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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Pronoun

  The Name Is Brendan

  Wrestling Didn’t Always Suck

  I Know What He’s Saying

  My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places

  The Night I Was a Girl

  Opportunity Knocks

  Three Years Ago

  In Ceramics

  Centering the Clay

  At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door

  The Santa Ana Wind

  A Year Later

  How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?

  Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations

  Some Truths Don’t Go Over So Well

  Last Night’s Mistake

  After Vanessa Dropped Me Off

  Nightmare

  Thank God for Dry Toast

  Off the Bus

  When I’m Not at School

  The Bus Roars Away

  Confused? Hardly.

  I Like a Challenge

  A Change of Weather

  So What if Last Night Didn’t Go as Planned?

  Lucky

  In the Gym

  Vanessa Snags My Water Bottle

  At Home After Dinner

  When I Was a Little Kid

  When That Word Bursts

  Glass Shatters

  Sometimes the Real World Hurts

  I Pray to God

  All the Next Day

  A Couple Days Later

  College Applications, Round One

  Wednesday After Conditioning

  Mama’s Sweet Corn Stuffing

  It’s the American Way

  You Know It’s True

  At the Smiths’

  No Guidebook

  Sex Maniac

  The Next Morning

  Things Look Different

  I’m Bothering Julie

  10 Hours Later

  Busy Schedules

  Saturday’s Tournament

  Because Going Home Is Such a Ride

  Sunday Night at Andy’s House

  Online Before Bed

  The Second-to-Last Present I Got

  I Showed Up at Tía Rosa’s

  Gonna Ignore Those Bad Manners

  Back at the Center

  Because Honestly

  O Christmas Tree.

  Home from the Ordeal

  Early Christmas Present

  And Speaking of Perfection

  “Phewie, That Stinks!”

  Hormones

  Roger Was Man of the House

  Sunday Afternoon

  Crisis Averted.

  Bowling

  Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks

  My Problem

  Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume

  Christmas Day

  Holiday-Schedule Bus

  Could He Be Less Romantic?

  Back at My House

  Crying into My Pillow

  At Bedtime

  The Next Day

  New Year’s

  Frankie’s Back from Cancún

  Screw the Rest of the World

  Brendan’s Sick on New Year’s Eve

  I Pretend

  A Forbidden Jewel

  But Cinderella Perfection Can’t Last

  Because of Frankie

  Only Friend I Still Have

  Tonight the House Is Quiet.

  No Hope in Hell of Normal

  A Simple Solution

  Final Day of Winter Recess

  Gorgeous Sunday

  Three Years Ago

  Sundays Like Today

  Today Was Just Another Crappy Day

  In the Parking Lot

  On the Wall

  The Big Question

  I Can Tell

  Driving to Brendan’s

  On the Way Home

  Dr. Do-Little’s Office

  I’m Lonely Without Brendan

  We’re Practicing Takedowns

  When I Have Time

  When (or if) to Disclose Birth Gender

  I Pass Really Well

  Nothin’ to Be Ashamed Of

  It Turns Out

  Dateless, Friendless on a Friday Night

  “People, People, Settle Down”

  “Quiet, People!”

  In the Bleachers

  Thank God

  The Closer Finals Get

  My Insides Are Roiling

  Mom and Claude the Interloper

  I’m Finishing Homework

  I Think of THAT Night

  Next Day’s a Minimum Day

  I Get Off a Stop Early

  It’s the Shy Kid from the Bus

  Q Is for Question

  Funny Timing That Boys’ Night Out

  Before Bed

  Tuesday After Practice

  Heeding the Call

  Living That Part in Secret

  Thank You, God, for Everything

  Five O’clock, the Most Beautiful Hour

  How a Girl Gets a Reputation

  Brendan’s Mom and Stepdad Leave

  Brendan Opens the Door

  Brendan Pulls Me Inside

  My Heart

  Guilt Is Beach Sand

  1 a.m.: The Phone Rings

  “No Idea What to Do,”

  Angel Was So Pissed Last Night

  Hazardous

  “What the Fu—”

  Will He Tell?

  Awake All Night

  Brendan Chase Is a Fag

  No Idea What I’m Going to Say

  Even Predictable Explosions Are Scary

  Before Econ the Next Day

  Flannigan Stops Me

  Vanessa’s Car Idles Near the Bus Stop

  You Know That Feeling of Falling

  There’s Always a Choice?

