Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
everything.
Of pushing
that word
down.
Away.
That I AM in the
wrong body and
no one will
ever love me.
That I'm in the wrong skin
but there's no way
to make it right
because I'm not into
long fingernails,
high heels, or skirts
either.
I'm Freakboy and
there will never
be a place for me.
Anywhere.
And out of
thoughts that've
floated for
a long time
a plan starts
to take shape in
my exhausted head.
(Angel)
I Have My First Fight
with Marcus
heading home from
the Bean Scene
full on mochas
and conversation
about his moms.
“They're pretty great,” I tell him.
He smiles.
          “I knowâthey liked you, tooâ
          even if you told them
          the wrong dilemma.”
“Huh?”
          “I thought you were going to ask
          them about the ethics of a
          friendship with a client.”
“It's not about meâ
it's what I should do
about Brendan breaking
the window!”
        “The window thing is
        Brendan's,” he agrees.
        “But you said yourself
        you'd have a hard time
        explaining your friendship
        to Dr. Martina,
        because he came to Willows
        as a potential client.”
His words poke
at me and, Girl,
I stop walking.
        “You're keeping something
        from your boss because you think
        it might show you did wrong.
        Baby, that's an ethical dilemma
        right there.”
“You sayin' I'm wrong
to be friends with
a kid who needs one?”
I stare him right
in his cocoa eyes.
        “Easy there!”
        He takes a step back.
        “No judgment, it was just
        an observation!”
The hell?!!
Sounded
pretty judgmental
to me.
I look away, try not to notice how his
biceps bulge when he crosses his arms.
I'm ready to
tell him
he sounds like a
self-righteous asshole
when he
          says soft, “I'm not even saying
          it's for sure wrongâI'm just
          saying maybe you should give
          Dr. Martina a chance
          to weigh in on it.”
My Boyfriend Won
our first fight because, Lord?
I think he's right.
But I'm gonna need
Your help in this
for sure.
Confession is good for the soul
but it might be
hell on a résumé.
Marcus kisses me good night
when we get to my place.
And even though
there's no answer when I call
I leave a message for Brendan
before I go to sleep.
Because if I'm risking
getting in trouble
at my job,
I may as well be
a true friendâ
and pay it forward first.
(BRENDAN)
Angel's Message
A beacon
over water,
          “I'm not gonna lieâ
          I'm madâbut
          I didn't give you
          a chance to explain.
          I wanna
          know more.
          Give me a call
          so we can talk.”
Shines useless
on a
sinking ship.
Asking Myself the Biggest Question
Pills or rope?
Gets interrupted
by Courtney,
who comes
to my door.
It's late
she should
be in bed.
          “Brendy? I brought you a cookie!”
She hands me a snickerdoodle,
props the Max doll I gave her for Christmas
on my nightstand,
settles her back against me.
          “I made it for you. Eat it!”
she demands.
Long after you go down
and the vessel rusts apart
your bones sunken
buried in the ocean floor
I wonder if you miss people?
(Vanessa)
Lillian Bruner's Having a Party
I go with Sheahan.
None of us are strangers to big houses
but Lillian's is gargantuan.
And I want to make a joke about her
needing it to house her giant ego
but Sheahan has a crush
on her and I don't want anyone
to think I'm a snide bitch.
No one here knows me well enough
to know that a joke is just a joke.
I miss Julie
I miss Tanya
I miss Brendan.
The people who know me.
The music's crazy loud
so we wander out
to the backyard
drink beer
from red plastic cups
stand away from the smokers
watch a couple of seniors
play some weird
gladiator game on the lawn.
Andy runs out of the house,
tackles one of the players.
“Centurion, welcome!”
the other one shouts.
            “Talked to Brendan lately?”
            Sheahan asks me.
I shake my head.
            “Sucks to be him.”
We watch the guys
rolling around on the grass
being stupid.
And all I can think
is how much it DOES suck.
Because if I'm feeling
friendless even with Sheahan,
Brendan really is
                                      alone.
We never had that
we'll-still-be-friends talk.
It Sucks Even More
that I'm good at things
as challenging
as ceramics
as grueling
as wrestling
but simple friendship
turned out to be
something too hard
for me
to stick with.
(BRENDAN)
Sunday Night Dinner
I'm not hungry
but it's my turn to set the table.
Courtney's happyâ
she gets to light the candles,
but wrinkles her nose.
                    “Brendy, you stink.”
“So do you.”
          “No really.” Mom butts in.
          “When was the last time
          you showered?”
“Really?”
I can't say exactly
when the last time
my skin, this skin
was clean.
          “Really,” she says, glancing at
          the Interloper. “Dinner's not
          for twenty minutes.
          Go. Bathe.”
          She manages to look disgusted
          and concerned
          at the same time.
A half hour later
I'm clean and
at the table and
exhausted.
Eating's a chore.
After Dinner
I go lie down.
Mom comes into
my room, sits
on the bed.
My eyes stay closed.
She doesn't beat
around the bush.
            “Honey, I'm worried about you.”
Her hand smooths
my high forehead.
“I'm okay,
just don't feel well.”
            “I hear that a lot from you.”
“It's true.”
            “Even soâI have a thought⦔
Uncertainty in her voice
makes me open my eyes.
Hers are welling.
There's Courtney in her face.
            “I know you're not comfortable
            talking to meâ
            and I know I've had issues
            with counseling in the past⦔
“Why?” I ask.
            She gets a faraway look.
            It lasts a long time
            and I think she's forgotten
            the question, until she
            speaks again.
            “I think I misread your father's
            intentions,” she says quietly.
            “When people divorce, even when
            they try to keep it amicable â¦
            there's a lot of hurt feelings,
            misunderstanding⦔
She looks down at me
and I want to look away
but I don't.
            “Now I think he really was
            worried about you.”
            She stares
            off again.
I stay silent.
Finally:
            “But maybe Dr. Andrews
            just isn't a good fit?”
The whole conversation
so out of left field.
No idea what to say.
            “I just want you to know our
            insurance has a list
            of other therapists,
            if you want,
            and if it's something you choose
            for yourselfâmaybe it
            could be a good thing.”
I'm tired.
She's trying.
She's too late.
“Andrews is fine.
I'm just sick.”
            “Maybeâbut it might be good
            for you to talk to someone else,
            anyway ⦠Will you?”
I'm not going to argue
but I'm not committing either.
“We'll see.”
She doesn't push
for more than that.
The truth is
I am not planning to talk to anyone else
                                                        ever.
Tiny White Torpedoes
squeezed tight in my fist.
Leftovers from breast surgery.
Discovered behind the vitamins
in Mom's medicine cabinet.
How many,
I wonder?
How many
would take me under
slow
breath
heartbeat
let
this
body
this
wrong
body
this
brain
this
wrong
brain
sleep?
No Note
could ever explain
and why
reveal
that the
inexplicable
even exists
when it will just
lead to more
questions?
No answers.
Far beyond
feeling mean
at the thought
of making them guess
all I feel
is a forever
dull ache
that will
probably
exist
for as
long as
I do.
Midnight
The wedge of light
under Mom's door
is snuffed out.
I line up the pills
on my nightstand
one row of twenty
is this it?
rearrange them
two rows of ten
I don't
think
it will hurt
now three of six
with two left over
and even if it doesâ
now four of five
with none left overâ
it'll stop eventually
now two of seven
with six left over
No school tomorrow;
they'll let me sleep
now two of eight
with four left over
hours from now
I don't know where I'll beâ
now two of nine
with two left overâ
but this body will be here
stiff,
cold?
          “BRENDY!!!”