Freakboy Read online

He has that slicked-back,

  butter-on-hot-corn-wouldn’t-melt-

  in-my-mouth, don’t-touch-me-I’m-cool

  look—but doesn’t lean away

  not at first.

  I can tell he’s checking me out

  but isn’t gonna be obvious.

  What’s the point in being so shy, I

  wanna ask him. Get bold.

  “Opportunity curves”

  is what I say instead. He grins at me

  for a second—then eyebrows raise.

  He gets up and changes seats.

  The smile

  (it wasn’t so

  hot after all)

  leaves when he clocks me.

  I mostly pass—but

  I’ve been made enough times to

  know the exact second it happens.

  And I just wanna say to Mr. Corn-hole

  mouth, “Your loss.”

  My stop’s next, anyway.

  Toss my head, get off

  at Evergreen Community College.

  Got my GED here.

  I tell you now

  classes are a habit.

  Finish my degree

  (social work major),

  then it’s off to difference-making

  full-time employment

  for Angel.

  Maybe I can change up some things.

  Someone’s gotta do it.

  Someone like me, I mean.

  Someone who knows simple basics.

  You wanna assign roommates

  in group homes based on birth sex assignment?

  Go ahead, idiot.

  Make it easy for thugs to

  S m e a r

  the Queer.

  Three Years Ago

  My first day at Evergreen

  I was ready for flight OR fight.

  Out of the baking August parking lot

  and into Admissions. I tell you—

  my foster mom hadn’t of been there

  I mighta shot back through the door

  like some kind of Olympic runner.

  Stood at the end of the line,

  freezing in my fuchsia tank top,

  turquoise skirt, strappy gold sandals.

  Girl, that building was icy but

  the papers I held were floppy,

  my hands sweatin’ so bad.

  Finally my turn. Big crabby-looking guy

  with beady eyes called, “Next.”

  I went up to his window,

  handed him my application.

  He looked it over, looked at me,

  and he

  frowned.

  People get uptight

  when your ID

  calls out a gender

  different than what you present.

  My foster mom touched my elbow

  soft — lettin’ me know she was there.

  Still, my back was up when

  Beady Eyes stepped away

  to get a supervisor, muttering,

  “Right name, wrong gender.”

  And I’d heard it before—

  but God was with me that day.

  Beady Eyes’s supervisor

  came to the window.

  “You’re Angel?” Adjusted her

  glasses. Looked over them.

  At me.

  I nodded,

  stretched my neck,

  made sure my

  courtesy-of-a-sadistic-

  pervert-john

  collarbone scars

  showed.

  Not afraid of this.

  Ready to lay me down some attitude.

  “We’re admitting you today

  but you might want

  to get new state identification.

  “You need a note

  from your doctor and

  signed by a witness,

  the identification you have now,

  and a special form, DL 328.

  “Then your information

  will match you better.”

  That sweet little old lady

  winked at me

  and I almost fell over.

  Now every time

  I pull out my ID

  F for Female

  feels like T for Triumph.

  (Vanessa Girard)

  In Ceramics

  Hip against a metal plate,

  the kickwheel squeaks

  getting up to speed.

  My hands slick the clay lump in front of me.

  breathe focus center

  “It’s art, Vanessa, not a competition,”

  the teacher, Mr. Mathews, says.

  That doesn’t keep him

  from entering my pieces

  in juried shows.

  Contests they win

  and I’m not going to lie—I’m proud

  because I know

  it isn’t luck

  or even talent

  that takes first place.

  It’s practice and work

  and the fact that

  I stick with things

  even when they’re hard.

  Centering the Clay

  takes concentration

  Difficult

  when one of your

  two best friends

  is standing by,

  pestering you.

  “You’re breaking

  Halloween tradition!”

  Julie’s practically whining.

  “We’re too old for trick-or-treating,” I tell her.

  Centering

  Centering

  Centering

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Please?

  Two blind mice doesn’t make sense.”

  Julie, Tanya, and I

  have always

  coordinated costumes.

  When we were younger,

  the three little pigs,

  the three bears.

  In high school we evolved.

  Charlie’s Angels,

  the Three Musketeers.

  Now we’re regressing to the three blind mice?

  “Sorry—I promised Brendan

  I’d go to Andy’s party.”

  And I’m not telling her but

  I already bought my costume:

  ooh la la, French maid.

  Sexier than a hooded sweatshirt,

  sunglasses, and a rope tail for sure.