  I Drive Home Numb

  All Vanessa Said

  Not Me

  Surprise! Happy Birthday!!!!

  Three Years Ago Today

  Veronica Says

  In the Morning

  At Breakfast

  Brendan and I

  I Have a Question

  The Night Before Wrestling Finals

  There Are Phases

  Nerves at the Sight of a Sweet Bungalow

  I Keep Messing Up

  Weigh-In for Wrestling Finals

  Forty-Five Minutes Later

  What Really Has Changed?

  Monday Morning Announcements

  I Leave School Without a Pass

  No One at Home

  Don’t Do Sadness

  From Sucky to Worse

  I’m Tired

  I Have My First Fight

  My Boyfriend Won

  Angel’s Message

  Asking Myself the Biggest Question

  Lillian Bruner’s Having a Party

  It Sucks Even More

  Sunday Night Dinner

  After Dinner

  Tiny White Torpedoes

  No Note

  Midnight

  I’m Leading Her

  Not Dying

  Instead

  We Meet Down at Mono Cove

  “Gender Fluid”

  Teacher In-Service Day

  Waiting Around

  We Go Back to Brendan’s

  I Take the Bus to Willows

  “The Truth Will Set You Free”

  Angel Takes Off

  There Is No Tidy Endin
g for Someone Like Me

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  Further Reading

  Copyright

  To every Freakboy and Freakgirl out there:

  You are not a freak.

  And you are not alone.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There are as many expressions of gender identity as there are individuals. No two are exactly the same. I would never in a million years attempt to tell the transgender story. All I can do is tell a transgender story and cross my fingers that people will be interested enough to start asking their own questions.

  It is my hopeful intention that this will lead to conversation that will in turn draw us all along the path to a greater understanding and acceptance of gender’s vast and lovely variation.

  Peace and Love,

  Kristin Elizabeth Clark

  Pronoun

  A pronoun is a ghost

  of who you really are

  short

  sharp

  harsh

  whispering its presence,

  taunting your soul.

  In you

  of you

  but not

  all you.

  Struggling,

  my own

  He She

  Him Her

  I You.

  Scared that

  for scrambled-pronoun

  Me,

  We

  might never

  exist.

  (BRENDAN CHASE)

  The Name Is Brendan

  Dinner table,

  silverware gleaming.

  Claude the Interloper finishes

  telling a story.

  Mom passes me steak.

  “How was your day?”

  She’s chirping, despite

  surgery two days ago.

  I shrug

  the missed bus,

  shrug

  the half-hour wait for the next one,

  shrug

  the wrestling practice that blew.

  Don’t bother to elaborate.

  Mom hates Coach

  (almost) as much as I do.

  Freshman year

  she wanted me to skip holiday practice

  so what was left of our family

  could go on vacation.

  Coach described the importance of

  “consistent training and conditioning.”

  Said he always mentioned “dedication”

  in his college letters of recommendation.

  She wavered and then

  he told her flat out that

  I was the weakest link

  and always would be if I was a

  mama’s boy who’d miss training.

  She was ticked, but

  we stayed in town

  with the other manly

  and dedicated jocks.

  He was on my ass today

  for getting caught

  by a head-and-arm drag.

  A crappy thing itself,

  our faces so close.

  Still he yelled.

  And through all the drills

  my head wasn’t in it.

  Wrestling Didn’t Always Suck

  Miller Prep Academy

  requires a six-term

  commitment to

  at least one sport

  and at first

  it seemed like

  less torture

  than the others.

  No ball to get nailed by,

  or drop. No baton to fumble

  in the last leg of the relay,

  pissing off your teammates.

  Just you and

  your opponent.

  Grappling

  one on one.

  But four years

  of relentless splat on the mat have

  brought out a bunch of little hells

  I’d never even considered

  so that now

  I hate touching other guys.

  I hate my own body.

  And most of all?

  I hate Coach Childers.

  He calls me Brenda.

  I Know What He’s Saying

  But I like girls. Always have,

  even in elementary school.

  Sandbox dust in my nose,

  jungle gym–blistered hands.

  Hanging with the guys,

  but glad when a girl’d

  ask me

  to

  play

  something.

  Yeah, mostly the same games

  when it came to

  handball and foursquare.

  But comfortable.

  When you got hurt

  girls’d ask

  what

  was

  wrong.

