Freakboy (2 page)

but glad when a girl'd

ask me

          to

                    play

                              something.

Yeah, mostly the same games

when it came to

handball and foursquare.

But comfortable.

When you got hurt

girls'd ask

              what

                         was

                                wrong.

Guys would ignore you,

call you names

when your eyes watered

at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.

If you couldn't stop the tears

they'd yank out more words,

like “crybaby” (or worse), to

            hit

                        you

                                 with.

And I loved the way girls wore their hair.

Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.

Loved the colors they strutted

across the yard: bright purple, pink.

Loved other things they played,

like animal hospital or house.

Loved the sound of their voices

when

            they'd

                         call

                                to

me.

                                                          Still,

a shadow lurks

near the

edge

          of

                    my

                                head

whispering,

“You like girls too much,

and not in

the same

          way

                      everyone

                                            else

does.”

My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places

I twitch, gulp milk,

slam the glass back on the table.

A salad plate jumps.

Claude the Interloper frowns.

Mom winces.

Sister giggles.

“Hey, squirt,” I say,

pinning girl-thoughts

to the mat and

gaining control

of my brain.

                “Do you like my princess hat?”

She tilts her head toward me

like I might not otherwise

notice the pink cone,

its lace ribbon dangling

close to her mac and cheese.

I move the plate a little.

“So you're a princess now.”

                    “No, Brendy, it's just

                      for Halloween!”

A gap    toothed smile.

I was twelve

when she was born.

Everyone said we looked alike.

Mom's gray-blue eyes,

Dad's cheekbones.

But Courtney has it all over me

in the hair department—

hers thick, wavy, and long.

Mine straight, short, and,

I swear, already falling out.

Still, she's my favorite person

besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.

(Sounds lame, I know.)

I'm not religious; in fact

I'm not sure I even believe in God

           (though we used to go

           to church religiously [ha]),

but from the second Dad

put her

into my arms,

burrito-wrapped

in a little pink blanket,

innocent face

and tiny fingernails,

I saw Divine

attention to detail.

So small.

So perfect.

It's not a guy thing,

but I like babysitting.

Andy called her chick bait.

We used to push her stroller

to the park

and girls would wander over

to oooh

to ahhh.

When Courtney

took her first steps

toward me

Dad called me smitten.

Mom called me Little Mother.

That homey scene in eighth grade,

on my baby sister's first birthday.

Exactly one month before

Mom, the harp player, left

Dad, the biomedical engineer, for

Claude, the Interloper.

Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.

His orchestra's music

poison to my father's ear.

Dad's banished—2,000 miles away.

          (Not that we hung out a ton

          when he lived closer

          but at least it was an option.)

Now he's president of a biotech firm,

seen only in summer

when Mom needs to dump us—

          “Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!”—

so she can tour with

her new                    (and improved)

husband.

          “Big plans tomorrow?”

          she asks.

“Party at Andy's.”

          Claude the Interloper

          raises an eyebrow.

He doesn't like Andy,

hates the way he just walks

into the house without knocking.

Thinks it's rude that Andy

checks out the food in our kitchen

when he's hungry

and maybe it is—

but I do the same thing at his house

and have since seventh grade,

a year before any of us were aware

of the Interloper's sorry existence.

                    “I wanted to ask if you'd

                    take Courtney

                    trick-or-treating first.”

Don't mind the trick-or-treating

but I'm tortured by the reason

Mom's asking.

She's recovering from

“an enhancement procedure”

and SURPRISE she's sore.

Still, I avert my eyes

from her new shape

and nod yes.

                     “What are you going to be?”

                     Court asks.

Now there's a question

and a depressing memory.

The Night I Was a Girl

Last year sucked.

The whole wrestling team

went to school as cheerleaders.

No choice but to go along.

Shaved legs and everything,

we all did it—even Rudy and Gil.

They're team co-captains.

Jerk-asses, towel snappers,

the first to bend fingers

when the ref's on the blind side.

They told Vanessa,

“Brenda looks so natural

she must do this a lot.”

(Angel Hansted)

Opportunity Knocks

The bus makes a lurching turn

and I'm tellin' you,

I'm thrown against

the hottest guy ever

to wear a Halloween-theme tie.

He has that slicked-back,

butter-on-hot-corn-wouldn't-melt-

in-my-mouth, don't-touch-me-I'm-cool

look—but doesn't lean away

        not      at      first.

I can tell he's checking me out

but isn't gonna be obvious.

What's the point in being so shy, I

wanna ask him.               Get bold.

“Opportunity curves”

is what I say instead. He grins at me

for a second—then eyebrows raise.

He gets up and changes seats.

The smile

(it wasn't so

hot after all)

leaves when he clocks me.

I mostly pass—but

I've been made enough times to

know the exact second it happens.

And I just wanna say to Mr. Corn-hole

mouth,                  “Your loss.”

My stop's next, anyway.

Toss my head, get off

at Evergreen Community College.

Got my GED here.

I tell you now

classes are a habit.

Finish my degree

(social work major),

then it's off to difference-making

full-time employment

for Angel.

Maybe I can change up some things.

Someone's gotta do it.

Someone like me, I mean.

Someone who knows simple basics.

You wanna assign roommates

in group homes based on birth sex assignment?

Go ahead, idiot.

Make it easy for thugs to

S   m   e   a   r

the Queer.

Three Years Ago

My first day at Evergreen

I was ready for flight OR fight.

Out of the baking August parking lot

and into Admissions. I tell you—

my foster mom hadn't of been there

I mighta shot back through the door

like some kind of Olympic runner.

Stood at the end of the line,

freezing in my fuchsia tank top,

turquoise skirt, strappy gold sandals.

Girl, that building was icy but

the papers I held were floppy,

my hands sweatin' so bad.

Finally my turn. Big crabby-looking guy

with beady eyes called, “Next.”

I went up to his window,

handed him my application.

He looked it over, looked at me,

and he

frowned.

People get uptight

when your ID

calls out a gender

different than what you present.

My foster mom touched my elbow

soft — lettin' me know she was there.

Still, my back was up when

Beady Eyes stepped away

to get a supervisor, muttering,

         “Right name, wrong gender.”

And I'd heard it before—

but God was with me that day.

Beady Eyes's supervisor

came to the window.

         “You're Angel?” Adjusted her

         glasses. Looked over them.

         At me.

I nodded,

stretched my neck,

made sure my

courtesy-of-a-sadistic-

pervert-john

collarbone scars

showed.

Not afraid of
this.

Ready to lay me down some attitude.

          “We're admitting you today

          but you might want

          to get new state identification.

           “You need a note

          from your doctor and

          signed by a witness,

          the identification you have now,

          and a special form, DL 328.

          “Then your information

          will match you better.”

That sweet little old lady

winked at me

and I almost fell over.

Now every time

I pull out my ID

F
for Female

feels like
T
for Triumph.

(Vanessa Girard)

In Ceramics

Hip against a metal plate,

the kickwheel squeaks

getting up to speed.

My hands slick the clay lump in front of me.

breathe              focus                  center

             “It's art, Vanessa, not a competition,”

             the teacher, Mr. Mathews, says.

That doesn't keep him

from entering my pieces

in juried shows.

Contests they win

and I'm not going to lie—I'm proud

because I know

it isn't luck

or even talent

that takes first place.

It's practice and work

and the fact that

I stick with things

                                         even when they're hard.

Centering the Clay

takes concentration

Difficult

when one of your

two best friends

is standing by,

pestering you.

            “You're breaking

            Halloween tradition!”

            Julie's practically whining.

“We're too old for trick-or-treating,” I tell her.