Freakboy Read online

  College Applications, Round One

  Most due Monday after Thanksgiving and

  I’ve hit Send on a few already, like

  my first choice, U of Chicago.

  But what does it matter?

  U of C or Berkeley,

  good schools for math,

  UW–Madison,

  the school Andy’s hoping for;

  his whole family’s gone there.

  I glance over at him

  hulking on the floor

  next to my bed

  controller in hand

  playing an old-school game.

  “We could live together,”

  he says, eyes glued to the

  screen. “You’d bring the PS3,

  —I’d bring the Xbox.

  “We wouldn’t have to worry

  about sharing a room

  with some weenie.”

  I want to pause Mortal Kombat

  shout, puke, something—

  the thought of rooming with anyone …

  What if he knew

  about trans-thuggy me?

  What would he do?

  I can’t see

  next year at all

  and really,

  why bother thinking ahead?

  I’m a freak and my future

  is totally screwed.

  I take a shot,

  push my kill streak to five,

  lean back.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  And I’m sorry the game is over.

  Wednesday After Conditioning

  I hang around

  outside the girls’

  locker room.

  I’m scrambled

  strung out

  scared but

  missing Vanessa

  adds to the

  turmoil factory.

  Lately it’s mostly been

  ILY texts between classes,

  forbidden looks in wrestling,

  lame excuses for taking the bus home.

  It’s felt too weird

  I’ve felt too weird

  for close contact

  and now my arms

  hurt with wanting

  to hold her.

  She finally appears,

  fresh from the shower

  damp hair in

  a ponytail—

  smiles to see me—but,

  “I have to go to

  the airport to

  get Grand-maman.”

  “Paper to write,” I say.

  She leans in.

  “Thanksgiving night

  we’ll have all the

  time in the world.”

  Her dark eyes are steady.

  She’s already told me

  about the Smiths’ empty house …

  I don’t look down

  when her fingertip

  brushes my chest.

  There’s no mistaking

  exactly what

  we’ll have

  all the time

  in the world

  to do.

  I breathe her in,

  the wanting

  overpowers

  the awkward.

  Soft lips

  touch mine

  before

  she walks

  away

  and

  that word

  gets quieter.

  Vanessa has no idea

  I’m a massively confused

  vandalizing menace.

  With her I’m

  someone else

  something else

  and I can

  grab that

  feeling

  hang on like

  it’s my opponent trying to

  get out of a double arm bar.

  Thanksgiving night

  is the night.

  (Angel)

  Mama’s Sweet Corn Stuffing

  sits on the table; she’d be proud.

  Turkey, sweet potato pie,

  spaghetti, onion rings.

  I check out the offerings

  of my sisters-in-spirit,

  Denai, Brandy, Chantal.

  Not bad for a bunch of girls

  (used to be) from the street.

  Gennifer’s not here

  ’cause she’s spending the night

  with her boyfriend—lucky.

  But, Girl, we’re lucky ones, too.

  Roof over our heads, even if it’s five

  in a two-bedroom apartment

  and seems like there’s always

  someone in the bathroom.

  Legally employed … mostly.

  Brandy sells a little pot,

  adds to what she

  gets as a telemarketer.

  She’s saving for surgery.

  We’re lucky to be giving thanks

  with the family we’ve chosen.

  Show the world

  your essence

  and you find out

  faster than a

  five-dollar hand job

  who’s family

  and who’s not.

  The ugly-ass

  Sperm Donor

  who beat the crap

  out of you for

  dressing like yourself?

  A cracked rib

  the least of the pain.

  Who sent you to

  “Hoods in the Woods”

  after your mama died?

  Thinking they’d teach you

  how to be a man—

  like learning to catch fish

  and dig a latrine

  to shit in

  could change your DNA,

  your soul.

  Who You Are.

  The asshole

  who threatened

  to call the police

  after he threw you out

  just ’cause you snuck back

  to see your

  baby brother

  and the little guy used to

  cry and beg for you to stay

  because he lost his mother

  and his sister the same year,

  then he was the lost one?

  No, the Sperm Donor

  is NOT family.

  I count my

  blessings and

  thank God.

  (Vanessa)

  It’s the American Way

  of an American holiday.

