Freakboy
Page 15
We walk, comfortable.
“It’s so weird,
how things change,
isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, you think you’re going to be with
someone for a long time—it’s October
and you ask her to the prom—or even
talk about summer plans. By the time
those roll around you’re just not into each
other anymore. And I always wonder …
What changed? And how?”
Forty-Five Minutes Later
I’m stepping
onto the mat for my first bout and
What changed?
is the clang in my ears.
It rings even as I shoot fast,
get the takedown points
drive my chin
into the guy from Clark’s shoulder
cross face,
guillotine
let him up
take him down again
and again
double cobra.
Win
because my opponent
was a bad wrestler
not because I was
on my game.
What changed?
It’s what I’m still thinking when
I lose the next two matches.
Pinned both times.
In the first round.
I walk off the mat
and someone says,
“That’s what you get,
little-girl loser.”
But I barely hear it.
What Really Has Changed?
I wonder, and I’m dazed.
Disappointed in my losses,
but not surprised—
I wrestled poorly.
Waking up
to the fact that
he’s not the one
who’s changed
took away my focus.
Sweet Brendan
loving Brendan
Mr. Hilarious Brendan
driven Brendan
playful Brendan
even distant Brendan
and for sure
depressed Brendan
is just Brendan.
Phase or not.
(BRENDAN)
Monday Morning Announcements
and the whole school gets to hear
that Miller Prep lost finals by six points.
Just so happens that’s the exact number
a team forfeits
when there’s a hole in the lineup.
I come out of a bathroom stall and
Rudy and Gil are waiting for me.
“We lost because of you,
you little faggot.”
They’re between me and the door.
It’s class change—
outside the hallway is loud.
If I shout would anyone hear?
Blood cracks in my veins.
My heart freezes.
Or would the rest of the team
come in, hold me down?
Gil steps forward.
Rudy smiles an evil smile.
“We’re gonna make you sorry
you got up this morning.”
“Hell”—Gil’s smiling, too—
“we’re gonna make you
sorry you were born.”
He steps in front of me.
Rudy’s still blocking the door.
I can’t move.
When the fist comes
it doubles me over
pain sears my gut
I can’t breathe.
The fist comes again
only this time it connects
with my nose and I see stars.
Then I’m on my side
and Gil is kicking me
and in the distance
like some psycho sound track
I can hear Rudy laughing.
Then the door opens.
The kicking stops.
“Dudes, what’s going on?”
It’s Andy.
“Teaching the fag a lesson.”
Gil’s already stepping back.
I look over, see Andy nod.
He’s the only kid
in the school
as big as Gil.
As tough.
“That’s probably enough,”
he says.
“Bell’s about to ring
anyway,” Rudy says.
Gil heads for the exit.
When he’s safely past Andy
he says, “We’ll leave your
girlfriend alone.”
He and Rudy laugh out the door.
I shift
to sit.
I’m slow.
I’m hurt.
I’m grateful.
I need a hand
to stand up.
Extend mine
to
Andy.
He looks at it.
Looks at me.
And shoves out the door.
I Leave School Without a Pass
The bus home
smells bad and
it wheezes and grunts;
like it’s not gonna lie—
grinding away from the curb
takes effort; you’ll f i n d
out just how hard moving
forward is. Maybe there’s something
at the end of the line—
maybe there’s nothing at all.
I’ve never been there
and for all I know, m y
ride’s an infinite one.
Buildings and cars sliding by,
without end? What if there
was some w a y
to find out.
If I stayed on the bus, just
rode beyond the
horizon, checked o u t
of life here?
Would I find anything
at all? Angelic white forms
floating, soothing songs o f
joy and forgiveness?
Malicious horned beasts
with pitchforks and tails?
We used to go to church,
and yet t h i s
seems unlikely to me.
What I think
best case
would be,
a blank
dark room
at the end
of the line.
Dreamless sleep.
Male, female consciousness
gone to the grave
along with your b o d y.
No One at Home
Walking
up
stairs
is such
an effort.
I fall
into bed
for the rest
of the day
drowsing
in and out.
Don’t Do Sadness
Don’t do sadness
don’t do sadness
don’t sadness
dadness
deadness
drift
down
sad
sorry
wrong.
Wrong flesh
wrong bones
wrong
wrong
wrong
wrong
the word “wrong”
sounds wrong.
Consciousness
surges
retreats
Little hands
grab,
poke.
Grabbing.
Poking.
“Brendy? Brendy?
Where do you hurt?”
Then shoving.
“Where do you hurt, Brendy?”
A small voice
panicked
wakes me up.
It must be late
if Courtney’s home
from after-school
day care already.
“I’m okay,”
I tell her.
But I’m not.
“Are you sick
?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you throw up?”
“Yes,” I lie.
It’s the best way I know
to get everyone to
leave me alone.
But not Courtney.
“Should I get Mommy?”
“No—I just need rest.”
“I’ll read to you.” She puts her face
close to mine, repeats what
someone’s said to her for sure.
“It’s very restful.”
I don’t have the energy
to tell her no.
She bounces off
to get a book
and I drowse.
She brings back several,
pretends to read.
For a long time.
I fall asleep during The Three Little Pigs,
wake up during Beauty and the Beast.
“But Beauty wasn’t scared even
though she had a scaredy face.
She was just sad for Beast
because he threw up.”
A kiss on my shoulder.
Eyes tight,
I wait for her to go away.
When I open them Court’s gone
but Mom’s there
thirty feet tall.
“Dinnertime.
Are you okay?”
“Not hungry,” I tell her.
“Maybe something I ate.”
