Freakboy (24 page)

          My door slams open

          a hallway shriek,

          night-terror eyes wild

          hair sticking out.

My heart explodes

like it did

that night

in the graveyard.

Courtney's too freaked

by whatever monster

she's seen

to notice my girlish yell

          or the pills

          on my nightstand.

I'm Leading Her

back to her room

when Mom sticks

her head out.

“Nightmare,” I say.

“I've got it.”

            “Are you sure?” She yawns,

            clearly hoping to go back to bed.

My throat closes; that's it.

I
will
be Little Mother.

In the pretty pink

princess palace.

I sit with my baby sister

waiting for her to sleep,

heart squeezing,

folding, turning over.

Courtney

could be the one

to find me dead.

What would that do?

What would

her tomorrow look like?

And the tomorrows

after that?

How messed up

would she be?

The little-kid

memory

of touching

poking

prodding

my lifeless body?

Not Dying

isn't the same as

choosing to live,

not right away.

In the bathroom

I pee sitting down,

thinking about it.

Go to the beach?

Would the    
i m p u l s e

to throw my body into

night-blackened water

outlast my bio-instinct

to breathe?

Would this body struggle

against my own intention

mind, soul, body connection    
d e n i e d
?

Would I care who

found me, looking like

a bloated small seal,

a tuskless walrus?

As long as it wasn't Courtney?

What do humpbacks think

when they beach themselves

on land and people go to crazy efforts,

tugging them

pushing them

rolling them

back into the sea?

Afterward, do the whales

look back to shore, thinking,

            
I feel better now—

            
and there are

            
some humans

            
I need to
    
t h a n k

            
for disallowing my

            
self-destruction.

Or do they just

think,
Oh,
    
G o d,

I have to try, try again.

When I get into bed

I think maybe

I won't try

not right now anyway.

Instead

I call Angel

first thing in the morning

because

there has to be

a better way

to deal

with being me

and that

other option

will always

exist

if I need it.

We Meet Down at Mono Cove

Waves crash

sea spray

and

I come out

into sunshine

that almost hurts

my eyes.

We walk.

I talk.

Angel listens.

I tell her about that night.

“I don't know why I did it.”

And I don't, not for sure.

“Maybe I thought

the sound of breaking glass

would drown out

that word?”

She nods.

                    “Uncool,” she says.

                    “But I think I understand.”

Pauses.

          “You got freaked

          figuring out

          you're genderqueer.”

And even though

Angel says it quiet

the new word

bounces off the bluff

soft round sound

for such sharp edges.

          Queerbait.

Queer as a three-dollar bill.

          Smear the queer.

I consider

in silence.

Genderqueer.

The way

she says it

doesn't feel

like a put-down.

I slip it on over my head

stretch around

feel it on my skin

                                not male

          not female.

A gull wheels by,

swoops down,

pecks in the

tangled

seaweed.

It reminds me of

the grabby women

at the bra-and-panty table

in Girl World.

“I have no idea where I fit in.”

            She smiles. “You think

            you're the only one?”

“I'm just not … flamboyant.”

            “Shit, it's not about

            how you dress—it's

            not even about your body parts.

            Uh-uh—it's about your soul.”

Maybe, maybe not.

My voice

is small in my ears.

“I'll feel like Freakboy

no matter where I go.”

She stops walking,

looks me in the eye.

          “Everyone feels like a freak

          until they make up their mind

          they're not.”

It's full confession time.

“I read about people who've known

forever they belong in a different body,

“but I'm not even always sure I'm trans.

“Sometimes, being a guy is … not horrible.”

My shrug tightens,

my shoulders go round.

“Sometimes, it hurts more than anything.”

A                  tortuous

back    and    forth.

“What's it even mean

that I'm never sure

either way?”

And really.

How can

you ever

get a grip

on THAT?

            “Lord knows,

            we don't need

            more labels,” she says.

But then

she gives me

two words

that push

            the

                      pieces

of

            the

puzzle together.

“Gender Fluid”

I study the phrase.

My soul a vapor

                    wafting

                                wafting

between male

and female.

I am

          everything

          and

          nothing

          but moist breath and soul.

We sit in the sand

backs against

the bluff

quiet

for a moment

just watching the waves

until a couple

          one man

          one woman

walk by us,

holding hands,

at ease.

          Vapor condenses

          falls to earth. Heavy.

“I just can't imagine what

my future could possibly look like.”

          “Only God knows what's in store!

          You could win the lottery or

          get hit by a bus.”

In spite of me

I almost smile.

“I'd rather win the lottery.”

                    “Only one thing's for sure,”

                    she says. “You will never,

                    EVER

                    beat me

                    at Mordock's Giant.”

And now I do smile.

A small thing

that feels good.

(Vanessa)

Teacher In-Service Day

means no school

but Brendan's not home.

             “Would you like to come in though?”

             his mom asks me.

She gestures on a cloud

of light perfume that

Grand-maman would appreciate.

I think of the way

Mrs. Chase traded in

one husband for another

and I realize

that Grand-maman's little lessons

are all about how to get a guy

but not about how to have a relationship

with anyone.

Even yourself.

Waiting Around

is not what I do best,

but I think

about Brendan

all alone.

He needs a friend.

I need a friend.

It's worth some time

with his mom.

Everything looks like

it did weeks ago.

I sit on the same old sofa—

she offers the same old soda.

                          “We've missed you,”

                          she says.

The same old grandfather clock

ticks away the awkward minutes

but it all somehow feels different.

“I've been busy with

wrestling.”

                          “Oh, of course! I'm just

                          glad to see you.

                          Brendan's seemed a little

                          down lately.”

She's looking at me

with some expectation

in her eyes, like I can

tell her what's going on with him.

But I can't.

And I'm feeling weirded out,

so I make small talk

until I can politely leave.

At the door,

she surprises me

with a hug.

                        “I'm glad you came by—

                        Brendan needs his friends.”

I head to my car

thinking that

of all the things

I'm good at,

wrestling,

ceramics,

even school,

being a friend

is not what I do best.

Not to Brendan.

Not to Julie.

Not to Tanya.

But I'm willing

to work on it.

With all of them.

(Angel)

We Go Back to Brendan's

and his girlfriend's

just comin' down the walk.

He seems surprised to see her.

            “Vanessa!”

            We just stand there

            looking at each other,

            till he remembers his manners.

            “This is Angel.”

            We shake hands

            like we're old people.

            “Courtney's new babysitter?”

            Her voice has an edge to it.

Brendan looks to me

for a second

like he wants to lie

but he straightens his shoulders.

            “I'm sorry, no.”

She nods once

turns to get in the car.

Brendan's face is so sad …

these two need to talk.

I was supposed to go in with him

get a game he was tellin' me about

but it can wait.

“I better get going.

I have a big date

with my boyfriend, Marcus,” I say.

Brendan's look,

pure gratitude

sunshine.

I Take the Bus to Willows

My heart starts beating

when I see Dr. M's in her office.

“You got a minute?” I ask.

She smiles, gestures me in.

It's warm today

and her blazer's slung

on the back of the chair. Even so,

she looks totally professional.

Someone you can look up to.

“I have an ethical dilemma,” I say,

and she raises her eyebrows.

I tell her about

the first time I met Brendan

when he got sick in the planter.

And she looks serious

when I tell her about how

he came into Willows

a few weeks later,

how I didn't think he'd come back,

and how I gave him my number again.

I tell her about going to his house,

borrowing his PS2.

I tell her about everything

except the window

because Brendan's

paying for it

and I've pretty much