Freakboy (16 page)

the nastier Coach gets

(a real motivator).

He's working

the team,

working me,

harder than

ever before.

(I'd like to see him

do a hundred push-ups

after rope climbing.)

          Training lasts

          three hours now

          and I hear his voice

          in my sleep,

          what little I get,

          because after practice,

          it's home to homework

          till one or two (and I'm down

          to a B in AP History),

          then gaming for an hour to relax

          and when I close my eyes

          I see a river stone

          sail through a window

          and that word gets loud.

My Insides Are Roiling

A concert tonight

means leaving practice early.

Coach didn't say anything

when I first told him

but that was two hours ago—

steam's had time to build,

and sure enough, he follows me

when I leave the wet heat

of the wrestling room.

Outside, the cool air

feels like an attack.

            “Remind me why you're leaving,

            when the rest of the team is

            in there working their asses off?”

            Chest out

                    aggressive stance

                    face pushed

                    toward mine.

I pull my head back

out of range

of his sour breath.

“I have to babysit my little sister.”

He doesn't say anything

he just stares at me

like I'm diseased or something.

His eyes get squinty.

         “Babysitting is for fags,”

         he finally snarls, before

         slamming back into the gym.

I stand there

a minute.

My legs

are still shaking

but not from the squats.

Mom and Claude the Interloper

leave as soon as I get home.

Courtney's still up

twirling around

in a purple dance outfit.

                    “Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”

I'm exhausted.

“Not now.”

                    “Now, now, now!”

“Later, squirt.”

                    “Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”

She's hanging on me.

“I said later.”

                    “Come see, come see!”

It's all too much

she's too much and

my patience

snaps like a

balsa-wood glider.

“Leave me the hell alone!

I'm not your frigging jungle gym!”

                                Her face puckers.

But I keep yelling.

Because I've had it with everything.

Slow buses. Needy girlfriends.

Sadist coaches. Demanding teachers.

And little sisters who

dress like ballerinas

floating along

while I clump.

I'm unbelievably sick of

everybody and everything.

I shout it all out.

Her face goes from puckered

to screwed-tight eyes

to openmouthed wailing.

And I keep shouting.

She runs to her room.

I go into mine

throw my half-open backpack

against the wall,

          a paper avalanche,

try to ignore hiccupy sobs.

I flip on my Mac and

she's still sobbing.

My gut twists again.

I need to get a grip.

I've shouted down Courtney,

who adores me

and in spite

of the sick feeling that

I'm letting her

adore an impostor,

I know I need her love.

Icons come up

against wallpaper—

a screen shot

of my avatar.

I stare at it

until Larissa blends

with the rest

of my virtual world.

I get up and follow

intermittent sobs

like bread crumbs

to Courtney

in her room.

“I'm sorry, squirt.”

                                  “You were mean!”

“I know and I'm sorry.”

Stroke her hair

rub her back.

                                Her crying, already

                                slower, stops.

                                “Be nice?”

“I'll be nice.”

Smooth the back of her

purple dance outfit.

“I'll read to you.”

She picks
Rapunzel

and I want to groan

not just because I'm sick

of her favorite (I am)

but because it reminds me of

just how short my own hair is.

We settle in on her

comfy, cozy, pink bedspread

to read that tired tale

of the princess fair

with golden hair.

Still, she leans against me

and for a few minutes

my life forgets to suck.

I'm Finishing Homework

when Mom

and Claude the Interloper

come home

chatting and wired

like always

after a concert.

I hear them coming up the stairs

then Mom stops by my door

sticks her head in.

            “Courtney go down okay?”

            The Interloper continues

            on to their room.

“Fine,” I say.

She steps through the door,

elegance in long black dress,

heels, and strand of pearls.

Completely at odds

with the mayhem

of my room.

My teenage boy's room.

Her nose wrinkles.

She looks around.

          “This is a disaster.”

And I have to agree

even for me it's

pretty bad.

“I'll clean it tomorrow.”

But she advances,

picking up empty water bottles,

and the closer she gets

the more uncomfortable I am

like she's going to find

something she shouldn't.

There's a plate from the kitchen

on my bed;

she picks it up.

            “Brendan…”

“I'll take care of it tomorrow!”

My shoulders tense,

practically touching

my ears.