She starts to step forward—I
think she’s going
to kiss my forehead
like she did
tucking me into bed
when I was little
and I’m surprised to realize
I wouldn’t mind that
right now.
Would welcome it.
The Interloper
calls her name.
She shakes her head.
“I’ll check in on you later.”
Leaves.
From Sucky to Worse
The crowning touch
of the whole day,
one that would prove
God hated me—
if I believed in Him—
is when I turn on my Mac.
An e-mail from a school that starts,
We are happy to inform you,
is really saying,
You’re special.
We want you!
Come be one of us.
You can ditch
your parents
your sucky town
your shitty life.
An e-mail that starts,
We regret to inform you,
is really saying,
You are a loser
with nothing to offer.
You are worthless and
we don’t want you here.
You’re stuck where you are,
you immoral freak of nature.
Guess which one
the University of Chicago sent?
And my pathetic first thought
is to find my phone,
call Vanessa,
tell her
about my rejection
but she knows about me
hates me.
I’m Tired
So tired of
everything.
Of pushing
that word
down.
Away.
That I AM in the
wrong body and
no one will
ever love me.
That I’m in the wrong skin
but there’s no way
to make it right
because I’m not into
long fingernails,
high heels, or skirts
either.
I’m Freakboy and
there will never
be a place for me.
Anywhere.
And out of
thoughts that’ve
floated for
a long time
a plan starts
to take shape in
my exhausted head.
(Angel)
I Have My First Fight
with Marcus
heading home from
the Bean Scene
full on mochas
and conversation
about his moms.
“They’re pretty great,” I tell him.
He smiles.
“I know—they liked you, too—
even if you told them
the wrong dilemma.”
“Huh?”
“I thought you were going to ask
them about the ethics of a
friendship with a client.”
“It’s not about me—
it’s what I should do
about Brendan breaking
the window!”
“The window thing is
Brendan’s,” he agrees.
“But you said yourself
you’d have a hard time
explaining your friendship
to Dr. Martina,
because he came to Willows
as a potential client.”
His words poke
at me and, Girl,
I stop walking.
“You’re keeping something
from your boss because you think
it might show you did wrong.
Baby, that’s an ethical dilemma
right there.”
“You sayin’ I’m wrong
to be friends with
a kid who needs one?”
I stare him right
in his cocoa eyes.
“Easy there!”
He takes a step back.
“No judgment, it was just
an observation!”
The hell?!!
Sounded
pretty judgmental
to me.
I look away, try not to notice how his
biceps bulge when he crosses his arms.
I’m ready to
tell him
he sounds like a
self-righteous asshole
when he
says soft, “I’m not even saying
it’s for sure wrong—I’m just
saying maybe you should give
Dr. Martina a chance
to weigh in on it.”
My Boyfriend Won
our first fight because, Lord?
I think he’s right.
But I’m gonna need
Your help in this
for sure.
Confession is good for the soul
but it might be
hell on a résumé.
Marcus kisses me good night
when we get to my place.
And even though
there’s no answer when I call
I leave a message for Brendan
before I go to sleep.
Because if I’m risking
getting in trouble
at my job,
I may as well be
a true friend—
and pay it forward first.
(BRENDAN)
Angel’s Message
A beacon
over water,
“I’m not gonna lie—
I’m mad—but
I didn’t give you
a chance to explain.
I wanna
know more.
Give me a call
so we can talk.”
Shines useless
on a
sinking ship.
Asking Myself the Biggest Question
Pills or rope?
Gets interrupted
by Courtney,
who comes
to my door.
It’s late
she should
be in bed.
“Brendy? I brought you a cookie!”
She hands me a snickerdoodle,
props the Max doll I gave her for Christmas
on my nightstand,
settles her
back against me.
“I made it for you. Eat it!”
she demands.
Long after you go down
and the vessel rusts apart
your bones sunken
buried in the ocean floor
I wonder if you miss people?
(Vanessa)
Lillian Bruner’s Having a Party
I go with Sheahan.
None of us are strangers to big houses
but Lillian’s is gargantuan.
And I want to make a joke about her
needing it to house her giant ego
but Sheahan has a crush
on her and I don’t want anyone
to think I’m a snide bitch.
No one here knows me well enough
to know that a joke is just a joke.
I miss Julie
I miss Tanya
I miss Brendan.
The people who know me.
The music’s crazy loud
so we wander out
to the backyard
drink beer
from red plastic cups
stand away from the smokers
watch a couple of seniors
play some weird
gladiator game on the lawn.
Andy runs out of the house,
tackles one of the players.
“Centurion, welcome!”
the other one shouts.
“Talked to Brendan lately?”
Sheahan asks me.
I shake my head.
“Sucks to be him.”
We watch the guys
rolling around on the grass
being stupid.
And all I can think
is how much it DOES suck.
Because if I’m feeling
friendless even with Sheahan,
Brendan really is
alone.
We never had that
we’ll-still-be-friends talk.
It Sucks Even More
that I’m good at things
as challenging
as ceramics
as grueling
as wrestling
but simple friendship
turned out to be
something too hard
for me
to stick with.
(BRENDAN)
Sunday Night Dinner
I’m not hungry
but it’s my turn to set the table.
Courtney’s happy—
she gets to light the candles,
but wrinkles her nose.
“Brendy, you stink.”
“So do you.”
“No really.” Mom butts in.
“When was the last time
you showered?”
“Really?”
I can’t say exactly
when the last time
my skin, this skin
was clean.
“Really,” she says, glancing at
the Interloper. “Dinner’s not
for twenty minutes.
Go. Bathe.”
She manages to look disgusted
and concerned
at the same time.
A half hour later