I’m clean and
at the table and
exhausted.
Eating’s a chore.
After Dinner
I go lie down.
Mom comes into
my room, sits
on the bed.
My eyes stay closed.
She doesn’t beat
around the bush.
“Honey, I’m worried about you.”
Her hand smooths
my high forehead.
“I’m okay,
just don’t feel well.”
“I hear that a lot from you.”
“It’s true.”
“Even so—I have a thought…”
Uncertainty in her voice
makes me open my eyes.
Hers are welling.
There’s Courtney in her face.
“I know you’re not comfortable
talking to me—
and I know I’ve had issues
with counseling in the past…”
“Why?” I ask.
She gets a faraway look.
It lasts a long time
and I think she’s forgotten
the question, until she
speaks again.
“I think I misread your father’s
intentions,” she says quietly.
“When people divorce, even when
they try to keep it amicable …
there’s a lot of hurt feelings,
misunderstanding…”
She looks down at me
and I want to look away
but I don’t.
“Now I think he really was
worried about you.”
She stares
off again.
I stay silent.
Finally:
“But maybe Dr. Andrews
just isn’t a good fit?”
The whole conversation
so out of left field.
No idea what to say.
“I just want you to know our
insurance has a list
of other therapists,
if you want,
and if it’s something you choose
for yourself—maybe it
could be a good thing.”
I’m tired.
She’s trying.
She’s too late.
“Andrews is fine.
I’m just sick.”
“Maybe—but it might be good
for you to talk to someone else,
anyway … Will you?”
I’m not going to argue
but I’m not committing either.
“We’ll see.”
She doesn’t push
for more than that.
The truth is
I am not planning to talk to anyone else
ever.
Tiny White Torpedoes
squeezed tight in my fist.
Leftovers from breast surgery.
Discovered behind the vitamins
in Mom’s medicine cabinet.
How many,
I wonder?
How many
would take me under
slow
breath
heartbeat
let
this
body
this
wrong
body
this
brain
this
wrong
brain
sleep?
No Note
could ever explain
and why
reveal
that the
inexplicable
even exists
when it will just
lead to more
questions?
No answers.
Far beyond
feeling mean
at the thought
of making them guess
all I feel
is a forever
dull ache
that will
probably
exist
for as
long as
I do.
Midnight
The wedge of light
under Mom’s door
is snuffed out.
I line up the pills
on my nightstand
one row of twenty
is this it?
rearrange them
two rows of ten
I don’t think it will hurt
now three of six
with two left over
and even if it does—
now four of five
with none left over—
it’ll stop eventually
now two of seven
with six left over
No school tomorrow;
they’ll let me sleep
now two of eight
with four left over
hours from now
I don’t know where I’ll be—
now two of nine
with two left over—
but this body will be here
stiff,
cold?
“BRENDY!!!”
My door slams open
a hallway shriek,
night-terror eyes wild
hair sticking out.
My heart explodes
like it did
that night
in the graveyard.
Courtney’s too freaked
by whatever monster
she’s seen
to notice my girlish yell
or the pills
on my nightstand.
I’m Leading Her
back to her room
when Mom sticks
her head out.
“Nightmare,” I say.
“I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure?” She yawns,
clearly hoping to go back to bed.
My throat closes; that’s it.
I will be Little Mother.
In the pretty pink
princess palace.
I sit with my baby sister
waiting for her to sleep,
heart squeezing,
folding, turning over.
Courtney
could be the one
to find me dead.
What would that do?
What would
her tomorrow look like?
And the tomorrows
after that?
How messed up
would she be?
The little-kid
memory
of touching
poking
prodding
my lifeless body?
Not Dying
isn’t the same as
choosing to live,
not right away.
In the bathroom
I pee sitting down,
thinking about it.
Go to the beach?
Would the i m p u l s e
to throw my body into
night-blackened water
outlast my bio-instinct
to breathe?
Would this body struggle
against my own intention
mind, soul, body connection d e n i e d?
Would I care who
found me, looking like
a bloated small seal,
a tuskless walrus?
As long as it wasn’t Courtney?
What do humpbacks think
when they beach themselves
on land and people go to crazy efforts,
tugging them
pushing them
rolling them
back into the sea?
Afterward, do the whales
look back to shore, thinking,
I feel better now—
and there are
some humans
I need to t h a n k
for disallowing my
self-destruction.
Or do they just
>
think, Oh, G o d,
I have to try, try again.
When I get into bed
I think maybe
I won’t try
not right now anyway.
Instead
I call Angel
first thing in the morning
because
there has to be
a better way
to deal
with being me
and that
other option
will always
exist
if I need it.
We Meet Down at Mono Cove
Waves crash
sea spray
and
I come out
into sunshine
that almost hurts
my eyes.
We walk.
I talk.
Angel listens.
I tell her about that night.
“I don’t know why I did it.”
And I don’t, not for sure.
“Maybe I thought
the sound of breaking glass
would drown out
that word?”
She nods.
“Uncool,” she says.
“But I think I understand.”
Pauses.
“You got freaked
figuring out
you’re genderqueer.”
And even though
Angel says it quiet
the new word
bounces off the bluff
soft round sound
for such sharp edges.
Queerbait.
Queer as a three-dollar bill.
Smear the queer.
I consider
in silence.
Genderqueer.
The way
she says it
doesn’t feel
like a put-down.
I slip it on over my head
stretch around
feel it on my skin
not male
not female.
