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should think about

  what’s really important,

  what has lasting value.”

  “I’m inviting Brendan.”

  She shakes her head, exasperated.

  “Do what you want.”

  She gives up so easily.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  I always win.

  And Speaking of Perfection

  I’ve discovered

  it’s not in friendship

  it’s not in good grades

  it’s not in a well-thrown pot

  it’s not in a flawlessly wrestled match.

  Perfection is the warm feeling

  in the deep of my stomach

  when his eyes meet mine,

  and the memory

  of what we did last night

  vibrates between us.

  The way he touched my face

  kissed my eyelids

  stroked my hair

  caressed my hip

  murmured love.

  The way our bodies melded

  and there was no telling

  where one ended

  and the other began.

  Perfection is

  the two of us

  together.

  No lecture can change that.

  (Angel)

  “Phewie, That Stinks!”

  Denai opens the living room window,

  lettin’ out the smell of acrylic.

  Gennifer’s doing my fills.

  Handy to have a roommate

  in cosmetology school.

  Haven’t let her touch my hair yet

  but nails are fair game.

  “So is Liberty allowed

  to come back?”

  Gennifer asks.

  “If she apologizes to

  the other kids at the center, yeah,”

  I tell her.

  Gennifer sets a little fan

  to blow on my right hand,

  goes to work on my left.

  “That all she has to do?”

  “It’s a lot when you

  think about it,” I say.

  Liberty got caught

  stealing from Willows

  and Lordy, I’m mad with her—

  and sorry for her

  at the same time.

  It was a blue envelope

  like the one showed up last week.

  Twenty-five bucks, anonymous donater.

  Feels good to know

  there’s beautiful people out there

  balancing the ugly.

  I pointed that out to

  Jason and Daniella,

  ’cause, of all the kids,

  they were the most

  shook up by the broken window.

  Mailman brought in the mail

  and I put the envelope

  on the side desk for Dr. Martina

  but by the time she came in

  it was gone daddy gone.

  I asked around—Daniella

  said she saw Liberty take it.

  Dr. M took kids

  into her office

  one by one.

  Told me later Liberty

  broke down, cried, confessed

  and now she has to apologize

  to “the community”

  if she wants to come back.

  I don’t know how Liberty

  knew there was money inside

  but I know what she wanted it for.

  Hormones

  cost money

  they mean

  the difference

  between

  coarse hair,

  man-bodies

  and

  smooth skin,

  girl-curves.

  The girls I know

  who take ’em illegally

  can’t count

  on a steady supply

  of this remedy

  that reveals

  their true

  selves

  and they live

  with the fear

  of running out.

  Me, too, once upon a time.

  Roger Was Man of the House

  and he let us know it

  soon as he moved in.

  I’d been living on her

  couch a couple months

  doing what I could

  but Tía Rosa was grateful

  having another “adult” there

  helping with bills, kids.

  He worked under the table—

  construction for a

  septic tank company

  and she didn’t seem to care

  he smelled bad, like sweat

  and dirt and cigarette smoke

  didn’t care he was rude

  never said please or thank you

  like she made sure me and my cousins did

  didn’t care he said

  I’d have to dress like a guy

  if I wanted to live there.

  “It just makes him uncomfortable,

  mijo,” she told me. She wouldn’t

  call me mija anymore either.

  So I did what any

  self-respecting girl would do.

  Carried my clothes in a bag,

  changed when I left the house.

  I didn’t like it but all shoulda been fine.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  The last straw came

  when Rosa was at work.

  Roger in the bathroom doorway

  beefy arms folded, laughing

  to watch me scrabble around looking for

  the medicine I hid under the sink.

  “I flushed it all.”

  And, Girl,

  I wanted to kill him.

  Didn’t know how

  I was going to get money

  for more or whether

  Lupe, with her pills

  and injectables from Tijuana,

  was even around.

  “Didn’t look like

  no aspirin to me.”

  Before I could stand

  he was across the bathroom

  grabbing me, pulling

  my arm up

  behind my back.

  I thought I’d pass out.

  “And if I ever find out

  you touched your cousins,

  I’ll kill you, pervert.”

  He slammed me

  against the tub

  then left.

  Fire blazed up my shoulder, neck,

  but that wasn’t

  the worst feeling.

