window
of a center for queer kids.
Bus takes me by here
on my way to the class
I’m gonna miss
’cause this morning I got off
to see why
Dr. Martina
and the PoPo were
standing outside.
There’s broken glass,
a rock
inside.
Officer takes a report, then tells
us catching someone probably
won’t happen. Dr. Martina nods,
shrugs. “I figured.”
Wait, we’re just supposed
to lay down and take it?
“This stuff happens, Angel,”
she says to the face I’m pulling.
When the cop leaves I get out
the Shop-Vac. Doctor tapes the hole,
calls around for replacement glass.
This is so fucked up
I got the shakes
like a junkie.
“So there’s nothin’
at all we can do,”
I say when she hangs up.
“We are doing something.
Every day we fight ignorance
and hatred with education.”
I like the good doctor too much
to tell her what bullshit
that sounds like right now
when I’m standing here
looking at all the shiny
pieces on the floor
and I’m thinking
of the glass coffee table
that broke
when
the Sperm Donor
pushed me into it.
How blood soaked
my favorite Juicy shirt.
“No son of mine!”
Damn straight—and now
I’m not his daughter either.
I know Jesus says forgive but
I’m not Jesus—I’m just a girl with
a vacuum cleaner, suckin’ up shards,
and they may look like they’re gone
’cause you can’t see ’em,
but they’re poking around inside.
I Pray to God
and it’s not just
for me I’m praying.
I think of the kids
coming in
s
eeing that taped-up window
hearing what happened.
Bad enough they get
told at home
at school
on the street
that they aren’t okay.
A broken window
of the only place that
welcomes ’em
gives the message
there’s not one single
spot
on this earth
that they are
safe.
(BRENDAN)
All the Next Day
the question I’m asking,
“What the hell?”
trails me.
And
that other word
follows it right behind.
Toilet paper
stuck to
my shoe.
What a crappy thing
to do.
What a crappy thing
to be.
All I need is
a bar code tattoo,
an eyebrow piercing,
and a sex change
to announce
to the world
I’m the new
American degenerate.
Freak-style.
Tuesday morning,
AP History,
looking for a pen
in my backpack
fingertips brush
the paper
that girl
gave me
outside of Willows.
What did she see
when she looked at me?
Guilty, I imagine
her kneeling,
picking up glass,
cutting herself.
In class
out of class
wrestling practice
awkward ride home.
(“Just in a bad mood,”
my excuse to Vanessa.)
Then finishing college applications
where the writing prompt asking me to
describe an incident that changed me
brings on a whole new anxiety.
Transgender.
Transwoman.
Transformed into a freak.
Transported to hell.
A Couple Days Later
Andy comes over
after dinner.
We’re headed upstairs
when Mom grabs me. Says,
“You look tired.”
I grunt.
“Were you up late
playing video games?”
“No.”
“Are your applications done?”
“Mostly.”
I brush by her.
Andy’s ahead of me
already disappearing
into my room.
I go after him, thinking
focusing on gaming’s a good idea.
That escapist virtual world
trumps this one
with its
twisted question
electric in my brain:
WHAT IF IT’S TRUE?