A gull wheels by,
swoops down,
pecks in the
tangled
seaweed.
It reminds me of
the grabby women
at the bra-and-panty table
in Girl World.
“I have no idea where I fit in.”
She smiles. “You think
you’re the only one?”
“I’m just not … flamboyant.”
“Shit, it’s not about
how you dress—it’s
not even about your body parts.
Uh-uh—it’s about your soul.”
Maybe, maybe not.
My voice
is small in my ears.
“I’ll feel like Freakboy
no matter where I go.”
She stops walking,
looks me in the eye.
“Everyone feels like a freak
until they make up their mind
they’re not.”
It’s full confession time.
“I read about people who’ve known
forever they belong in a different body,
“but I’m not even always sure I’m trans.
“Sometimes, being a guy is … not horrible.”
My shrug tightens,
my shoulders go round.
“Sometimes, it hurts more than anything.”
A tortuous
back and forth.
“What’s it even mean
that I’m never sure
either way?”
And really.
How can
you ever
get a grip
on THAT?
“Lord knows,
we don’t need
more labels,” she says.
But then
she gives me
two words
that push
the
pieces
of
the
puzzle together.
“Gender Fluid”
I study the phrase.
My soul a vapor
wafting
wafting
between male
and female.
I am
everything
and
nothing
but moist breath and soul.
We sit in the sand
backs against
the bluff
quiet
for a moment
just watching the waves
until a couple
one man
one woman
walk by us,
holding hands,
at ease.
Vapor condenses
falls to earth. Heavy.
“I just can’t imagine what
my future could possibly look like.”
“Only God knows what’s in store!
You could win the lottery or
get hit by a bus.”
In spite of me
I almost smile.
“I’d rather win the lottery.”
“Only one thing’s for sure,”
she says. “You will never,
EVER
beat me
at Mordock’s Giant.”
And now I do smile.
A small thing
that feels good.
(Vanessa)
Teacher In-Service Day
means no school
but Brendan’s not home.
“Would you like to come in though?”
his mom asks me.
She gestures on a cloud
of light perfume that
Grand-maman would appreciate.
I think of the way
Mrs. Chase traded in
one husband for another
and I realize
that Grand-maman’s little lessons
are all about how to get a guy
but not about how to have a relationship
with anyone.
Even yourself.
Waiting Around
is not what I do best,
but I think
about Brendan
all alone.
He needs a friend.
I need a friend.
It’s worth some time
with his mom.
Everything looks like
it did weeks ago.
I sit on the same old sofa—
she offers the same old soda.
“We’ve missed you,”
she says.
The same old grandfather clock
ticks away the awkward minutes
but it all somehow feels different.
“I’ve been busy with
wrestling.”
“Oh, of course! I’m just
glad to see you.
Brendan’s seemed a little
down lately.”
She’s looking at me
with some expectation
in her eyes, like I can
tell her what’s going on with him.
But I can’t.
And I’m feeling weirded out,
so I make small talk
until I can politely leave.
At the door,
she surprises me
with a hug.
“I’m glad you came by—
Brendan needs his friends.”
I head to my car
thinking that
of all the things
I’m good at,
wrestling,
ceramics,
even school,
being a friend
is not what I do best.
Not to Brendan.
Not to Julie.
Not to Tanya.
But I’m willing
to work on it.
With all of them.
(Angel)
We Go Back to Brendan’s
and his girlfriend’s
just comin’ down the wa
lk.
He seems surprised to see her.
“Vanessa!”
We just stand there
looking at each other,
till he remembers his manners.
“This is Angel.”
We shake hands
like we’re old people.
“Courtney’s new babysitter?”
Her voice has an edge to it.
Brendan looks to me
for a second
like he wants to lie
but he straightens his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, no.”
She nods once
turns to get in the car.
Brendan’s face is so sad …
these two need to talk.
I was supposed to go in with him
get a game he was tellin’ me about
but it can wait.
“I better get going.
I have a big date
with my boyfriend, Marcus,” I say.
Brendan’s look,
pure gratitude
sunshine.
I Take the Bus to Willows
My heart starts beating
when I see Dr. M’s in her office.
“You got a minute?” I ask.
She smiles, gestures me in.
It’s warm today
and her blazer’s slung
on the back of the chair. Even so,
she looks totally professional.
Someone you can look up to.
“I have an ethical dilemma,” I say,
and she raises her eyebrows.
I tell her about
the first time I met Brendan
when he got sick in the planter.
And she looks serious
when I tell her about how
he came into Willows
a few weeks later,
how I didn’t think he’d come back,
and how I gave him my number again.
I tell her about going to his house,
borrowing his PS2.
I tell her about everything
except the window
because Brendan’s
paying for it
and I’ve pretty much
decided it’s
his to tell.
I’m hoping
one day
he just might.
When I’ve finished talking
she leans back in her chair,
still looking serious.
“The fact that he
technically wasn’t a client
does make this a gray area.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you’re correct
in thinking that there’s an
ethical problem here,” she says.
And my heart sinks.
“There are good reasons
for the no-fraternization policy.
Our kids can be fragile—
an unscrupulous person
could take advantage.”
Dr. M’s chair creaks
when she leans toward me.
“But I know you, Angel.
“You’re not unscrupulous
just unschooled. The fact you
brought this to my attention
tells me you’ve learned enough
that it won’t happen again.”
Freakboy Page 16
