Freakboy (22 page)

to walk us

to the door.

          “It was wonderful to meet you,”

          Dorothy says. Kathleen smiles.

          “See you in class.”

And on the way home

even though I don't

mention religion

I'm thanking God.

You think meeting

your boyfriend's parents

for the first time

is nerve-racking?

Girl, you just try doing it trans.

(Vanessa)

Weigh-In for Wrestling Finals

at 6 a.m. Afterward

the team goes out for pancakes

before the first match at eight.

I slump at the end of the table

next to Sheahan,

across from

Flannigan.

There's a rowdiness down at the

other end, but for once Flannigan's

not in the thick of it.

I watch brown maple syrup

seep into the golden stack.

            “Nervous?” Sheahan asks.

Shake my head no.

            “Awww, she's probably

            missing her boyfriend,”

            Flannigan says,

            but not in a mean way.

I almost start crying.

It's the truth.

“We broke up.”

            “'Cause he's a fag?” Flannigan asks

            like he's genuinely curious.

I look up from the table

to see Sheahan give him a dirty look.

            “Shut up, Flannigan,” he says.

We finish eating in silence.

On the way back to the tournament

Sheahan walks with me.

He's nervous,

talking a lot like he

always does before a match.

            “You know Flannigan's just a dick.”

I nod.

            “I know what they say

            about Brendan, but

            I like him.

            Not like THAT,”

            he adds in a hurry.

I smile.

We walk, comfortable.

            “It's so weird,

            how things change,

            isn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

            “Like, you think you're going to be with

            someone for a long time—it's October

            and you ask her to the prom—or even

            talk about summer plans. By the time

            those roll around you're just not into each

            other anymore. And I always wonder …

            What changed? And how?”

Forty-Five Minutes Later

I'm stepping

onto the mat for my first bout and

What changed?

is the clang in my ears.

It rings even as I shoot fast,

get the takedown points

drive my chin

into the guy from Clark's shoulder

cross face,

guillotine

let him up

take him down again

and again

double cobra.

Win

because my opponent

was a bad wrestler

not because I was

on my game.

What changed?

It's what I'm still thinking when

I lose the next two matches.

Pinned both times.

In the first round.

I walk off the mat

and someone says,

                                        “That's what you get,

                                        little-girl loser.”

But I barely hear it.

What Really Has Changed?

I wonder, and I'm dazed.

Disappointed in my losses,

but not surprised—

I wrestled poorly.

Waking up

to the fact that

he's not the one

who's changed

took away my focus.

Sweet Brendan

loving Brendan

Mr. Hilarious Brendan

driven Brendan

playful Brendan

even distant Brendan

and for sure

depressed Brendan

is just Brendan.

Phase or not.

(BRENDAN)

Monday Morning Announcements

and the whole school gets to hear

that Miller Prep lost finals by six points.

Just so happens that's the exact number

a team forfeits

when there's a hole in the lineup.

I come out of a bathroom stall and

Rudy and Gil are waiting for me.

                      “We lost because of you,

                      you little faggot.”

They're between me and the door.

It's class change—

outside the hallway is loud.

If I shout would anyone hear?

Blood cracks in my veins.

My heart freezes.

Or would the rest of the team

come in, hold me down?

Gil steps forward.

Rudy smiles an evil smile.

                      “We're gonna make you sorry

                      you got up this morning.”

                      “Hell”—Gil's smiling, too—

                      “we're gonna make you

                      sorry you were born.”

He steps in front of me.

Rudy's still blocking the door.

I can't move.

When the fist comes

it doubles me over

pain sears my gut

I can't breathe.

The fist comes again

only this time it connects

with my nose and I see stars.

Then I'm on my side

and Gil is kicking me

and in the distance

like some psycho sound track

I can hear Rudy laughing.

Then the door opens.

The kicking stops.

          “Dudes, what's going on?”

          It's Andy.

                  “Teaching the fag a lesson.”

                  Gil's already stepping back.

I look over, see Andy nod.

He's the only kid

in the school

as big as Gil.

As tough.

          “That's probably enough,”

          he says.

