Freakboy (4 page)

though he'd always been

nice to me, considering

I couldn't sing.

I was just

taking off

on a line from
Hamlet
,

required reading senior year.

A swig from the bottle.

Then Gil jumped out from

behind a nearby tombstone.

And even though I'd expected

something like it somewhere

in the back of my head,

my heart slammed

into my throat

and I yelled.

                            “You scream like a girl!”

                             First Gil was laughing,

                             then Andy joined in.

“Screw you,” I said,

trying to sound jokey.

(At least Vanessa didn't laugh.)

                            Gil's eyes narrowed.

                            “What did you say?”

“Aw, c'mon.”

Tried to keep it light.

Gil's an eighty-two-pounder—

wrestle-speak for

one hundred eighty-two.

Big.

A wild man

on the mat.

Off the mat

                    just a dirty fighter.

“I didn't scream like a girl.”

My vocal cords wispy,

traitorous.

Andy pointed to Fredricks's grave.

                                “Look, I see a ghost!”

Distracting Gil,

the ugly drunk.

I'm always

a little surprised

when

Andy

has my back.

                                He howled

and pretty soon

from distant places

other kids, other voices

joined in.

                              “Woooo wooooo.”

Until the wailing

was joined by a different kind.

Cemetery neighbors

probably called the police.

Flashing lights at the front gates

gave just enough time

for us to jump the fence,

    
s c a t t e r
     laughing    
g a s p i n g,

back to the house

where Gil forgot to punch me

or maybe he just didn't want

to risk a fight with Andy

who's even bigger than him

and a black belt, too.

Everyone else partied,

breathless enthusiasm over

the graveyard adventure,

while my ears flamed

at the memory of

my voice

my shriek

my girlish

noise.

I pushed Vanessa

to dance in the crush of bodies,

            (why should she suffer

            just because I was miserable?)

I stood to the side.

And drank.

And watched

my beautiful

girlfriend.

And waited

to go home.

Where

          thanks to a mom

          who never waits up

          even when she's

          not recovering

          from surgery

I could be

all by

my

ugly

                                            self.

After Vanessa Dropped Me Off

I crashed in bed

but lay awake forever

          hearing my girl-voice, Gil's laugh.

Reliving the shittiness

through the hours

until finally I drowsed

into that dream I've had

off and on

since freshman year,

more

often

lately.

           And if the dream

           itself isn't

           bad enough

           the way I always feel

           when I wake up

           is worse,

           sense-memories

           that make me sweat

           like I just got off the mat.

Nightmare

Courtney clenched in a dragon's fist.

I stand below,

arms stretched out

worried.

I sacrifice myself to save her

by turning into a hot princess

while everyone else looks

confused.

I'm dragon bait,

still I feel right

with full breasts, long hair—

peaceful.

I wake up

to flat chest,

morning wood,

nauseous.

Thank God for Dry Toast

I gnaw, trying to focus

on that instead of my dream

or how shitty I feel.

Trying to focus on the fact

I have to make it through

wrestling during the

stupid-early

zero period

before school starts,

then class

and a test in AP Calculus

(easy if only I wasn't hungover).

A sick-the-day-after-

Halloween story and

Coach'd pour on the abuse.

Brush my teeth,

shove my feet

into shoes

I don't bother to tie.

No one awake to

shout bye to.

I finally drag my body

onto the 34 West bus.

Too early for crazies

except me

who dreams of

turning into a girl.

And likes that feeling.

Does that make me gay?

Alone in my weirdness,

buildings (filled with normal people)

swirl past; my stomach bubbles.

My forehead's slick

against the seat

in front of me.

A groan escapes.

Across the aisle

a real girl speaks up.

My true self

must not show.

                              “Big night?” she asks.

Can't tell if she's making fun,

risk nodding yes,

avert my eyes—

in case

they really

are a window

into my twisted soul.

                               “You okay?”

What can you say to that?

I mean, with honesty.

Nothing.

“I'm fine.”

But in the next second

I know I'm going to puke

if I don't get off.

Right now.

Just then she pulls the cord,

the bus glides to a stop. Thank God.

