Freakboy (9 page)

(Angel)

The Second-to-Last Present I Got

from the Sperm Donor

was a pair of boxing gloves

                            
the bite

five years ago, handed over

with a sarcasm attitude, I thought,

                            
of the belt

on Christmas Day

in the morning

                            
stings but

That night he caught me again

this time in heels and eye shadow,

                            
doesn't cut

Wilderness camp didn't work. So he

beat me one last time. “No kid of mine”

                            
like words
—

and “Don't come back,”

the last present I got from anyone

                            
Freedom.

I Showed Up at Tía Rosa's

one-bedroom apartment

on Christmas night.

                    
“Lo siento,”
Mama's sister

                    crooned over and over—

                    warm washcloth

                    on my cuts. We

                    sat on the edge of

                    the tub.

My three little cousins

crowded into

the steamy bathroom

around us.

                    “
Lo siento,
Angel.”

                    Eyes huge at me,

                    my bruises.

She wanted to call the cops—

I didn't let her.

Lord knows I hate

the Sperm Donor

but I love Frankie more.

And no one needs to see

their father taken away

in cuffs.

I begged my aunt to just

let me stay with her.

She worked a lot.

Hotel maid in the morning,

cleaning other people's houses

later in the day.

I watched my cousins

so she could quit paying

the crabby lady across the hall

to look in on 'em

and it was all good

till Rosa's fiancé moved in.

Gonna Ignore Those Bad Manners

'Cause Baby Jesus's birthday

is still the Most Wonderful

Time of the Year.

After I buy Frankie's present

(funkadelic PacSun sweatshirt)

I do a little holiday shopping

for the kids at the center.

Yeah—I'm in school—

part-time job,

counting my pennies.

But, Girl, I know how

it feels to not get

one single present

at Christmas.

Like the world forgot

you because you

weren't what it

was expecting.

And I know

I'm all for what they call

gender-neutral toys.

Girls can like football

boys can play with dollhouses

and it doesn't mean a thing.

But when you know you're a girl and

you ONLY get boy toys

(and not the yummy boy toys you can

play with when you're older)

then Christmas is

the Most Suckiest Time of the Year.

So I fill

my dollar-store bag

with little presents:

shiny bangles

nail polish

scented body lotion

trial-sized Christmas cheer.

For myself, three dollars' worth

of symphony carols

plus a pair of red-sparkle tights.

Just call me Miss Santa!

Back at the Center

everyone's checking out

the artist-type hottie

standing on a ladder

painting letters on the

window we replaced weeks ago.

Willows has to pay for that—

insurance only covered the glass itself.

I pray again the asshole'll get caught—

a regular prayer on my list now.

I start to feel like that Grinch

and I hate it,

so I snap myself out by asking a regular,

Daniella, to help me wrap presents.

I'll leave some without cards

for extra just in case

but there's a set of hair clips

I know have to go to Liberty.

They have hummingbirds,

her totem I guess you'd say.

Daniella cops an attitude.

                  “Why you give anything to

                  THAT skank? She pumps!”

Some girls do.

Not safe

but hard sometimes

to wait for hormones

to kick in

and even with their help,

you usually wind up a cup size

smaller than your mama—

so if your mama

had no tits to speak of,

you won't either.

Not without surgery

or pumping.

Some girls

think pumping

is trashy—

judge those who go

to pumping parties,

strip down in apartments

or hotel rooms,

let someone with

no medical connection

inject that silicone

right into their

chests, hips, lips.

Dangerous, like I said.

Lopsided tits sometimes

aren't the worst of it—

silicone gets in your lymph nodes

or lungs and shit.

I hand the tape to Daniella. I usually try

not to preach—but sometimes …

“Girl? Don't you know

it's the season of kindness?

“Your tolerance would be the

best present for everyone.

“Including yourself.”

She's huffy, but quiet.

Thinking, I hope.

Because Honestly

is it trashy

to want something so bad

you go for it

even if it might kill you?

My opinion?

It's judging that's trashy.

Bad enough the world looks at us

under a (distorted) microscope.

Like the good Lord says,

we don't need to

judge each other.

(BRENDAN)

O

Christmas Tree.

“Wake up! Up! Up! Up!”

Courtney jumping on my bed.

I open one eye (the only one I can).

“Go away, squirt.” “Get up! We're getting

a tree!” Every year, even without Dad, Chase

Family Tradition. Four-hour

round-trip to kill a tree for Christ.

We wear flannel shirts, pose for the

holiday card: “Look! A family of lumberjacks

living in the wilds of Wisconsin” or

something. Mom fills a thermos:

hot chocolate. (It must get down to fifty

degrees two hours northeast of San Diego,

got to stave off hypothermia.) She's mad

about my eye. “It'll spoil

the Christmas card!” Claude claps

me on the shoulder. “It just shows the

world he's the man!” He's proud. Like he's

the one who got injured and still went on to

pin the kid from Lind High to the mat. Must be

hard to be a nerdy philharmonic

orchestra conductor when you have

the soul of a caveman. Still, I go along.

Flex my muscles, wield the saw, wipe my

brow, sniff my pits, smile for the camera, gulp

hot chocolate, burp without apology.

I AM THE MAN
.

No    Doubt

About    It.

Home from the Ordeal

Claude the Interloper uncoils

white twinkle lights while

Mom puts cinnamon rolls

in the oven.

Court settles in

at the coffee table,

an explosion of markers,

Mom's stationery and envelopes

a mess around her.

She's writing Santa a letter.

                                “Looky, looky!”

                                So proud.

“Very good,”

I tell her, though it's

just her name over and over—

the only thing she knows how to spell.

                    “Can you help her?”

                    Mom calls from the kitchen.

“Sure—just a minute.”

I grab a handful

of blue envelopes

to take up to my room.

I'll send

them to

Willows with

cash inside

and

some-

day

be

able

to

forget

about

that                night.

When I head back down

to take dictation

from a five-year-old

I'm feeling pretty good.

(Vanessa)

Early Christmas Present

from my mom.

We're in the kitchen.

I'm inhaling a plate

of apple slices,

she's keeping me company.

                          “Oh, I almost forgot!”

                          She grabs something

                          from her purse,

hands me

tickets to the
Nutcracker
matinee.

                          “I thought you could take Julie

                          or Tanya.” She's smiling.

Guess she hasn't noticed

I don't really hang out with them

too much anymore.

I called Tanya again to apologize

but she just repeated what Julie said,

like a parrot:

                                      “We like you and we like

                                      Brendan, but we don't

                                      like you together.”

and that's bullshit.

I'm sorry if they're mad

but there's nothing I can do about it.

It'll blow over eventually. Until then …

“I'll take Brendan,” I say.

As if he wants

to watch ballet

(like I want

to watch ballet?).

I get
that
look.

“What?”

Mom goes to the sink.

She rinses her paisley teacup,

part of a set I made for

her birthday,

then comes back

to sit with me.

                            “I'm glad you and Brendan

                            enjoy each other”—