  Mom jokes that my father and Uncle Michel

  have embraced it too fully since

  moving here twenty years ago.

  Too much turkey, stuffing, gravy,

  mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie.

  Before they settle down

  to snooze in front of the TV,

  Dad waves me over to commence

  the Thanksgiving ritual of gently rapping my leg

  with his knuckles to hear if it’s hollow.

  “Where does such a little girl

  hide so much food?” he asks,

  eyebrow cocked, fake puzzlement.

  “I’m not telling you!” I play along, jerking away

  while he tries to hang on and we tussle.

  Yeah, it’s dorky and we both know

  I’m too old for the game—

  but I think he thinks it’s fun

  to see the disapproval radiating

  off Grand-maman.

  “Lucas! She’s a young lady,”

  his mother scolds.

  My father catches my eye,

  winks, then shares a smirk

  with Uncle Michel.

  “Strange, no? A young lady

  with a hollow leg she hides food in!”

  My father gives me one last tickle.

  I walk back into the kitchen

  to tell Mom I’m going out

  but she’s already (discreetly)

  headed upstairs

  probably to escape Grand-maman,

  who follows me, practically

  catching me with her claws.

  “Where is your young man?”

&nb
sp; “Home.

  I thought I’d go hang with him

  for a couple hours.”

  “Let him come to you.

  Men chase women, chérie,

  this is the nice way.

  They run from the ones

  who get that wrong.”

  I nod (respectfully) and

  sit down at the breakfast bar,

  flip the pages

  of Sunset magazine

  with my right hand.

  Rub the toothed edge

  of the Smiths’ house key

  with my left.

  She finally heads upstairs herself.

  I know how

  to deal

  with Grand-maman.

  You wait her out.

  It may not be the nice way—

  planning to shed virginity

  in my neighbors’ house—

  but I know Brendan’ll agree

  it’s nicer than doing it in the car.

  You Know It’s True

  I never had a boyfriend

  before there was B r e n d a n.

  It wasn’t because I chased anyone.

  I’m confident the reason i s

  because there was this perfect

  person waiting for me. M y

  ideal. When we’re together, we’re

  the only people in the w o r l d.

  At the Smiths’

  Suddenly, weirdly

  shy with one another

  we sit on the floor

  backs against the couch

  huge blank screen in front of us

  packet of condoms next to us.

  “We could just watch TV,” he says.

  And I can’t tell if he’s serious.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  I try to make it sound flirty,

  which works because

  he gently, gently

  touches that spot

  behind my earlobe

  leans in

  and softly, softly

  kisses my lips.

  Somewhere a clock ticks.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  “Then yes.”

  Mouth again

  brushes

  lingers

  longer

  deeper

  his shaking fingers

  unbutton my shirt.

  Mine

  shake

  too

  a joyful shiver

  when I

  touch him.

  (BRENDAN)

  No Guidebook

  Her lips

  sweet

  tongue

  sweeter still

  skin

  to skin

  thrumming

  joy

  And no way to prepare

  touching

  her

  softest

  neat

  tucked up

  away

  jealous

  want

  washes

  wait

  Please, God

  hold

  held

  meld

  hers

  mine

  all one.

  Prayer answered.

  The Next Morning

  Banana pancakes

  with fat-free whipped cream

  fill the Styrofoam container

  wedged flat in my backpack

  their warm smell

  mingles with the crisp bite

  of eucalyptus

  from the tree I climb

  outside Vanessa’s

  bedroom window.

  Glass tapped,

  curtain pushed aside,

  window opened,

  entry granted.

  “It’s not the fifteenth.”

  She’s smiling.

  “Today’s just because,” I whisper—

  even though her house is huge and

  her parents won’t hear.

  They never do.

  A year ago for

  our one-month anniversary

  I brought her breakfast in bed.

  I’ve been doing it

  on the fifteenth of every month

  ever since.

  I put the pancakes

  on her desk and

  we settle

  into her nest

  of quilts and pillows

  kissing

  touching.

  I want to beg,

  When can we do it again?

  I want to feel THAT.

  Want to be with you.

  I’m out of my head

  and into someone else’s.

  I feel like a normal guy, so

  maybe I’m NOT trans, right?

  Right?

  (Vanessa)

  Things Look Different

  feel different

  to me.

