Freakboy (3 page)

                   Centering

                   Centering

                   Centering

                   “C'mon, it'll be fun. Please?

                   Two blind mice doesn't make sense.”

Julie, Tanya, and I

have always

coordinated costumes.

When we were younger,

the three little pigs,

the three bears.

In high school we evolved.

Charlie's Angels,

the Three Musketeers.

Now we're regressing to the three blind mice?

“Sorry—I promised Brendan

I'd go to Andy's party.”

And I'm not telling her but

I already bought my costume:

ooh la la, French maid.

Sexier than a hooded sweatshirt,

sunglasses, and a rope tail for sure.

             Julie rolls her eyes.

             “Of course you promised
Brendan
—I

             guess we'll do something else.”

                    Centering.

                    Centering.

                    Centering.

“Meet us at Andy's?”

The invite for show—out of guilt

because if all works out

we won't be there for very long.

             The clay

on the wheel goes

                        a little        side

                                            ways.

                                        “Whatever.” She's

                                        already turning away.

                                        “We'll see.”

At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door

I grab keys to the Beamer,

hoping to escape while

Mom gives Snickers

to a warlock and a ninja.

She shouldn't get a good look

at what I'm wearing.

Her fashion sense

is more L.L.Bean than Ooh La La.

      (And for some crazy reason

      my dad doesn't seem to mind.

      So much for the widely touted

      French sense of style—

      I'd say he just left it behind

      when he moved to the U.S.

      but somehow he's managed

      to keep it for himself.)

            “Not too late!” Mom calls.

Pretending not to hear

is what I do best.

I'm picking up Brendan

and even though we've been together a long time

my rib cage has that great fizzy, funny feeling.

I've liked him since

I was a freshman.

He's a year older—and the only wrestler

who was nice to me when I joined the team.

I've loved him since

I was a sophomore.

I got my license that September—

wasn't supposed to drive

anyone else for six months.

Oops.

Two weeks after I got it

I saw Brendan hunching

toward the bus stop,

his Miller Prep uniform

damp with October rain.

I offered him a ride.

We got to his house,

sat in the car for another hour

talking about

               everything.

He called when I got home

and we talked for three more.

He knows my secrets.

(When we visit my father's family in Cannes

I'm embarrassed for my mom.

My
tantes élégantes
talk about her in French

she doesn't understand.

I do, but don't defend her.)

I know his deep darks, too.

(He got superlethargic

when his parents split up.

Wouldn't get out of bed

on the weekends.

His mom thought he just

needed time to adjust.

His dad and the court disagreed.

Brendan's bitter about the compromise:

custody for Mom, Zoloft for him.)

For three weeks

we were just friends

until the night

of the crazy windstorm.

He was babysitting Courtney.

I stopped by to say hi

and she'd just gone to sleep

in spite of the wail

of a seventy-mile-an-hour wind

that snapped power lines

and slammed

Southern California

into darkness.

He got out flashlights    lit candles.

Our hands made

shadow puppets

on the wall.

First fingertip kisses    then lips.

The Santa Ana Wind

gusts down

desert canyons.

Hot. Dry. Electric.

Some say

            it ignites tempers.

I say

            it ignited us.

It howled around outside,

battering the house

with dried palm fronds.

Debris snatched up

flung down

snatched up again.

A wind so greedy

it couldn't bear

to discard the tiniest scrap.

A greedy wind that wanted it all.

And when

our lips touched

for the first time

I flamed up

greedy too

and the pounding in my ears

could have been

the rush of my blood

or the Santa Ana wind

shrieking

for more.

A Year Later

we still

remind

each other

of that

first kiss.

“It's windy,”

I'll say

every time

he comes up

behind me,

lifts my hair

off my neck,

gently blows

just behind

my earlobe.

“It's windy,”

he'll whisper,

arms wrapped around me.

And I'm still greedy. Greedier, in fact.

We've talked about it—

kissing's not enough anymore.

We haven't discussed specifics, like

exactly when or where,

but I have a few ideas.

So, Mom?

              Tonight I could be home late.

How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?

(A) When you're in love?

(B) When your body aches for something more?

(C) When you've both decided you're ready?

(D) All of the above?

Hope my drive-your-man-crazy costume

keeps its promise.

In wrestling I'm hot

and sweaty

like the guys.

So off the mat,

I admit I tend to go

girly overboard.

But is it enough?

