Freakboy (6 page)
Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
inside it is my princess dream.
And a horror that
    starts small,
multiplies
with other droplets containing
                        drowsing sensations,
                                    fleeting desires.
The water gathers until
  certain knowledge that this
          ugly word applies to me,
                becomes a tidal wave that
                                knocks me
                                                        over.
Transsexual
Snap
screen
shut.
Grab my bus pass,
charge downstairs.
I have to move
get out
get away.
Transsexual
“Going to the library,”
I shout toward the
music room's
closed door,
and then
I'm outside
running
            Transsexual
past wide
lawns,
huge
Band-Aid-colored
stucco houses,
fake streams,
and fake waterfalls.
Transsexual
Skid to
the stop.
A bus pulls around
the corner and
I don't look at
which one it is
don't care
where it's headed.
I just need to
ride
Transsexual
for a long time.
When it
gets too quiet
the word
too loud.
        Transsexual
I get off
at stops
                      familiar
                      unfamiliar.
Take the next one
that comes my way
zigzag across the city
and back.
TRANSSEXUAL
I stare
into the dark
until a guy
about my age
about my size,
gets on
grunts
across
the aisle.
Cigarette smell
bar codeâtattooed neck
ring-pierced eyebrow
announce him.
He's Tough Guy.
And he's looking at me.        For a fight?
I turn my head
              Transsexual
my face feels ugly
I make it uglier
just in case.
When the bus
stops I get off
on a dim street.
Am
I
looking for a fight?
Tough Guy
doesn't follow.
But my fists
don't unclench.
I
was
looking for a fight.
The bus heaves off
into the late night.
I turn around
and BAM
Willows Teen Center
looms    ahead
on the empty block.
I get closer, see the
smaller letters painted
on darkened windows.
A PLACE FOR LGBTQ YOUTH.
        Transsexual
My heart slams
into my throat
exactly like that night
in the graveyard
but my stomach
is sick, too.
Is that why the girl
was so nice?
Did she think I was gay?
Is there something about me?
Something obvious
I don't recognize but
others do?
How can other people
see something in me
that I have never seen
in myself?
        Transsexual
No breath
deserted block.
            Transsexual
Next to the curb
a river stone
just bigger than
my fist.
Rounded, smooth,
like something
you'd see in the back
of a landscaper's truck
nestled with others
of its kind.
            Transsexual
Here,
out of place,
                                lonely
in the middle
of the sidewalk.
Transsexual
My fingers close
around it
cool
to the touch
heavy
in my palm.
A current rushes
my body
shoots through
my arm,
a hand that isn't mine
hurls a rock
it wasn't holding
right through the
T
for Teen Center
T
for
    Transsexual
Glass Shatters
shocks my ears
and I'm off
running
up the block
away from
here.
What the hell
what the Hell
what the HELL.
Alarms should
          be screaming.
Lights should
          be flashing.
People should
          be shouting.
But the street sleeps on.
I round the corner just
in time for the next bus.
It picks me up,
takes me toward home as if
everything
is                            fine.
(Angel)
Sometimes the Real World Hurts
'Specially when you're looking
at it through a hole some
homophobic asshole made
by throwing shit
through the window
of a center for queer kids.
          Bus takes me by here
          on my way to the class
          I'm gonna miss
          'cause this morning I got off
          to see why
          Dr. Martina
          and the PoPo were
          standing outside.
There's broken glass,
a rock
inside.
        Officer takes a report, then tells
        us catching someone probably
        won't happen. Dr. Martina nods,
        shrugs. “I figured.”
Wait, we're just supposed
to lay down and take it?
        “This stuff happens, Angel,”
        she says to the face I'm pulling.
When the cop leaves I get out
the Shop-Vac. Doctor tapes the hole,
calls around for replacement glass.
This is so fucked up
I got the shakes
like a junkie.
“So there's nothin'
at all we can do,”
I say when she hangs up.
        “We
are
doing something.
        Every day we fight ignorance
        and hatred with education.”
I like the good doctor too much
to tell her what bullshit
that sounds like right now
when I'm standing here
looking at all the shiny
pieces on the floor
and I'm thinking
of the glass coffee table
that broke
when
the Sperm Donor
pushed me into it.
How blood soaked
my favorite Juicy shirt.
                  “No son of mine!”
                  Damn straightâand now
                  I'm not his daughter either.
I know Jesus says forgive but
I'm not JesusâI'm just a girl with
a vacuum cleaner, suckin' up shards,
and they may look like they're gone
'cause you can't see 'em,
but they're poking around inside.
I Pray to God
and it's not just
for me I'm praying.
I think of the kids
coming in
seeing that taped-up window
hearing what happened.
Bad enough they get
told at home
at school
on the street
that they aren't okay.
A broken window
of the only place that
welcomes 'em
gives the message
there's not one single
                            spot
on this earth
that they are
safe.
(BRENDAN)
All the Next Day
the question I'm asking,
“What the hell?”
trails me.
And
that              other                word
follows it right behind.
Toilet paper
stuck to
my shoe.
What a crappy thing
to do.
What a crappy thing
to be.
All I need is
a bar code tattoo,
an eyebrow piercing,
and a sex change
to announce
to the world
I'm the new
American degenerate.
Freak-style.
Tuesday morning,
AP History,
looking for a pen
in my backpack
fingertips brush
the paper
that girl
gave me
outside of Willows.
What did she see
when she looked at me?
Guilty, I imagine
her kneeling,
picking up glass,
cutting herself.
In class
out of class
wrestling practice
awkward ride home.
(“Just in a bad mood,”
my excuse to Vanessa.)
Then finishing college applications
where the writing prompt asking me to
describe an incident that changed me
brings on a whole new anxiety.
Transgender.
Transwoman.
Transformed into a freak.
Transported to hell.
A Couple Days Later
Andy comes over
after dinner.
We're headed upstairs
when Mom grabs me. Says,
          “You look tired.”
I grunt.
          “Were you up late
          playing video games?”
“No.”
          “Are your applications done?”
“Mostly.”
I brush by her.
Andy's ahead of me
already disappearing
into my room.
I go after him, thinking
focusing on gaming's a good idea.
That escapist virtual world
trumps this one
with its
twisted question
electric in my brain:
WHAT IF IT'S TRUE?
College Applications, Round One
Most due Monday after Thanksgiving and
I've hit Send on a few already, like
my first choice, U of Chicago.
