Freakboy (11 page)

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 magpies 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.

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,