Freakboy Read online

  Then it’s off to Vanessa’s.

  Holiday-Schedule Bus

  is slow

  and after I get off

  I still have to

  walk up the hill

  past a little guardhouse

  where the attendant

  waves me into the

  gated community.

  At her house,

  a lingering kiss

  under the mistletoe.

  I hand over her gift.

  She smiles,

  hands me one, too.

  We open together.

  World of Warcraft and a

  masculine thick bracelet

  for me.

  Name-engraved

  stainless steel water bottle

  for her.

  A minute of quiet.

  “You know—so you don’t

  always take mine,” I joke,

  but the silence stretching

  like a lake between us

  tells me I screwed up.

  I don’t know what to

  say to her

  about anything.

  Wrong gift on so many levels.

  And I’m a knotted snake of

  love and guilt.

  If she’s disappointed in this,

  how much worse

  if she could

  read my mind?

  After a minute

  of quiet she kisses me,

  says thank you,

  and we pretend it’s okay.

  Sometimes you don’t get what you want.

  (Vanessa)

  Could He Be Less Romantic?

  I guess it could be worse:

  a tool set

  or a book about

  war atrocities.

  I’m not materialistic,

  but a water bottle

  with my name on it?

  And it makes me feel stupid

  for always drinking

  from his—

  like it annoys him

  every time I do that

  when I thought

  the gesture was

  our little connection,

  a welcome way

  around his idiotic

  no-contact rule.

  I have to wonder

  if he loves me

  as much

  as I love him.

  I drive him home.

  No time for a detour.

  “See you after dinner?”

  (We have a plan: ditch the holly-

  and-the-ivy stuff,

  later head down to Mono Cove.)

  “No. Family crap.

  My mom says I have to

  stay home.”

  It may be true

  but she let him come over

  after dinner last year.

  He doesn’t look me

  in the eye.

  “Really.”

  It’s not a question.

  “Really,” he says.

  The statement is firm.

  “Pick you up tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  I ask. Stomach curling.

  Was I bitchier about

  the present than I thought?

  “No—I just have to go.”

  He leans over

  kisses me so fast

  I hardly feel it,

  then gets out

  and practically runs

  up the path to his house.

  Merry f’ing Christmas.

  Back at My House

  “Did I hear Brendan?”

  Mom’s voice drowsy from her nap.

  We celebrate le réveillon.

  The traditional French feast

  starts after Mass on Christmas Eve

  and keeps on all night—she’s tired.

  Or maybe her mother-in-law’s

  long visit is wearing on her

  very last nerve.

  “I just took him home.”

  Slam into my room

  before anyone can get

  a look at rejected me.

  “Honey?” Tap tap tap.

  “Are you okay?”

  Mom calls through the door.

  “Fine,”

  I tell her.

  But of course

  I’m not and she knows it

  in that radar way she has.

  “What is wrong with Vanessa?”

  Grand-maman

  doesn’t sound drowsy.

  “Nothing.” Mom’s voice

  snaps shut. They both go away.

  Crying into My Pillow

  is

  a

  cliché.

  I hate being a loser

  but

  hurt

  feelings

  leak out and

  make

  it

  wet

  anyway.

  (BRENDAN)

  At Bedtime

  even after the bath

  that usually mellows her out,

  my little sister

  bounces around her room

  on a Candy Cane Christmas high.

  Mom makes sure Court brushes

  her teeth, then I take over.

  Where the Wild Things Are

  makes her a little wild.

  I pick up another story.

  Beauty and the Beast,

  a cloth-covered book.

  No dancing teacups here.

  Inky, dark illustrations

  loom every few pages.

  Courtney snuggles her head

  on my shoulder.

  A Johnson’s Baby Shampoo cuddle.

  I read the long story

  thick with big words.

  Court quiets, listens until the picture

  of the Beast transforming to prince,

  his face an agonized half-man mask.

  She sits up.

  “Why does he hurt?”

  “I guess it hurts to change,”

  I tell her, turn the page.

  She turns it back,

  points to Beauty,

  watching the Beast

  from the corner,

  fright distorting

  her features.

  “Does she hurt, too?”

  “I think Beauty’s just scared.”

  “I wouldn’t be.”

  But I wonder.

