Freakboy (14 page)

when there's nothin' goin' on

it feels good to go

to church

but I don't feel

like I have to

or the Lord will get mad.

I'm a pretty strong spirit myself.

And me and God?

We're tight.

We don't need anyone

to translate

for either of us.

God doesn't make mistakes.

I'm here for whatever reason He/She has.

No need

to apologize

For who I am.

For what I am.

(Vanessa)

Today Was Just Another Crappy Day

in a long line of

other crappy days. I    
d o n' t

know what's wrong.

Brendan left without

saying goodbye.

We were supposed

to hang out after wrestling,

but that was something

he obviously didn't    
w a n t
.

When I left the gym I saw

someone'd written “dyke” on my car.

I acted like I didn't care—and

Brendan's the only one

I'd complain about it    
t o
.

They say I play for both teams

but there's not a lot of play

now anyway. We used to

get busy after meets—

endorphins would surge,

win or    
l o s e
.

Today he just left, and I wish

to God he'd open up,

tell me for real

what's wrong with    
h i m
.

In the Parking Lot

I text him:

Give me a call?

By the time I get home

there's still no reply.

Helloooeeee?

Nothing.

After dinner

I call his cell,

leave a message.

“We need to talk.”

Nada.

I'm mad

and worried

at the same time.

There should

be a name for this

                          Morried? Wad?

I dial again, hang up.

Should I call the house?

Anger and sadness

compete inside me.

It's a tie.

(BRENDAN)

On the Wall

After my shower I

go to put on pants

and I end up in bed,

eyes closed. Won't look

at the dresser    
m i r r o r
.

How do you deal when

what you see just    
d o e s n 't

reflect your soul?

The hips, the tits don't exist

and what is there is a    
l i e
.

The Big Question

I've ignored two texts and a call.

When I hear the landline ring

I get off the bed, still ignoring

the bastard mirror,

open
Hamlet
, and sit at my desk.

Mom knocks on the door.

(I knew she would.)

Opens it a crack

and pokes her head in,

          “Sweetie, it's Vanessa?”

(I knew it was.)

I shrug.

“Studying,” I say.

Mom nods—

           like she believes me.

                        “I'll tell her to call back?”

She sounds like she's asking

a question. She's not.

Until she does.

                    “Brendy, are you all right?”

Oh, so there's ANOTHER question, not

just to be or not to be. Hamlet, you ass-

wipe, you had it all wrong.

I Can Tell

Mom's standing

outside the door

still waiting

for me to answer.

“Just tired,” I say.

            “Okay.”

Is that relief in her voice?

            “Let me know if you

            need anything.”

I hear her move off down the hall.

Knowing what I need is different

than knowing what I don't.

I don't need

to let the world

see me

a curious shemale.

(Vanessa)

Driving to Brendan's

feels a little weird.

I didn't tell him

I'm coming over

not that I always do—

but this is deliberate

as if I'm mounting

a sneak

attack.

His mom

answers

            “Vanessa!!!”

            Like I'm her long-lost daughter.

            She opens the door wider to let me in.

            “It's good to see you!” she says

            before waving me up

            to Brendan's room

            with a graceful harp-player hand.

He's sitting

at his desk

back to the door

World of Warcraft

on the screen

in front of him.

No idea I'm behind him.

I watch him for a minute

his shoulders are slouchy,

his hair a little long.

I want to touch it,

trim it, take care of him.

“What's wrong?”

He jumps

at my voice

turns off the game

like it was porn

or something.

            “When did you get here?”

            He doesn't sound happy to see me.

“Just now.

What's wrong?”

I repeat.

He stares at me a minute.

I can't read his face

and I want to cry.

Not long ago

I wouldn't have had to

try to decipher anything.

He'd tell

me everything.

                            “I started feeling sick again,”

                            he finally says.

“And you couldn't text?

You couldn't call?”

I'm getting whiny

and I hate it

but his excuse is lame.

                          “Look, I'm sorry.

                          But I don't feel well.”

“And there was

no way of

letting me know that?

I was worried!”

                          His mouth

                          hardens.

                          “It's not always

                          about you!”

He flops

onto his bed,

closes his eyes.

                          “I really feel sick. I'm sorry.

                          Can we argue about this later?”

He looks tired,

small somehow

and maybe he IS

just sick?

Guilty

                  I

                          cave

                                         kiss him

                                                      leave.

On the Way Home

I'm rewarded

with a text

for dropping

the whole thing.

ILY

And it sucks that

Grand-maman was right again.

She has a cautionary saying (of course)

Foxes are all tail,

Women are all tongue
.

I think it means

shut up

if you want a guy

to love you.

(BRENDAN)

Dr. Do-Little's Office

Soothing beige

stucco walls

press in on me

at my mandatory

six-month check-in.

I missed school today

so Mom could roll her eyes

and drop me off

at Dr. Andrews's office,

where he asks

the same old questions.

                     (Suicidal thoughts?

                     Tendencies?)

Last night I had the princess dream

and maybe agitation seeps out

in my “no”

because he doesn't take it

for an answer.

NOW he wants me to talk

and I wish he'd just

give me the prescription

so I can go home and sleep.

School's fine.

Friends are fine.

Wrestling's fine.

Girlfriend's fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

But not.

And I can't help it

can't help myself.

I fail at

being a boyfriend,

being a guy

and I'll never be able

to live as anything else.

And somehow,

thinking these things,

            (in the presence

            of a trained professional

            who nods and smiles)

but knowing I will

never

ever

be able to tell anyone

pisses me off.

(Vanessa)

I'm Lonely Without Brendan

Too much time

to wonder and worry

about what's    
e a t i n g

him. There's no one to talk to

and nothing to look forward to

when he's not here.

I miss him at    
l u n c h

and on break I sit in my car

thinking about next year

when he'll be off to college

and I'll be here.

Left all    
a l o n e
.

We're Practicing Takedowns

After fifty burpies

a hundred push-ups

countless squats

my ponytail

is wet and stringy

by the time we

partner up

for my favorite drill.

Thoughts of

Brendan

leak away in

my pouring sweat.

I shoot fast

grab Sheahan,

who, after two years

as my workout partner,

is so over any idea

that I'm a fragile girl.

I take him down.

We stand up

do it again

over and over.

I'm in the zone

and he's tired

but when I hear the stop whistle

I take him again

'cause I can.

He calls me a dick

then bumps my fist with his.

We share a tired smile.

At tournaments

there's always

some buzz

in my weight class

about whether

a win by me

is legitimate.

The only way to make sure

is if my opponent goes for it—

lets go of the thought I'm a girl.

After all this time,

it's an easy thing

for Sheahan (my friend?) to forget.

I just hope that's not

what's happened

with Brendan.

(Angel)

When I Have Time

I don't mind

doing dishes.

Like it, even.

The smell

of lavender detergent

from Trader Joe's

reminds me of my mama.

I'm standing at the sink

thinking of her, of Frankie,

when Denai floats in.

Lit up like that Christmas tree

we still need to take down.

“Sistah, you are glowing!”

I turn, get a good look.

“Is that my sweater?”

         “Mmmhmmm.” She's dreamy.

         “I knew you wouldn't mind.”

I hand her a towel

so she can dry,

go back to the spaghetti pot

I was scrubbing.

I've seen that look on her before—

envied it then, too.

It's that I-just-met-someone look.

And it doesn't

seem to happen

as often as it should

to me.

(Now, you could argue

that my standards