Freakboy Read online

  and I wish he’d just

  give me the prescription

  so I can go home and sleep.

  School’s fine.

  Friends are fine.

  Wrestling’s fine.

  Girlfriend’s fine.

  Fine.

  Fine.

  Fine.

  But not.

  And I can’t help it

  can’t help myself.

  I fail at

  being a boyfriend,

  being a guy

  and I’ll never be able

  to live as anything else.

  And somehow,

  thinking these things,

  (in the presence

  of a trained professional

  who nods and smiles)

  but knowing I will

  never

  ever

  be able to tell anyone

  pisses me off.

  (Vanessa)

  I’m Lonely Without Brendan

  Too much time

  to wonder and worry

  about what’s e a t i n g

  him. There’s no one to talk to

  and nothing to look forward to

  when he’s not here.

  I miss him at l u n c h

  and on break I sit in my car

  thinking about next year

  when he’ll be off to college

  and I’ll be here.

  Left all a l o n e.

  We’re Practicing Takedowns

  After fifty burpies

  a hundred push-ups

  countless squats

  my ponytail

  is wet and stringy

  by the time we

  partner up

  for my favorite drill.

  Thoughts of

  Brendan

  leak away in

  my pouring sweat.

  I shoot fast

  grab Sheahan,

  who, after two years

  as my workout partner,

  is so over any idea

  that I’m a fragile girl.

  I take him down.

  We stand up

  do it again

  over and over.

  I’m in the zone

  and he’s tired

  but when I hear the stop whistle

  I take him again

  ’cause I can.

  He calls me a dick

  then bumps my fist with his.

  We share a tired smile.

  At tournaments

  there’s always

  some buzz

  in my weight class

  about whether

  a win by me

  is legitimate.

  The only way to make sure

  is if my opponent goes for it—

  lets go of the thought I’m a girl.

  After all this time,

  it’s an easy thing

  for Sheahan (my friend?) to forget.

  I just hope that’s not

  what’s happened

  with Brendan.

  (Angel)

  When I Have Time

  I don’t mind

  doing dishes.

  Like it, even.

  The smell

  of lavender detergent

  from Trader Joe’s

  reminds me of my mama.

  I’m standing at the sink

  thinking of her, of Frankie,

  when Denai floats in.

  Lit up like that Christmas tree

  we still need to take down.

  “Sistah, you are glowing!”

  I turn, get a good look.

  “Is that my sweater?”

  “Mmmhmmm.” She’s dreamy.

  “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  I hand her a towel

  so she can dry,

  go back to the spaghetti pot

  I was scrubbing.

  I’ve seen that look on her before—

  envied it then, too.

  It’s that I-just-met-someone look.

  And it doesn’t

  seem to happen

  as often as it should

  to me.

  (Now, you could argue

  that my standards

  are higher than Denai’s

  and, Girl, you’d be right! Ewww,

  some of the boys

  she’s put up with!)

  But part of it’s

  what you could call

  a difference in philosophy.

  Nothin’ to do with standards at all.

  When (or if) to Disclose Birth Gender

  Such a controversy.

  The arguments go back

  and forth. Ping-pong.

  Denai passes really well—

  doesn’t see it as an issue.

  “I’m not gonna ask him

  what he was born with

  so there’s no reason

  to talk about me.”

  And that works for her.

  Some say it’s a question of safety—

  if he finds out later and freaks

  she could wake up dead.

  Others say choose smart,

  suss it out, then tell. Or don’t.

  Chantal says it’s my combat attitude

  contributes to dateless Saturday nights.

  Whatever. It gets me less boyfriends,

  but I like to ask up front

  if a potential date’s a transphobic bigot.

  Leave the disclosing to him.

  I Pass Really Well

  but there’s one thing …

  After I got out of the hospital

  Veronica said her no-illegal-drugs policy

  extended to hormones.

  So I had to go see a shrink

  for three months

  in order to get the legal kind.

  Dr. Hendricks gave me

  a personality test.

  I could tell the results weren’t

  what he expected.

  (Shrinks always think they’re

  better at hiding their thoughts

  than they are. Either that or God

  has given me psychic abilities.

  ’Cause I can always tell.)

  “You have astonishingly

  healthy self-esteem.”

  His “professional” opinion.

  I shrugged.

