Freakboy Read online

to look at me.

  “God, your costume is hot.”

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

  Good things come

  to those who wait.

  This morning I got a call from

  our neighbor two doors down.

  The Smiths are going away for Thanksgiving

  and need me to feed their cat.

  They’ll leave house keys in our mailbox.

  The thought of a private place

  just for me and Brendan

  fills my chest

  with a cozy something,

  makes me smile.

  I peer out the windshield again

  sipping my latte and

  wondering which Brendan

  will show.

  Don’t get me wrong.

  It’s not like he’s totally schizo—

  but with him you can’t

  always predict who you’ll get.

  Sweet Brendan

  Hilarious Brendan

  Driven Brendan

  Playful Brendan

  Soulful Brendan

  Distant Brendan

  depending on the day, the mood.

  Inside

  and out

  different

  aspects

  combine, make up the whole.

  I love them all

  because

  I love him.

  (BRENDAN)

  Lucky

  She waits

  for me

  Warm coffee

  cold hands

  First thing

  I say

  I know

  I’m lucky

  And aren’t I

  Late night,

  too tired

  this morning

  to think

  Our kiss

  feels good.

  In the Gym

  “Hello, ladies.”

  Coach’s daily greeting

  and he’s not addressing Vanessa.

  Partner up

  spin drill, shoot the tube,

  take down, hip heist, sprawl.

  Tired.

  Distracted.

  Reeking.

  The stink of

  last night’s Jack,

  this morning’s sweat

  ignored by Coach when he demos

  a punishing arm drag.

  Hot breath in my face,

  mat burn on my elbow,

  a gasping glance

  at the clock.

  Caught.

  “Quit being a pussy, Brenda.”

  Vanessa Snags My Water Bottle

  After

  wind sucking sweat dripping

  conditioning

  hot room close bodies

  bad enough

  she outwrestles me

  it’s worse when

  Coach rides me

  and I look like a loser.

  So I have

  a rule for us.

  No contact.

  Don’t look don’t talk

  In wrestling

  you’re not my girlfriend

  you’re just one of the guys.

  She goes along

  but thinks it’s stupid,

  always makes a point

  of catching my eye holding it

  and drinking my bottle dry.

  At Home After Dinner

  The Interloper and Courtney

  go out for ice cream

  and the soothing sound

  of a harp glissando

  battles thoughts

  in my

  propeller brain.

  Mom’s recovered enough

  to lift her arms—

  her music slides up

  the staircase once again

  the sound track to my homework.

  Tomorrow I have

  6 a.m. wrestling, AP Bio test,

  quiz on the first act of Hamlet,

  after-school conditioning,

  endless homework.

  Whirling brain gets stuck

  on princess dream

  and won’t come loose

  on girlfriend.

  Not gay.

  Then what?

  Maybe lots of guys dream

  of being turned into girls?

  For some reason

  I’ve never asked Dr. Andrews.

  (He’s not big on talk therapy.

  Just the same questions.

  “Suicidal thoughts? Tendencies?

  No? Here’s your scrip.”)

  Prescriber of Zoloft.

  Reliever of paternal anxiety.

  Dad:

  “Hey, buddy, you seem down,

  a doctor can help with that.”

  Fulfiller of court-ordered

  maternal duty.

  Mom:

  “I don’t know if James thinks

  Brendan’s really depressed, or if

  he’s just trying to make things harder.”

  Voilà! My twice-yearly visit to the shrink

  mollifies one and absolves the other.

  Because my busy brain

  uncertain moods

  ulcerative anxiety

  and general malaise

  are my own fault. Right?

  I toss aside the calculator

  and grab my MacBook,

  (a bribe from

  the Interloper)

  Start to type

  Dreams of being a girl.

  My fingers hesitate,

  I swallow.

  Type

  Want to be a girl

  instead.

  Links pop up

  and I see the word

  “transsexual.”

  When I Was a Little Kid

  my dad gave me

  a green plastic submarine.

  It had a tiny compartment

  that you’d shake baking soda

  into—and that

  made the thing

  bob

  and dive.