I stumble off, reach a

sidewalk planter just in time.

After the dry toast

and last night's Jack is gone

(no trouble making weight today)

I feel better—except the

girl from the bus stands

holding out a water bottle.

I shake my head.

No candy from strangers.

            “Someone had too much

            fun last night, for sure!”

            Offers the bottle again.

            “Never been opened.”

“No thanks.” Why is she being so nice?

            “No rinse?” she asks.

“I'm okay.” Now I really

can't look her in the eye.

            “Suit yourself,” she says

            but she doesn't sound mad.

            “I work right here.”

            Points to the building whose

            shrubs I just baptized with my

            breakfast, all hail the holy vomit.

“Sorry.”

Please God, just send

another bus now.

            “It's okay.

            “Look, if you want to come in and

            get cleaned up, it's a teen center…”

Again I shake my head. A block away

the next bus rounds the corner. See?

Maybe God answers prayers.

(If you're careful not to ask for

anything that's not in his goodie bag—

apparently he mostly keeps stuff like

salvation and plagues in there.)

            “Okay, okay,” she says. She's

            smiling again.

            “But do me a favor—

            tie your shoes.”

I feel like an idiot,

bend down to tie and that

makes my head pound again.

She puts the water back

in her purse, writes

something on a slip of paper.

            “If you ever want to talk…”

Older than me.

Twenty-something maybe?

Flirting? Or just being friendly?

I take the paper,

purple sparkly ink

spells out
Angel Hansted
,

her phone number,

then underneath,

Willows Teen Center
.

The bus stops.

Muscles tense,

I say thanks, board,

shove her note into my backpack,

take a seat, look out the window,

see her stride toward the building.

Tall,

graceful,

easy in her skin.

She's hot.

See? I'm not gay.

(Angel)

Off the Bus

and at Willows Teen LGBTQ Center

ass-crack-of-dawn early.

I left my music theory book

here last night. I'll pick it up,

come back to open the doors

after class.

Kids'll straggle in later. Just like

I used to: ditching school, foster care,

parents, assholes who mistreat them.

They'll hang out in the rec room.

Faded couches, torn-up magazines,

a big TV.

Laughing, bickering, gossiping.

Being themselves.

Waiting for Group with Dr. Martina

or afternoon classes,

learning everything from how to

avoid date rape to

balancing a checkbook,

and if donors have been

generous with supplies,

a little underwater basket weaving

thrown in there, too.

When I'm Not at School

I'm hanging at the center.

Part-time receptionist,

crafts leader,

janitor.

My friends don't get why

I'm here so much.

                    “No offense, Girl—

                    you a glutton for

                    punishment!

                    Everybody there

                    look so sorry—

                    and you  
a i n' t.
”

Meant as a compliment, but see—

kids at the center? Not just sorry;

sad sometimes; scared, f yeah—and if

they're sorry it's not what

the girlfriend means by  
s o r r y
.

When it comes to the ones I

hang with, even the ones who at least

got their shit together enough to find

their way here, the kind of sorry  
I' m

talking about is just the sorry that

they are who they are. In the world

that hurts us all, even  
m e.

The Bus Roars Away

and I wonder about the kid.

Hungover, twitchy, uncomfortable, lost.

Familiar.

Those untied shoes reminded

me of my little brother.

Frankie never tied his either.

I unlock Willows

and walk around

the front desk.

Jim from Adult Day Care

shuffles in.

Supposed to be next door.

          “Got any beer, Girlie?”

          Same question every time.

We're some distant-memory

liquor store in his brain.

“Nuh-uh, Jim, time to go back.”

I grab my book, take his elbow,

lock up again.

Deliver him to a nurse—

his keeper of the day.

“Second time this week,”

I tell her.

        Her skinny face gets red like

        I'm blaming her for his escape.

        (Oooh, that's right, I am.)

        She takes him by the sleeve.

        “Come sit down,” she tells him.

        “You just got confused.”

        Glares at me.

        “Everybody does,

        sometime or other.”

Confused? Hardly.

I'm twenty years old and I never been