  I’m blessed to like me

  the way I am

  even if I like my body

  on hormones better.

  Not my fault the

  world just isn’t ready to

  stop defining gender

  the way it always has.

  Nothin’ to Be Ashamed Of

  There’s way worse things

  to be than transgender,

  let me tell you.

  Rapists who rape

  thieves who steal

  racists who degrade

  cowardly haters who

  do shit like burn crosses or

  throw rocks through windows.

  “Take it easy, Girl!”

  Denai’s laughing brings me back

  into the kitchen.

  “You’re gonna scrub a hole

  right through that pot!”

  I look down at the bristles

  of the brush in my hand.

  They’re flattened out.

  Usually I know my own strength

  but sometimes I don’t.

  (BRENDAN)

  It Turns Out

  moving through life

  pissed

  is better than

  moving through life

  sad and

  wanting what I’ll never have.

  I keep my distance from Court,

  who always wants a story. I

  snap at Andy, who says,

  “Whatever, Dude.”

  Snap at Mom, who says,

  “Watch it, mister.”

  Snap at Claude, who says,

  “That was out of line.”

  Snap at Vanessa, who says />
  nothing.

  And just before a meet on Saturday

  I even

  snap at Coach, who says,

  “That’s my boy, go get ’em.”

  He cups a hand on my shoulder

  before sending me onto the

  mat to crush my opponent

  from Jefferson High.

  My wrestling’s getting wilder,

  technique less refined.

  I’m on the verge

  and my adversaries know it.

  “Take it easy, Brendan.”

  But there’s no stopping me.

  Even the fact that I’ve come to

  really hate touching other guys—

  swarming over and around their bodies—

  takes a backseat to the unleashing

  fury of this body,

  this body that isn’t mine.

  My new maniac style

  impresses Coach.

  Bad luck.

  Because now he thinks

  he can depend on me.

  (Vanessa)

  Dateless, Friendless on a Friday Night

  Thank God Grand-maman

  isn’t here to witness it.

  She got on a plane

  back to France yesterday

  and my mother

  looks relaxed for the first time

  in weeks.

  I’m flipping through the channels

  trying to keep my

  mind off Brendan,

  who texted me

  at six to say he

  couldn’t go out.

  And I’m wrestling temptation

  to drive over to his house.

  Dad’s out with clients

  and Mom comes in with a

  bowl of popcorn.

  “What are we watching?”

  she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Flip, flip, flip.

  She sits next to me.

  Asks point-blank what’s going on

  and I’m pretty sure she

  wants to know about Brendan.

  I don’t want to

  talk about it—so

  I tell her about

  getting into a fight

  with Julie and Tanya instead.

  I don’t tell her it was about him.

  “Friendships can be

  complicated sometimes,

  especially at your age,”

  she says, and

  strokes my hair,

  tucks it behind my ear.

  “But, honey—the truest ones are

  worth the ups and downs.”

  That’s easy for her to say—

  she’s had the same best friend since

  she was in elementary school.

  They’re like sisters.

  Aunt Jennifer lives in Washington

  but they still visit each other

  and talk on the phone

  and laugh at weird inside jokes

  that no one else gets.

  I’m sure the best-girlfriend thing

  isn’t Grand-maman’s idea of paradise—

  she’s all about the guys,

  but it’s something

  when you consider that my mom

  has that AND she gets to have Dad, too.

  (BRENDAN)

  “People, People, Settle Down”

  Dean Johnston is trying to get

  all 900 of us to shut up

  for monthly assembly.

  The gym is loud

  but that word is quiet

  and I woke up today

  feeling almost okay.

  Andy’s sitting next to me

  bragging about how far

  he’s gotten with Lindy

  now that they’re together.

  “So you really like her, huh?”

  He looks confused for a minute.

  “Of course!”

  Damn, he’s a big mouth.

  I just can’t picture talking about Vanessa,

  or anyone I cared about,

  that way.

  We sit on hard benches

  divided into classes

  to listen to whatever

  antidrug motivational speaker

  the administration’s

  dragged in today.

  Lillian Bruner

  climbs up the bleachers,

  steps over my legs,

  and sits down between me and

  her girlfriends.

  She’s the queen of Miller Prep,

  star of the drama department,

  popular, and surprisingly cool.

  I glance over.