  The Next Day

  Caterers show up early

  set their trays and racks

  in the kitchen for

  Claude the Interloper’s

  annual holiday party

  in honor of the

  symphony’s biggest donors.

  It’s all about gloss and glitter

  and as much Christmas warmth

  as can be squeezed out of

  a credit card.

  My stomach

  is growling

  from the smell

  of garlic

  and pastry

  by the time

  guests and

  favored musicians

  start arriving.

  They cluster around

  my mother, who laughs and

  chats and sparkles perfection

  in a deep blue dress.

  I spend most of the time

  in the playroom with Courtney

  trying to avoid everyone

  and the inevitable question

  (“Where are you going to

  school next year, young man?”)

  that comes up every single

  time I’m introduced

  or reintroduced

  to any of these people.

  Eventually

  Claude the Interloper

  comes to drag us out.

  “I have a surprise for your

  mother,” he says. Courtney

  holds his hand, skips along.

  She loves surprises.

  I follow them to the

  meticulously decorated

  living room.

  T
he sound of

  “Happy Birthday to You”

  in four-part harmony

  accompanies the caterers’ entrance

  with a gigantic harp-shaped cake.

  Courtney squeals,

  the Interloper beams,

  Mom’s eyes glisten.

  I hang back.

  “Now there’s a gorgeous lady,”

  one of the percussion guys

  tells me, nodding in my mother’s

  direction.

  Everyone else’s attention

  is now on the

  standard celebratory dessert.

  Mom’s beautiful.

  High cheekbones

  long neck

  graceful arms

  curvy outline.

  She blows out

  the single candle;

  her audience claps

  and my confused heart hurts.

  (Angel)

  New Year’s

  When I was little

  my mama let me believe

  the clanging pots and pans

  and fireworks were

  in honor of me,

  her Angel.

  God’s little gift—

  no matter what.

  By the time Frankie came along

  I knew better and so

  we’d stand on the

  deck at the country club

  watching the bursts

  and I’d say, “Okay, Frankie,

  this next one is in honor of you,”

  when the s k y

  “Angel, do it again!”

  Frankie would say.

  Little brother thought

  I could do anything.

  A brain aneurysm

  killed our beautiful mama

  and after that it was

  adiós, madre dulce,

  goodbye, little brother.

  Nothin’ I could do.

  New Year’s sucked then.

  But this year’s gonna be different

  not like when I was working—

  or even last year when I was

  playing nurse to Gennifer.

  Her parents actually

  helped pay for her

  gender-affirming surgery.

  Making her outsides

  match her insides was

  the only way

  she was gonna feel right

  —and that’s cool.

  For me personally?

  Even if I could afford it,

  it’s just not that important

  to how I see myself.

  My junk doesn’t dictate who I am.

  Frankie’s Back from Cancún

  where he and the Sperm Donor

  always spend Christmas.

  I’m waiting for him at Denny’s

  so I can give him his present.

  Then it’s back home before

  he’s noticed missing—

  and it’s off to party for me.

  He’s really late.

  I check for messages

  every thirty seconds

  in case I missed something.

  Color me relieved when finally

  crisp khakis, polo shirt, woven belt,

  Top-Siders

  slide into the booth.

  I lean over to give him a hug.

  Broad fifteen-year-old

  shoulders drop

  STIFF as his buzz cut.

  “Happy New Year!” I tell him.

  “I got you a Christmas present.”

  Hold out the box.

  “Thanks.” He takes it.

  Doesn’t look me in the eye.

  Doesn’t open it.

  “Go ahead!

  I want to see if it fits!”

  He unwraps the box

  not sayin’ anything.

  Pulls out the funky PacSun shirt.

  Something flickers across his face

  then,

  again,

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress comes by.

  I’m about to ask

  for a couple more minutes,

  when Frankie says,

  “I don’t want anything.

  I have to get back.”

  There’s that look again.

  I tell her I’m gonna

  hold off on ordering.

  “Thanks for coming to see me.

  I miss you,” I say.

  Try to take his hand.

  He pulls away,

  looks around at the same time,

  and I pick up what he’s laying down.

  Screw the Rest of the World

  Who cares

  what it thinks

  of me—

  but my little brother

  who thought I hung the moon

  and made the stars explode

  just for him

  is embarrassed of me.

  I’ve been through some shit,

  you know?