When I get to his house

he slumps into the car

and I taste his funky mood

in our kiss.

“You didn't dress up.”

Like he needs me

to point it out.

                                     “There's no law,” he says.

“But it'd be fun, right?

Last year you looked so cute!”

                         “Last year sucked.”

                         His flat voice shuts me out.

                         “Besides, I didn't have time.

                         I had to take Courtney out.”

Moody Brendan's in the house.

                         “What kind of a mother

                         schedules a boob job three days

                         before Halloween?”

“One with small tits?” I ask,

hoping for a smile that doesn't come

but he does reach over,

rest his hand on my leg.

I start the car.

We drive a block.

Then two.

Then three.

“C'mon—what's wrong?”

                                  “Halloween's just

                                  not my thing.”

“So
that's
why

you didn't

mention my costume!”

I'm trying for flirty, and

                                        he looks over.

                                        “Nice.”

But there's no smile.

And it's no use.

I turn the corner,

a deflated French maid

in fishnet stockings

and a short skirt.

(E) Quiz postponed.

Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations

Andy's house, a parent-free zone tonight.

Light spills out the open front door—

party's on downstairs,

upstairs windows are    
b l a c k
.

I park the car. Brendan

sits, doesn't get out.

I love him but know

there's no way to rescue his    
m o o d
.

If that were possible, I'd go in,

say hi, steal beer, and park

somewhere—talk, laugh, kiss.

Whatever it    
t o o k
.

He's complicated. Sometimes

just shy. Antisocial. Or

depressed. And I'm okay

when it's only    
u s
.

Tonight the situation sucks.

I blew off fun with my best friends

to be with Brendan. I'd do it again but sometimes

I wish there was a way to be with    
b o t h
.

Still, if it came right down to it?

A forever choice?

I'd choose him.

Always.

Some Truths Don't Go Over So Well

Especially not with friends

you've had since fifth grade.

This past summer Julie and Tanya bitched

I never spent time with them,

but that wasn't true.

We hung out a lot

when Brendan went away

to see his dad.

But when I pointed that out,

Tanya said it didn't count.

And even though I DID

invite them to this party,

I know they're mad at me

for ditching our

trick-or-treat tradition.

They just don't understand—

Julie's never been serious about a guy

and Tanya's never had a boyfriend at all.

I can't help it if

I'd rather be with him

than anyone else.

That's love.

(BRENDAN)

Last Night's Mistake

Throbbing music.

Throbbing bodies.

Throbbing headache this morning.

Wish we'd just gone in,

said hi, stolen beer,

parked somewhere.

But Vanessa wanted to party.

And I knew I wasn't good company.

Barely over the threshold,

it was Andy.

                  “You fag, you didn't dress up!”

                  Loud over booming bass.

“Good to see you, too.”

He couldn't hear me.

Instead, he handed me

a half-empty

bottle of Jack and then

pulled on his hockey mask.

                  “Dude, we're going

                  to the graveyard!

                  We're going to

                  have a séance

                  for Mr. Fredricks!”

Like this was a good idea?

Slasher movies aside,

didn't he think

kids
+
Halloween
+
graveyard
=

trouble of the police variety?

But how can someone who

doesn't speak up

be the voice of reason?

So I went along

with the crowd.

Bottle concealed

under my sweatshirt,

Vanessa at my side.

Trick-or-treaters were

home by that time,

counting their loot

or in bed already

and the two blocks

of asphalt

between Andy's house

and that of the dead

were empty.

Except for the fifteen or so of us,

a small mob of pirates, witches,

ghosts, and zombies, like something

out of the Charlie Brown

Halloween special.

The foggy mist felt

good on my skin

and oddly enough

(while heading to a cemetery)

my mood started to get better.

Over the wrought iron fence,

we scattered apart

in and around

the stone garden.

I pulled Vanessa along

with one hand,

held the bottle

with the other,

and tried to keep up with Andy

weaving between headstones and

jog-walking past the mausoleum.

Mr. Fredricks, the choir director,

had a heart attack my freshman year.

Now his grave's like

a Halloween tourist attraction.

He's buried in the corner

farthest from the road,

relatively safe

from a getting-in-trouble

standpoint.

Me and Andy and Vanessa

were the first to get there,

I thought. We stood, staring

at his name carved

on a metal-plated block.

“Alas, poor Fredricks,

I knew him well,” I said.

It wasn't true