            “Whoa! Don't you use

            that tone with me.”

“I'm sorry! I said I'll take care of it.”

Still sitting,

I lean over to scoop up

the mess from my backpack,

stack papers.

A little to my left,

notice that a

smallish piece of paper

with purple ink

sits on top.

That girl's number.

I put my elbow

over it

like I'm turning

to look

at Mom.

“I just

really need to

get back to work,”

I mutter,

tapping a pen

on my open

Econ book.

Why won't she leave?

Her eyebrows rise,

head tilts,

considering me for a minute.

            “Is everything okay?”

            she finally asks.

And I get the feeling

she thinks I'm hiding something.

Knows I'm hiding something.

It's almost 11 p.m.

We're going to have

a heart-to-heart now?

“Just fine,” I say.

Arms full,

she stands there

looking at me a minute,

then stoops to kiss

the top of my head.

          “Let me know if

          you want to talk.”

She finally leaves

and I move my elbow

off the

purple

sparkly

inked

paper

I had

all but forgotten.

I Think of THAT Night

Anxiety bubbles

          in my throat.

Is there
any
way

that anyone could've

seen me throw the rock?

Would I be recognized

if I showed up there?

But no one was around.

Right?

No one was around.

I'm going to have

to hope that's true.

Because

I need some help

figuring this out

and there's

nowhere else

to go.

Next Day's a Minimum Day

and I escape after early practice.

Home alone, I get ready to go.

Talk myself out of it.

Ready to go.

Not.

I feel like once that move's made

there's no turning back.

It will be weird

to group myself with them.

And weird to get help

from a place I vandalized.

What if someone recognizes me?

Or if they call my mom?

What's it like there?

What do I say?

          (Other than “Window?

          What window?”)

Hi, my name is Brendan.

I think I'm trans, but I'm not really sure.

I'm not one of those people

who's always wanted to wear a dress.

Who's always known

he should have been born female.

As weird and confusing

as sex can be for me,

I still like it.

I have a hard time (pun intended)

wishing away something

that feels so good.

And probably,

since this is the case,

I really AM a freak.

I'm neither here

nor there.

Can't I just be

a girl with a dick?

I Get Off a Stop Early

and walk down the block

so the bus driver

can't tell where

I'm headed.

There's no way

anyone saw me

that
night, still

my heart's pounding

like the hip-hop beat

thumping out of

the door when I

push it open.

          “Welcome. Can I help you?”

That girl, Angel, is sitting behind a little table

and she doesn't seem

to recognize me at all.

I breathe, but don't know where to begin.

“I … I'm just curious

about your programs,” I finally say.

God, I sound stupid.

She hands me a brochure

and an intake survey.

“Thanks.” I start to turn away.

                    “You want a tour?”

I shrug okay.

But I'm holding my breath again.

Light purple paint

covers the walls

of the common room.

Sofas and chairs

a big-screen TV

some gaming controllers.

Right now

there's a guy in tight black jeans

doing DDR

while another guy,

in a thrift-store business jacket,

cheers him on.

Two kids about my age,

looking totally feminine

but a little … slutty,

lounge on one of the sofas.

                                “Girl, you so bad!”

                                one says, giggling.

                                He/she's painting

                                the other one's nails.

                                “Now hold still!”

I exhale,

breathe in

the smells of

nail polish,

hair spray,

and Axe.

The two on the sofa

wear thick makeup

eyes ringed with black liner.

A girl comes in,

taps Business Jacket

on the shoulder.

They both squeal

as if it's been ten years

since they've seen each other.

I don't think this is the place for me.

I fold up the papers

Angel handed me,

get ready to leave.

I just can't imagine

drawing attention                to myself

the way

they do.

Whatever else I am

I'm not

a flashy person.

And I wonder

if this is

how

I'd end up

looking.

Who

I'd end up

being.

Willows is

not my space

not my thing.

No help

for me

here.

There's bile in disappointment.

(Angel)

It's the Shy Kid from the Bus

the one reminded me of Frankie.

I look down

and this time his shoelaces are tied.

Frankie's never were.

Smart-ass would do it on purpose,

'cause he knew it drove me crazy.

When I saw him on New Year's

he wore Top-Siders

and I cried all the way home.

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