  Both living on the streets

  and off.

  I’ve been beaten

  by my father

  and by bullies

  and most memorably

  by a sadistic-pervert john

  who put me in ICU for a week

  and the pain and torture

  of physical therapy

  for a long time after.

  But I have never hurt this bad.

  And there’s nothin’ I can do.

  (Vanessa)

  Brendan’s Sick on New Year’s Eve

  and can’t come

  to Girard family festivities.

  The adults are tipsy.

  I’m bored out of my head.

  I wish we lived on the East Coast

  so it’d be over already.

  “Why not ask another friend?”

  my mother said, when I told her

  Brendan wasn’t coming.

  I acted like I didn’t hear her.

  Now Grand-maman’s eyebrows tilt.

  “Where IS that young man?”

  She’s shuffling the cards for vingt-et-un.

  Her hands are smooth, a wax doll’s.

  “He’s sick.” If what he said was true,

  and I feel bad hoping that’s the case.

  But I’ve only seen him

  twice since Christmas.

  He’s gone through moods before but

  he used to let me in—said I made him feel better.

  What if he just doesn’t want to see me?

  My father pours more champagne.

  He gets to my glass, I shake my head.

  I don’t like it. Grand-maman disapproves.

  My American tastes are all failings.

  I wonder when she’ll disown me.

  “Your grand-papa came to see me on

  my birthday with a temperature of 39.”

  Way to spread disease, I think.

  But I know what she’s telling me.

  Brendan would be here

  if seeing me was worth it to him.

  I suffer through two card games,

  then my mother proposes Bananagrams.

  Crafty, because Grand-maman won’t play—

  only English words allowed.

  We move to the coffee table.

  Mom shakes up the bag, letter tiles click.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  She’s quiet so no one else hears.

  “I think so, why?” My fingers flick

  the smooth squares. Rearrange five letters.

  I usually like this game—it’s like Scrabble

  only faster—but tonight I feel slow, and

  I hate that feeling of knowing ahead of time

  that I’m going to lose.

  We both take more tiles, and she says,

  “I haven’t seen much of Brendan lately.”

  I get an n, “broke” is “broken” (broken up?)

  and my stomach clenches.

  (BRENDAN)

  I Pretend

  I’m in the right body, a n d
/>
  my slicked-back hair

  is a ponytail.

  I’m grateful n o w

  the gray-blue eyes

  I inherited from Mom

  came with a matching set

  of high cheekbones, since I ’v e

  come to appreciate that even they

  could be male or female.

  I like the illusion.

  (What else have I g o t?)

  For the moment,

  this moment alone,

  illusion’s enough.

  The thought that it

  might not always be is a n o t h e r

  more radical issue entirely.

  I cross my legs

  tuck myself under

  love how I look when I’m alone.

  The crowning touch,

  under a plain T-shirt,

  came from Victoria’s S e c r e t.

  A Forbidden Jewel

  in a shimmering gift box,

  it sat at the back of my closet

  for over a week

  and images of Bugs Bunny

  ran through my head.

  When he wore a coconut bra

  it didn’t make him female.

  Padded green satin

  won’t make me a girl either,

  but I wanted

  to see myself.

  Tonight Mom and

  Claude the Interloper

  are safely off with their

  New Year’s Eve–concert audience.

  Courtney, worn out

  from jumping

  on the trampoline,

  is safely off to sleep

  after I read her four books.

  I unwrapped

  the package

  containing this

  symbol

  emblem

  bra

  inside my chest

  a furnace.

  Excitement

  battling

  fear.

  You know Pandora. Her box?

  Nothing on me. And mine.

  I fumbled,

  caught up

  straps too short

  cups too high.

  I knew I

  looked stupid—

  turned my back

  on the mirror

  until satiny material

  slid through plastic clips

  longer, longer

  just right,

  struggled to fasten the back clasp

  shoved away a rogue memory

  of helping Vanessa get dressed.

  I pulled on a shirt

  looked down,

  saw a feminine

  shape and

  I was home.

  My soul

  had found

  a shell.

  Relief from

  the gray sadness

  of what I’m not,

  a rising flood.

  I imagined moving

  through the world

  alive and at home

  in this, my body.

  Physical form

  matching my spirit

  matching me.

  But Cinderella Perfection Can’t Last