  I’d play with it

  for hours

  wrinkled fingers

  pruney palms.

  Sometimes

  I’d hold

  the sub

  underwater

  thumb half covering

  the topside hole,

  watch baking soda fizz

  to the surface

  where

  bubbles

  would pop.

  And if I held the

  little hatch closed,

  then let go of the toy,

  the whole thing would

  shoot out of the water.

  Splash.

  The prickle of feeling

  I have when I wake

  from a dream

  of being in the right skin

  of catching my reflection

  in the mirror when

  I’ve gone too long

  without a haircut

  of being into how that

  softens the angle

  of my jaw,

  frames my face

  like a girl’s

  those are fizzy bubbles

  rising

  on THAT word

  up to the

  top and

  pop.

  Thinking that being in love

  with Vanessa

  should have made it

  all go away,

  that’s me

  holding the submarine

  deep

  under

  water—

  compartment closed and

  I don’t want to let go.

  Splash.

  When That Word Bursts

  up from the depths,

  a drop of water

  clings to it.

  Small but visible

  to my naked eye.

  A tiny drop

  to hold so much;

  inside it is my princess dream.

  And a horror that

  starts small,

  multiplies

  with other droplets containing
<
br />   drowsing sensations,

  fleeting desires.

  The water gathers until

  certain knowledge that this

  ugly word applies to me,

  becomes a tidal wave that

  knocks me

  over.

  Transsexual

  Snap

  screen

  shut.

  Grab my bus pass,

  charge downstairs.

  I have to move

  get out

  get away.

  Transsexual

  “Going to the library,”

  I shout toward the

  music room’s

  closed door,

  and then

  I’m outside

  running

  Transsexual

  past wide

  lawns,

  huge

  Band-Aid-colored

  stucco houses,

  fake streams,

  and fake waterfalls.

  Transsexual

  Skid to

  the stop.

  A bus pulls around

  the corner and

  I don’t look at

  which one it is

  don’t care

  where it’s headed.

  I just need to

  ride

  Transsexual

  for a long time.

  When it

  gets too quiet

  the word

  too loud.

  Transsexual

  I get off

  at stops

  familiar

  unfamiliar.

  Take the next one

  that comes my way

  zigzag across the city

  and back.

  TRANSSEXUAL

  I stare

  into the dark

  until a guy

  about my age

  about my size,

  gets on

  grunts

  across

  the aisle.

  Cigarette smell

  bar code–tattooed neck

  ring-pierced eyebrow

  announce him.

  He’s Tough Guy.

  And he’s looking at me. For a fight?

  I turn my head

  Transsexual

  my face feels ugly

  I make it uglier

  just in case.

  When the bus

  stops I get off

  on a dim street.

  Am I looking for a fight?

  Tough Guy

  doesn’t follow.

  But my fists

  don’t unclench.

  I was looking for a fight.

  The bus heaves off

  into the late night.

  I turn around

  and BAM

  Willows Teen Center

  looms ahead

  on the empty block.

  I get closer, see the

  smaller letters painted

  on darkened windows.

  A PLACE FOR LGBTQ YOUTH.

  Transsexual

  My heart slams

  into my throat

  exactly like that night

  in the graveyard

  but my stomach

  is sick, too.

  Is that why the girl

  was so nice?

  Did she think I was gay?

  Is there something about me?

  Something obvious

  I don’t recognize but

  others do?

  How can other people

  see something in me

  that I have never seen

  in myself?

  Transsexual

  No breath

  deserted block.

  Transsexual

  Next to the curb

  a river stone

  just bigger than

  my fist.

  Rounded, smooth,

  like something

  you’d see in the back

  of a landscaper’s truck

  nestled with others

  of its kind.

  Transsexual

  Here,

  out of place,

  lonely

  in the middle

  of the sidewalk.

  Transsexual

  My fingers close

  around it

  cool

  to the touch

  heavy

  in my palm.

  A current rushes

  my body

  shoots through

  my arm,

  a hand that isn’t mine

  hurls a rock

  it wasn’t holding

  right through the

  T for Teen Center

  T for

  Transsexual

  Glass Shatters

  shocks my ears

  and I’m off

  running

  up the block

  away from

  here.