  Julie rolls her eyes.

  “Of course you promised Brendan—I

  guess we’ll do something else.”

  Centering.

  Centering.

  Centering.

  “Meet us at Andy’s?”

  The invite for show—out of guilt

  because if all works out

  we won’t be there for very long.

  The clay

  on the wheel goes

  a little side

  ways.

  “Whatever.” She’s

  already turning away.

  “We’ll see.”

  At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door

  I grab keys to the Beamer,

  hoping to escape while

  Mom gives Snickers

  to a warlock and a ninja.

  She shouldn’t get a good look

  at what I’m wearing.

  Her fashion sense

  is more L.L.Bean than Ooh La La.

  (And for some crazy reason

  my dad doesn’t seem to mind.

  So much for the widely touted

  French sense of style—

  I’d say he just left it behind

  when he moved to the U.S.

  but somehow he’s managed

  to keep it for himself.)

  “Not too late!” Mom calls.

  Pretending not to hear

  is what I do best.

  I’m picking up Brendan

  and even though we’ve been together a long time

  my rib cage has that great fizzy, funny feeling.

  I’ve liked him since

  I was a freshman.


  He’s a year older—and the only wrestler

  who was nice to me when I joined the team.

  I’ve loved him since

  I was a sophomore.

  I got my license that September—

  wasn’t supposed to drive

  anyone else for six months.

  Oops.

  Two weeks after I got it

  I saw Brendan hunching

  toward the bus stop,

  his Miller Prep uniform

  damp with October rain.

  I offered him a ride.

  We got to his house,

  sat in the car for another hour

  talking about

  everything.

  He called when I got home

  and we talked for three more.

  He knows my secrets.

  (When we visit my father’s family in Cannes

  I’m embarrassed for my mom.

  My tantes élégantes talk about her in French

  she doesn’t understand.

  I do, but don’t defend her.)

  I know his deep darks, too.

  (He got superlethargic

  when his parents split up.

  Wouldn’t get out of bed

  on the weekends.

  His mom thought he just

  needed time to adjust.

  His dad and the court disagreed.

  Brendan’s bitter about the compromise:

  custody for Mom, Zoloft for him.)

  For three weeks

  we were just friends

  until the night

  of the crazy windstorm.

  He was babysitting Courtney.

  I stopped by to say hi

  and she’d just gone to sleep

  in spite of the wail

  of a seventy-mile-an-hour wind

  that snapped power lines

  and slammed

  Southern California

  into darkness.

  He got out flashlights lit candles.

  Our hands made

  shadow puppets

  on the wall.

  First fingertip kisses then lips.

  The Santa Ana Wind

  gusts down

  desert canyons.

  Hot. Dry. Electric.

  Some say

  it ignites tempers.

  I say

  it ignited us.

  It howled around outside,

  battering the house

  with dried palm fronds.

  Debris snatched up

  flung down

  snatched up again.

  A wind so greedy

  it couldn’t bear

  to discard the tiniest scrap.

  A greedy wind that wanted it all.

  And when

  our lips touched

  for the first time

  I flamed up

  greedy too

  and the pounding in my ears

  could have been

  the rush of my blood

  or the Santa Ana wind

  shrieking

  for more.

  A Year Later

  we still

  remind

  each other

  of that

  first kiss.

  “It’s windy,”

  I’ll say

  every time

  he comes up

  behind me,

  lifts my hair

  off my neck,

  gently blows

  just behind

  my earlobe.

  “It’s windy,”

  he’ll whisper,

  arms wrapped around me.

  And I’m still greedy. Greedier, in fact.

  We’ve talked about it—

  kissing’s not enough anymore.

  We haven’t discussed specifics, like

  exactly when or where,

  but I have a few ideas.

  So, Mom?

  Tonight I could be home late.

  How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?

  (A) When you’re in love?

  (B) When your body aches for something more?

  (C) When you’ve both decided you’re ready?

  (D) All of the above?

  Hope my drive-your-man-crazy costume

  keeps its promise.

  In wrestling I’m hot

  and sweaty

  like the guys.

  So off the mat,

  I admit I tend to go

  girly overboard.

  But is it enough?

  When I get to his house

  he slumps into the car

  and I taste his funky mood

  in our kiss.

  “You didn’t dress up.”

  Like he needs me

  to point it out.

  “There’s no law,” he says.

  “But it’d be fun, right?

  Last year you looked so cute!”