  I leaned into the peeling wall,

  wondered how long I had till the

  hormones in my system would wear off—

  and added

  Roger to the list of people I hate.

  I left that night

  when everyone

  was sleeping

  but first I emptied his wallet

  (only time I took anything

  didn’t belong to me).

  Oh—and I called the DMV

  to narc on him

  for his unregistered car.

  Guess you could say

  I sometimes have a problem

  with lettin’ things go.

  (Vanessa)

  Sunday Afternoon

  We go to the ballet.

  (I promise bowling afterward

  to make up for his having

  to do a chick thing.)

  At Weiss Performing Arts Center

  the red velvet curtain

  sweeps open to a

  Christmas scene.

  Onstage, children

  dance and fight.

  We slouch,

  bored for most of it

  until the Sugar Plum Fairy

  comes out.

  Brendan, suddenly

  NOT bored,

  leans

  forward.

  We’re only

  five rows away.

  Is she that sexy?

  Looooong legs

  blond hair

  nothing like

  ch
estnut-brown me.

  I’m not the jealous type

  (don’t want to be anyway)

  but he’s practically drooling.

  I want to yank off

  that stupid costume

  wrestle with her

  see how long

  she lasts on the mat.

  The next hour

  seems like five,

  hard seat

  tense neck.

  When it’s finally over

  I drag Brendan from the theater.

  He’s glassy eyed;

  I’m pissed.

  “What’d you think?” I ask.

  He pauses, suddenly cautious.

  “Ballet’s not my thing.”

  “What about the Sugar Plum Fairy?”

  I hate how accusing it sounds.

  Hate my shrill tone.

  Never let them see you jealous.

  Grand-maman’s advice out the window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You couldn’t stop staring.”

  “I was watching the show.”

  “Don’t give me that!”

  “What are you so mad about?”

  “You liked her!”

  He freezes,

  knowing exactly who

  I’m talking about.

  Then he smiles.

  “Jealous?”

  I’m mortified.

  “She has nothing on you.”

  He kisses me

  and I should feel reassured, right?

  But it’s a distant kiss

  like his mind

  and his lips

  are disconnected.

  (BRENDAN)

  Crisis Averted.

  But peace not restored.

  Trans after all?

  A bow-curved mouth

  with lipstick I could taste;

  that Sugar Plum Fairy was hot.

  I think about brushing thick

  blond hair into a bun.

  Moving spinning leaping,

  body light, spirit free

  no extra flesh

  between her thighs.

  I jiggle my foot.

  Do I want to do her?

  Or do I want to be her?

  Drum my fingers.

  Quiet my freaky brain.

  Bowling

  is safer, kind of.

  Get our shoes,

  step to lane six.

  The ball has heft,

  it’s substantial,

  a heavy thing.

  Solid and you

  can count

  on it to

  do what

  it’s supposed

  to do. No whining

  that it would rather be

  a football or a hockey puck.

  Fingers slick, I hurl it hard, my

  s h o u l d e r s t r e t c h e s o u t.

  This solid, this strong, this unchanging

  ball goes wild into the next lane. And it

  knocks down the white sentinels at the

  end of another alley. The manager’s mad

  (like I had the skill to do that on purpose)

  and other bowlers are looking at us. The

  kind of attention I hate. We finish the rest

  of the game under their glares, inspection.

  Later, just before sleep, I replay the scene

  and know I wasn’t knocking down pins. I

  was annihilating the Sugar Plum Fairy

  who danced in my head.

  Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks

  but not because of him.

  Mall’s stuffy and

  Christmas lines are

  as long as the plot

  of the movie

  he’s telling me about.

  Still, I listen.

  You listen to your friends.

  Even if you don’t tell them everything.

  Christmas shopping means

  Where the Wild Things Are,

  book with Max doll for Court.

  Astronomy book for Dad.

  The ugliest tie I can find

  for Claude the Interloper.

  A leather journal and a

  cool-looking fountain pen for Mom.

  Two presents for her

  since her birthday’s on the

  twenty-eighth.

  That leaves Vanessa.

  I want to go home

  take a nap

  play Diablo.

  “Dude, you should totally

  get her something sexified!”

  Slugging him would

  require too much energy.

  “You’re talking about my

  girlfriend, asswipe.”

  “I’m just sayin’. Look!”

  He points.