  What the hell

  what the Hell

  what the HELL.

  Alarms should

  be screaming.

  Lights should

  be flashing.

  People should

  be shouting.

  But the street sleeps on.

  I round the corner just

  in time for the next bus.

  It picks me up,

  takes me toward home as if

  everything

  is fine.

  (Angel)

  Sometimes the Real World Hurts

  ’Specially when you’re looking

  at it through a hole some

  homophobic asshole made

  by throwing shit

  through the window

  of a center for queer kids.

  Bus takes me by here

  on my way to the class

  I’m gonna miss

  ’cause this morning I got off

  to see why

  Dr. Martina

  and the PoPo were

  standing outside.

  There’s broken glass,

  a rock

  inside.

  Officer takes a report, then tells

  us catching someone probably

  won’t happen. Dr. Martina nods,

  shrugs. “I figured.”

  Wait, we’re just supposed

  to lay down and take it?

  “This stuff happens, Angel,”

  she says to the face I’m pulling.

  When the cop leaves I get out

  the Shop-Vac. Doctor tapes the hole,

  calls around for replacement glass.

  This is so fucked up

  I got the shakes

  like a junkie.

  “So there’s nothin’

  at all we can do,”

  I say when she hangs up.

  “We are doing something.

  Every day we fight ignorance

  and hatred with education.”

  I like the good doctor too much

  to tell her what bullshit

  that sounds like right now

  when I’m standing here

  looking at all the shiny

  pieces on the floor

  and I’m thinking

  of the glass coffee table

  that broke

  when

  the Sperm Donor

  pushed me into it.

  How blood soaked

  my favorite Juicy shirt.

  “No son of mine!”

  Damn straight—and now

  I’m not his daughter either.

  I know Jesus says forgive but

  I’m not Jesus—I’m just a girl with

  a vacuum cleaner, suckin’ up shards,

  and they may look like they’re gone

  ’cause you can’t see ’em,

  but they’re poking around inside.

  I Pray to God

  and it’s not just

  for me I’m praying.

  I think of the kids

  coming in

  s
eeing that taped-up window

  hearing what happened.

  Bad enough they get

  told at home

  at school

  on the street

  that they aren’t okay.

  A broken window

  of the only place that

  welcomes ’em

  gives the message

  there’s not one single

  spot

  on this earth

  that they are

  safe.

  (BRENDAN)

  All the Next Day

  the question I’m asking,

  “What the hell?”

  trails me.

  And

  that other word

  follows it right behind.

  Toilet paper

  stuck to

  my shoe.

  What a crappy thing

  to do.

  What a crappy thing

  to be.

  All I need is

  a bar code tattoo,

  an eyebrow piercing,

  and a sex change

  to announce

  to the world

  I’m the new

  American degenerate.

  Freak-style.

  Tuesday morning,

  AP History,

  looking for a pen

  in my backpack

  fingertips brush

  the paper

  that girl

  gave me

  outside of Willows.

  What did she see

  when she looked at me?

  Guilty, I imagine

  her kneeling,

  picking up glass,

  cutting herself.

  In class

  out of class

  wrestling practice

  awkward ride home.

  (“Just in a bad mood,”

  my excuse to Vanessa.)

  Then finishing college applications

  where the writing prompt asking me to

  describe an incident that changed me

  brings on a whole new anxiety.

  Transgender.

  Transwoman.

  Transformed into a freak.

  Transported to hell.

  A Couple Days Later

  Andy comes over

  after dinner.

  We’re headed upstairs

  when Mom grabs me. Says,

  “You look tired.”

  I grunt.

  “Were you up late

  playing video games?”

  “No.”

  “Are your applications done?”

  “Mostly.”

  I brush by her.

  Andy’s ahead of me

  already disappearing

  into my room.

  I go after him, thinking

  focusing on gaming’s a good idea.

  That escapist virtual world

  trumps this one

  with its

  twisted question

  electric in my brain:

  WHAT IF IT’S TRUE?