  Some have more meaning:

  Brendan waiting for me

  outside the locker room.

  Our fingers intertwining

  when we walk up the stairs.

  The sense that we’re facing

  the day, the world together.

  Others have less:

  Mr. Mixed-Message Mathews

  showing off the piece I just made,

  a plate of singing blues, screaming reds

  fired in low heat to retain the

  vibrant colors that pale

  next to the best parts of

  Brendan and me together,

  our souls.

  I’m Bothering Julie

  and today she’s

  the one trying to focus

  on the clay in her hands,

  centering it on the wheel.

  I’m just playing

  with a blob,

  rolling it with

  my dry fingers

  making a sphere,

  then squishing it.

  Sphere

  squish.

  I want to tell her,

  want to tell Tanya,

  but not here.

  Sphere

  squish.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  I ask.

  “Tanya and I have

  our Spanish project.”

  “Are you guys working

  at your house?”

  A shrug. “I’m not sure.”

  “Let me know—

  I’ll stop by—bring you guys

  a snack.”

  “No thanks.” She looks up

  at me. “We still have gingerbread

  from YESTERDAY.”

  Shit.

  Yesterday, the Sunday

  after Thanksgiving,

  we were supposed to

  make gingerbread houses,

  yet another tradition with us.

  I can’t believe I forgot.

  “Oh my God! I am so sorry!

  Why didn’t you call me?”

  She flips the table switch to Off.

  “We figured if you wanted to

  be there, you would be.”

  10 Hours Later

  I stand in the doorway of Julie’s room,

  a box of powdered donuts

  in one hand, a huge bottle of Dr Pepper

  in the other.

  I’m here to beg forgiveness …

  and to tell them about

  Thursday night.

  It’s not just that I want to blab

  that Brendan and I did it,

  best friends tell each other stuff,

  right?

  But Julie’s the only one here,

  sitting on her bed,

  giving herself a pedicure.

  Not a Spanish book in sight.

  And she won’t look at me.

  Deep forest green

  slicks off the brush

  and onto her nails

  deliberate, slow.

  I put my peace offering

  down on her desk.

  “Where’s T
anya?”

  “She already left.”

  “Look, I am so sorry—”

  Julie interrupts.

  “Tanya and I like you

  and we like Brendan,

  but we don’t like you together.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My hands are fists.

  “You’re so different around him,

  always agreeing with everything he says

  like you don’t have your own opinions

  —and we never see you

  when you’re not with him.”

  “That’s not true.”

  God, I can’t believe her!

  “I’m here right now, aren’t I?”

  “Because he’s busy, right?”

  Julie puts the lid on the polish,

  clinks the bottle on her desk.

  A bossy, decisive sound.

  “No.” A twinge at the lie.

  “It’s all Brendan this and Brendan that!

  We used to think it was because

  you’d just started going out

  but it’s been over a year!”

  Adjusts cotton between her toes.

  No smeared pedi here.

  “You’re worse than ever

  and, no offense, we’re sick of it!”

  They talk behind my back?

  What bitches!

  My eyes narrow

  at her green toes.

  “That’s a perfect color for you!

  You’re just jealous!”

  I slam out

  of her room.

  Her mom looks up from her computer

  when I rush through the family room

  on my way out. But I don’t bother

  to say goodbye.

  Julie doesn’t come after me

  doesn’t even call my name.

  Driving away,

  tears

  behind my eyes,

  a tightness

  in my throat.

  I tell myself

  over and over

  I don’t need Julie OR Tanya—

  I have Brendan.

  (BRENDAN)

  Busy Schedules

  mean rare family dinners

  but tonight the candles are lit

  and the table is set.

  And if I needed

  to be reminded

  of how lucky I am

  that there’s not more

  together time for us

  I’d look no farther

  than the other end of the table

  where Claude the Interloper

  sits—ranting.

  “… and I told Twinkletoes that

  if he had issues with

  my conducting he should

  bring them to me, damn it!”

  My mother, seated to his right,

  makes a soothing sound.

  Across from Mom,

  Courtney plays with

  the food on her plate.

  Lining up short noodles,

  oblivious to the Interloper’s

  crappy idea

  of dinnertime conversation.

  We’ve been treated