                      “Bell's about to ring

                      anyway,” Rudy says.

                      Gil heads for the exit.

                      When he's safely past Andy

                      he says, “We'll leave your

                      girlfriend alone.”

He and Rudy laugh out the door.

I shift

to sit.

I'm slow.

I'm hurt.

I'm grateful.

I need a hand

to stand up.

Extend mine

to

Andy.

He looks at it.

Looks at me.

And shoves out the door.

I Leave School Without a Pass

The bus home

smells bad and

it wheezes and grunts;

like it's not gonna lie—

grinding away from the curb

takes effort; you'll    
f i n d

out just how hard moving

forward is. Maybe there's something

at the end of the line—

maybe there's nothing at all.

I've never been there

and for all I know,    
m y

ride's an infinite one.

Buildings and cars sliding by,

without end? What if there

was some    
w a y

to find out.

If I stayed on the bus, just

rode beyond the

horizon, checked    
o u t

of life here?

Would I find anything

at all? Angelic white forms

floating, soothing songs    
o f

joy and forgiveness?

Malicious horned beasts

with pitchforks and tails?

We used to go to church,

and yet    
t h i s

seems unlikely to me.

What I think

best case

would be,

a blank

dark room

at the end

of the line.

Dreamless sleep.

Male, female consciousness

gone to the grave

along with your    
b o d y
.

No One at Home

Walking

up

stairs

is such

an effort.

I fall

into bed

for the rest

of the day

drowsing

in and out.

Don't Do Sadness

Don't do sadness

don't do sadness

don't sadness

dadness

deadness

drift

down

sad

sorry

wrong.

Wrong flesh

wrong bones

wrong

wrong

wrong

wrong

the word “wrong”

sounds wrong.

Consciousness

             s
u
r
g
e
s

re
tre
a
t
s

Little hands

grab,

poke.

            Grabbing.

            Poking.

            “Brendy? Brendy?

            Where do you hurt?”

            Then shoving.

            “Where do you hurt, Brendy?”

A small voice

panicked

wakes me up.

It must be late

if Courtney's home

from after-school

day care already.

“I'm okay,”

I tell her.

But I'm not.

            “Are you sick?”

“Uh-huh.”

            “Did you throw up?”

“Yes,” I lie.

It's the best way I know

to get everyone to

leave me alone.

But not Courtney.

          “Should I get Mommy?”

“No—I just need rest.”

          “I'll read to you.” She puts her face

          close to mine, repeats what

          someone's said to her for sure.

          “It's very restful.”

I don't have the energy

to tell her no.

She bounces off

to get a book

and I drowse.

She brings back several,

pretends to read.

For a long time.

I fall asleep during
The Three Little Pigs
,

wake up during
Beauty and the Beast
.

            “But Beauty wasn't scared even

            though she had a scaredy face.

            She was just sad for Beast

            because he threw up.”

            A kiss on my shoulder.

Eyes tight,

I wait for her to go away.

When I open them Court's gone

but Mom's there

thirty feet tall.

                      “Dinnertime.

                      Are you okay?”

“Not hungry,” I tell her.

“Maybe something I ate.”

She starts to step forward—I

think she's going

to kiss my forehead

like she did

tucking me into bed

when I was little

and I'm surprised to realize

I wouldn't mind that

right now.

Would welcome it.

The Interloper

calls her name.

She shakes her head.

            “I'll check in on you later.”

Leaves.

From Sucky to Worse

The crowning touch

of the whole day,

one that would prove

God hated me—

if I believed in Him—

is when I turn on my Mac.

An e-mail from a school that starts,

We are happy to inform you,

is really saying,

You're special.

We want you!

Come be one of us.

You can ditch

your parents

your sucky town

your shitty life.

An e-mail that starts,

We regret to inform you,

is really saying,

You are a loser

with nothing to offer.

You are worthless and

we don't want you here.

You're stuck where you are,

you immoral freak of nature.

Guess which one

the University of Chicago sent?

And my pathetic first thought

is to find my phone,

call Vanessa,

tell her

about my rejection

but she knows about me

hates me.

I'm Tired

So tired of