  MAKING HOLIDAYS BRIGHT SALE

  Neon panties in Victoria’s Secret window.

  “Come on, Dude.”

  Starts walking over.

  “I’m not going in there.”

  “Dude, you know

  she’d love it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Quit being a pussy!”

  “I’m not, you idiot!”

  “Afraid panties will bite?”

  “What if someone sees?”

  “They’ll be all over you!

  The ladies love a dude who buys

  his girlfriend something romantic.”

  What can I say?

  “I’m not going to buy

  her underwear in front of

  you, perv!”

  “Whatever—Lindy Carmichael

  works in there.”

  He heads over

  toward the store.

  I reluctantly follow.

  “So?”

  “I wanna go say hi.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s hot!

  What’s your problem?”

  My Problem

  is back in a big way

  since the day

  of The Nutcracker.

  (I would love the irony

  of THAT if I could love

  anything right now.)

  For weeks

  that word had been quiet

  and I didn’t mind

  my body all that much.

  Not totally at peace, but it was

  serviceable, functioning.

  And sex—

  itself feels great

  even if the parts sometimes

  seem a little wrong

  and it floats through

  my head more often

  than it should

  that I’d give anything

  to experience it

  the way she does

  from the other side.

  Still, it’s my body

  that gets to feel it

  and that made

  the rest … livable.

  But that’s not

  enough anymore.

  I have to get away

  from Andy’s questioning stare.

  “Catch you later,”

  I say.

  “You’re a freak.

  You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He falls

  back

  into

  step

  with

  me.

  Arrrrgggghhhhh.

  We head to GameStop,

  shop a little longer,

  check out

  new games.

  “Let’s go see Lindy.”

  “Gotta get home—”

  “C’mon, Dude.”

  He drags me over.

  Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume

  A kaleidoscope the second

  we’re through the doorway

  into Girl World.

  Andy goes off to find Lindy,

  leaving me alone.

  And piles of thongs and bikini briefs

  are strewn on the table in front of

  women and girls

  who peck through panties

  like ma
gpies or crows.

  They have every right

  to be here, to be at home.

  I don’t.

  It feels awkward, I knew it would.

  And I’m furtive.

  What if someone guesses?

  Illogical, I know.

  But is there any logic

  to the fact that I’m once again

  Jealous? With a capital J?

  Girl World isn’t my place

  but I wish it were.

  Any logic to the fact that

  everything’s softer, better

  or that I know

  I could belong here?

  (With the right body parts, that is.)

  An extremely helpful salesgirl

  (not Lindy Carmichael, thank God)

  presents her tall,

  thin but muscular,

  near-perfect self—

  asks if I need assistance.

  Heart thumping,

  I clear my throat,

  point

  to a mannequin wearing

  a satin padded push-up bra.

  “I’d like that for my girlfriend.”

  My voice strange to me.

  The Girl World envoy asks about size.

  I have no idea what to say.

  I shrug.

  She laughs, asks, “Is she about

  my size? Bigger, smaller?”

  My stomach flips.

  “Bigger than you,” I say.

  Tense shoulders, dry mouth,

  I wait for it to be rung up.

  I punch in my PIN.

  Transaction complete

  I can

  breathe again.

  At the door Andy

  catches up with me.

  “Scored a date with Lindy!”

  We high-five,

  then he

  grabs the bag

  looks in to see the gift box.

  “Awesome, Dude. Maybe

  now you’ll get some!”

  Christmas Day

  Claude the Interloper

  plays Santa and

  Court tears through her presents.

  Loves mine best of all

  hugging squeeze around my neck. Kisses.

  “Brendy, you’re the

  best, read it to me?”

  And I feel good

  for a minute.

  I open my gifts slowly.

  A video game,

  some books,

  and, inside a thin blue envelope,

  tickets to see a hockey game.

  “Boys’ night out.” Mom smiles.

  “Just us guys,” Claude says.

  I know the tickets weren’t his idea.

  Maybe Mom’s looking at it as bonding

  but you’d think having been my mother

  for seventeen years she’d have a clue

  that I don’t like sports.

  Not even the one I play

  because it will look good

  on my college apps.

  (It’s not just me—

  lots of guys don’t.)

  Still, it’s

  the wrong gift on so many levels.

  Throat tight, I thank them.