  She and Elise Hart

  are checking each other’s teeth

  making sure nothing’s stuck.

  A wave

  of weirdness

  washes over me.

  Dean Johnston is still

  trying to get people

  to shut up.

  Lillian says something low,

  her friends crack up,

  and my tenuous okay feeling

  sinks into something else.

  I notice the way they talk and

  laugh and touch one another

  and I can’t help it.

  Everything makes me jealous.

  The clothes they wear,

  the way people treat them.

  God, I’m even jealous

  of their little vanities.

  (You don’t see guys

  brushing their hair

  between classes.)

  I’m jealous of the way

  they hug in clusters,

  the way they always

  seem to have something

  to say to each other.

  Contrast that

  (even accounting

  for occasional mean-girl

  bitcheries)

  with

  sweat-stained shoves,

  murmurs of “Faggot,” “Queerbait,”

  and “In your face, asshole!”

  I glance at Andy,

  who seems to have finished

  providing me with the

  intimate details of his sex life,

  try to imagine hugging him.

  It’s a good thing I don’t want to,

  he’d probably pound the crap out of me.

  “Quiet, People!”

  Dean Johnston

  repeats into the mic

  for the third time.

  “We have a really special

  presentation for you this morning,

  brought to you by Plus Healthcare.

  “Later today

  your homeroom teachers

  will pass out”—

  Lil leans into me.

  “Give them air!” she says,

  even as Dean Johnston

  continues his sentence—

  “packets of information.”

  It’s funny and I laugh,

  one of her entourage

  for a delicious

  minute

  in time.

  (Vanessa)

  In the Bleachers

  Flannigan nudges me,

  points across the gym.

  “Check it out.”

  I look over to where

  the seniors sit.

  “What?” I ask him,

  scanning the rows.

  “Look who your boyfriend’s

  sitting next to.”

  Sheahan looks, too, shakes his head.

  “Flannigan, you’re such a shit-stirrer.”

  And it takes me a minute

  to see what they’re talking about

  because Brendan’s sitting

  almost sideways,

  his back to Andy.

  I’m sick, he says

  I’m depressed, he says

  I’m just not in the mood, he says

  and I’ve accepted his lame excuses

  for the distance,

  unreturned phone calls,

  short temper with me.

  And
there he is

  laughing it up

  with Lillian Bruner,

  looking anything

  but sick

  or depressed

  or not in the mood.

  “Shut up, Flannigan.” I strike a bored tone,

  outwardly calm in the

  din of the gym.

  Why doesn’t he laugh

  with me anymore?

  What happened to our

  Nation of Two?

  Is it about to include

  the state of Lilliandia?

  There’s no way he’d

  cheat on me though. Skin prickles.

  Is there?

  Thank God

  ceramics is

  right after assembly.

  Julie is at the table closest to the door.

  She nods at me when I walk past.

  I nod back, too preoccupied

  to think very hard about this subtle thawing.

  I settle in at my table

  to slam the hell

  out of a block of clay.

  Push and work

  knead and fold.

  “Take it easy, Vanessa,”

  Mr. Mathews says

  when he walks by.

  “Be careful—I think you’re

  working air bubbles into that.”

  I ignore him,

  pound and push

  knead and fold.

  All tail

  no tongue.

  Oh, God.

  What if Brendan

  just doesn’t love me anymore?

  (BRENDAN)

  The Closer Finals Get

  the nastier Coach gets

  (a real motivator).

  He’s working

  the team,

  working me,

  harder than

  ever before.

  (I’d like to see him

  do a hundred push-ups

  after rope climbing.)

  Training lasts

  three hours now

  and I hear his voice

  in my sleep,

  what little I get,

  because after practice,

  it’s home to homework

  till one or two (and I’m down

  to a B in AP History),

  then gaming for an hour to relax

  and when I close my eyes

  I see a river stone

  sail through a window

  and that word gets loud.

  My Insides Are Roiling

  A concert tonight

  means leaving practice early.

  Coach didn’t say anything

  when I first told him

  but that was two hours ago—

  steam’s had time to build,

  and sure enough, he follows me

  when I leave the wet heat

  of the wrestling room.

  Outside, the cool air

  feels like an attack.

  “Remind me why you’re leaving,

  when the rest of the team is

  in there working their asses off?”