  “Last year sucked.”

  His flat voice shuts me out.

  “Besides, I didn’t have time.

  I had to take Courtney out.”

  Moody Brendan’s in the house.

  “What kind of a mother

  schedules a boob job three days

  before Halloween?”

  “One with small tits?” I ask,

  hoping for a smile that doesn’t come

  but he does reach over,

  rest his hand on my leg.

  I start the car.

  We drive a block.

  Then two.

  Then three.

  “C’mon—what’s wrong?”

  “Halloween’s just

  not my thing.”

  “So that’s why

  you didn’t

  mention my costume!”

  I’m trying for flirty, and

  he looks over.

  “Nice.”

  But there’s no smile.

  And it’s no use.

  I turn the corner,

  a deflated French maid

  in fishnet stockings

  and a short skirt.

  (E) Quiz postponed.

  Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations

  Andy’s house, a parent-free zone tonight.

  Light spills out the open front door—

  party’s on downstairs,

  upstairs windows are b l a c k.

  I park the car. Brendan

  sits, doesn’t get out.

  I love him but know

  there’s no way to rescue his m o o d.

  If that were possible, I’d go in,

  say hi, steal beer, and park

  somewhere—talk, laugh, kiss.

  Whatever it t o o k.

  He’s complicated. Sometimes

  just shy. Antisocial. Or

  depressed. And I’m okay

  when it’s only u s.

  Tonight the situation sucks.

  I blew off fun with my best friends

  to be with Brendan. I’d do it again but sometimes

  I wish there was a way to be with b o t h.

  Still, if it came right down to it?

  A forever choice?

  I’d choose him.

  Always.

  Some Truths Don’t Go Over So Well

  Especially not with friends

  you’ve had since fifth grade.

  This past summer Julie and Tanya bitched

  I never spent time with them,

  but that wasn’t true.

  We hung out a lot

  when Brendan went away

  to see his dad.

  But when I pointed that out,

  Tanya said it didn’t count.

  And even though I DID

  invite them to this party,

  I know they’re mad at me

  for ditching our

  trick-or-treat tradition.

  They just don’t understand—

  Julie’s never been serious about a guy

  and Tanya’s never had a boyfriend at all.

  I can’t he
lp it if

  I’d rather be with him

  than anyone else.

  That’s love.

  (BRENDAN)

  Last Night’s Mistake

  Throbbing music.

  Throbbing bodies.

  Throbbing headache this morning.

  Wish we’d just gone in,

  said hi, stolen beer,

  parked somewhere.

  But Vanessa wanted to party.

  And I knew I wasn’t good company.

  Barely over the threshold,

  it was Andy.

  “You fag, you didn’t dress up!”

  Loud over booming bass.

  “Good to see you, too.”

  He couldn’t hear me.

  Instead, he handed me

  a half-empty

  bottle of Jack and then

  pulled on his hockey mask.

  “Dude, we’re going

  to the graveyard!

  We’re going to

  have a séance

  for Mr. Fredricks!”

  Like this was a good idea?

  Slasher movies aside,

  didn’t he think

  kids + Halloween + graveyard =

  trouble of the police variety?

  But how can someone who

  doesn’t speak up

  be the voice of reason?

  So I went along

  with the crowd.

  Bottle concealed

  under my sweatshirt,

  Vanessa at my side.

  Trick-or-treaters were

  home by that time,

  counting their loot

  or in bed already

  and the two blocks

  of asphalt

  between Andy’s house

  and that of the dead

  were empty.

  Except for the fifteen or so of us,

  a small mob of pirates, witches,

  ghosts, and zombies, like something

  out of the Charlie Brown

  Halloween special.

  The foggy mist felt

  good on my skin

  and oddly enough

  (while heading to a cemetery)

  my mood started to get better.

  Over the wrought iron fence,

  we scattered apart

  in and around

  the stone garden.

  I pulled Vanessa along

  with one hand,

  held the bottle

  with the other,

  and tried to keep up with Andy

  weaving between headstones and

  jog-walking past the mausoleum.

  Mr. Fredricks, the choir director,

  had a heart attack my freshman year.

  Now his grave’s like

  a Halloween tourist attraction.

  He’s buried in the corner

  farthest from the road,

  relatively safe

  from a getting-in-trouble

  standpoint.

  Me and Andy and Vanessa

  were the first to get there,

  I thought. We stood, staring

  at his name carved

  on a metal-plated block.