  Guys would ignore you,

  call you names

  when your eyes watered

  at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.

  If you couldn’t stop the tears

  they’d yank out more words,

  like “crybaby” (or worse), to

  hit

  you

  with.

  And I loved the way girls wore their hair.

  Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.

  Loved the colors they strutted

  across the yard: bright purple, pink.

  Loved other things they played,

  like animal hospital or house.

  Loved the sound of their voices

  when

  they’d

  call

  to

  me.

  Still,

  a shadow lurks

  near the

  edge

  of

  my

  head

  whispering,

  “You like girls too much,

  and not in

  the same

  way

  everyone

  else

  does.”

  My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places

  I twitch, gulp milk,

  slam the glass back on the table.

  A salad plate jumps.

  Claude the Interloper frowns.

  Mom winces.

  Sister giggles.

  “Hey, squirt,” I say,

  pinning girl-thoughts

  to the mat and

  gaining control

  of my brain.

  “Do you like my princess hat?”

  She tilts her head toward me

  like I might not otherwise

  notice the pink cone,

  its lace ribbon dangling

  close to her mac and cheese.

  I move the plate a little.

  “So you’re a princess now.”

  “No, Brendy, it’s just

  for Halloween!”

  A gap toothed smile.

  I was twelve

  when she was born.

  Everyone said we looked alike.

  Mom’s gray-blue eyes,

  Dad’s cheekbones.

  But Courtney has it all over me

  in the hair department—

  hers thick, wavy, and long.

  Mine straight, short, and,

  I swear, already falling out.

  Still, she’s my favorite person

  besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.

  (Sounds lame, I know.)

  I’m not religious; in fact

  I’m not sure I even believe in God

  (though we used to go

  to church religiously [ha]),

  but from the second Dad

  put her

  into my arms,

  burrito-wrapped

  in a little pink blanket,

  innocent face

  and tiny fingernails,

  I saw Divine

  attention to detail.

  So small.

  So perfect.

  It’s not a guy thing,

  but I like babysitting.

  Andy called her chick bait.

  We used to push her stroller

  to th
e park

  and girls would wander over

  to oooh

  to ahhh.

  When Courtney

  took her first steps

  toward me

  Dad called me smitten.

  Mom called me Little Mother.

  That homey scene in eighth grade,

  on my baby sister’s first birthday.

  Exactly one month before

  Mom, the harp player, left

  Dad, the biomedical engineer, for

  Claude, the Interloper.

  Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.

  His orchestra’s music

  poison to my father’s ear.

  Dad’s banished—2,000 miles away.

  (Not that we hung out a ton

  when he lived closer

  but at least it was an option.)

  Now he’s president of a biotech firm,

  seen only in summer

  when Mom needs to dump us—

  “Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!”—

  so she can tour with

  her new (and improved)

  husband.

  “Big plans tomorrow?”

  she asks.

  “Party at Andy’s.”

  Claude the Interloper

  raises an eyebrow.

  He doesn’t like Andy,

  hates the way he just walks

  into the house without knocking.

  Thinks it’s rude that Andy

  checks out the food in our kitchen

  when he’s hungry

  and maybe it is—

  but I do the same thing at his house

  and have since seventh grade,

  a year before any of us were aware

  of the Interloper’s sorry existence.

  “I wanted to ask if you’d

  take Courtney

  trick-or-treating first.”

  Don’t mind the trick-or-treating

  but I’m tortured by the reason

  Mom’s asking.

  She’s recovering from

  “an enhancement procedure”

  and SURPRISE she’s sore.

  Still, I avert my eyes

  from her new shape

  and nod yes.

  “What are you going to be?”

  Court asks.

  Now there’s a question

  and a depressing memory.

  The Night I Was a Girl

  Last year sucked.

  The whole wrestling team

  went to school as cheerleaders.

  No choice but to go along.

  Shaved legs and everything,

  we all did it—even Rudy and Gil.

  They’re team co-captains.

  Jerk-asses, towel snappers,

  the first to bend fingers

  when the ref’s on the blind side.

  They told Vanessa,

  “Brenda looks so natural

  she must do this a lot.”

  (Angel Hansted)

  Opportunity Knocks

  The bus makes a lurching turn

  and I’m tellin’ you,

  I’m thrown against

  the hottest guy ever

  to wear a Halloween-theme tie.