Freakboy (5 page)

confused a day in my life.

Grew up in a white neighborhood

till I was fourteen. Mexican mama and all.

She met my dad working

in the clean room for his company.

Had to wear one of those ugly

white spaceman outfits they have

so dust doesn't get in

the computer chips.

He must of liked what he saw

when she took off her helmet,

shook her thick hair, because

Smooth Dude swept Cinderella off

to a gated community in La Jolla.

Mama hated it. Hated living there—

said she had more in common

with the pool man than

with the white neighbor ladies.

“It's not real,” she'd tell me and Frankie,

about that difference we couldn't hide.

“But they think it is.”

The bigger difference

I couldn't hide

         even back then

caused a giant shit-storm.

In kindergarten she had to pick me up.

Baby Frankie, nap interrupted,

suckin' his thumb in the car seat.

Mama's knuckles, copper metal

crunching the steering wheel.

          “Angel, you HAVE to stay out

          of the girls' bathroom!”

The third time.

In three days.

“There's BOYS in the other one!”

Thinking she HAD to understand,

but Mama shook her head.

        “If you can't use the right one,

        you better hold it

        till you get home.”

I couldn't use the right one

'cause they wouldn't let me.

Was it my fault they couldn't see

who I was? Nope.

None of this

“trapped-in-a-man's-body” bullshit.

I am a woman.

And back then?

I was a little girl.

(Vanessa)

I Like a Challenge

I'd have to, right?

Getting ground into

the mat six days a week.

My mom's proud of what she

calls my competitive spirit,

no matter what form it takes.

Dad's side of the family?

A different story

though it's really their fault.

Spring break in France

every year since I was born.

Three cousins my age. All boys.

Charles, Étienne, Gaston:

smug, superior, cliquish

always a contest with them—

run faster

hold your breath longer

find more Easter eggs.

Subdue your partner

pin him to the beach

smile when he gets mad.

We'd wrestle on the shore,

Greco-Roman rules, and I

learned to think two moves ahead.

Scrappy, with no bigger wish

than to triumph over them,

no sweeter joy than when I did.

Until I was twelve, that is. Grand-maman—

of the floppy hat and severe eyebrows—

ended it, calling me
fille d'une truie
,

daughter of a female pig.

The
tantes élégantes
laughed.

I pretended not to hear

and even nodded respectfully when

Grand-maman, perfumey hand on mine,

told me,
en français
, “No boy wants a rough girl.”

I quit without a fight because

I was tired of sand that

clung to my scalp, stuck in my ears—

but I wasn't tired of wrestling. Winning.

And from the safe distance of La Jolla

I joined the team my freshman year.

It took a conference with

Miller Prep's headmaster,

my mom, Coach, the dean of students,

and the school psychologist

for me to even get to try out.

            (It was helpful that the public school

            down the street

            had just settled a lawsuit by

            Lenora Jenkins,

            now their thirty-five-pounder.)

On the mat, my moves

spoke for themselves and

since then Coach

has had to admit

I'm an asset

to the team.

In the beginning

I got called dyke a lot

put up with bullshit from everyone

even some of my teammates.

Still, I win more than I lose.

I'm strong. And the best thing?

A “rough girl” got the boy,

                                                  Brendan.

A Change of Weather

This morning

humid rain,

car windows fog

with my breath,

hot coffee.

It's hard to see

the school parking lot

from this cocoon

but I hear vehicle doors slam,

remote locks beep.

I brought Brendan's favorite, mocha and a muffin.

Maybe I should have brought soda crackers;

he was pretty drunk

when I dropped him off

last night.

But oh, so sweet.

I drove with my left hand

while he held my right—

            “I love you so much.” Rubbing my

            thumbnail

            over and over

            like I was his Aladdin's lamp.

            “You're the best.”

Leaned his head against me—

                          “Sorry, so sorry about tonight.”

I parked in front of his house.

He stroked my hair.

Played with it.

Kissed me.

Then got out

of the car

a little unsteady,

shut the door.

I rolled down

the passenger window

and he bent his head

to look at me.

                         “God, your costume is hot.”

So What if Last Night Didn't Go as Planned?

Good things come

to those who wait.

This morning I got a call from

our neighbor two doors down.

The Smiths are going away for Thanksgiving

and need me to feed their cat.

They'll leave house keys in our mailbox.

The thought of a private place

just for me and Brendan

fills my chest

with a cozy something,

makes me smile.

I peer out the windshield again

sipping my latte and

wondering which Brendan

will show.

Don't get me wrong.

It's not like he's totally schizo—

but with him you can't

always predict who you'll get.

Sweet Brendan

Hilarious Brendan

Driven Brendan

Playful Brendan

Soulful Brendan

                         Distant Brendan

depending on the day, the mood.

Inside

and out

different

aspects

combine, make up the whole.

I love them all

because

I love him.

(BRENDAN)

Lucky

                 And aren't I

In the Gym

“Hello, ladies.”

Coach's daily greeting

and he's not addressing Vanessa.

Partner up

spin drill, shoot the tube,

take down, hip heist, sprawl.

Tired.

Distracted.

Reeking.

The stink of

last night's Jack,

this morning's sweat

ignored by Coach when he demos

a punishing arm drag.

Hot breath in my face,

mat burn on my elbow,

a gasping glance

at the clock.

Caught.

“Quit being a pussy, Brenda.”

Vanessa Snags My Water Bottle

After

wind sucking               sweat dripping

conditioning

hot room                      close bodies

bad enough

she outwrestles me

it's worse when

Coach rides me

and I look like a loser.

So I have

a rule for us.

No contact.

Don't look               don't talk

In wrestling

you're not               my girlfriend

you're just one of the guys.

She goes along

but thinks it's stupid,

always makes a point

of catching my eye                holding it

and drinking my bottle dry.

At Home After Dinner

The Interloper and Courtney

go out for ice cream

and the soothing sound

of a harp glissando

battles thoughts

in my

propeller brain.

Mom's recovered enough

to lift her arms—

her music slides up

the staircase once again

the sound track to my homework.

Tomorrow I have

6 a.m. wrestling, AP Bio test,

quiz on the first act of
Hamlet
,

after-school conditioning,

endless homework.

Whirling brain gets stuck

on princess dream

and won't come loose

on girlfriend.

Not gay.

Then what?

Maybe lots of guys dream

of being turned into girls?

For some reason

I've never asked Dr. Andrews.

(He's not big on talk therapy.

Just the same questions.

     “Suicidal thoughts? Tendencies?

     No? Here's your scrip.”)

Prescriber of Zoloft.

Reliever of paternal anxiety.

Dad:

    “Hey, buddy, you seem down,

    a doctor can help with that.”

Fulfiller of court-ordered

maternal duty.

Mom:

      “I don't know if James thinks

      Brendan's really depressed, or if

      he's just trying to make things harder.”

Voilà! My twice-yearly visit to the shrink

mollifies one and absolves the other.

Because my busy brain

uncertain moods

ulcerative anxiety

and general malaise

are my own fault.            Right?

I toss aside the calculator

and grab my MacBook,

(a bribe from

the Interloper)

Start to type

Dreams of being a girl
.

My fingers hesitate,

I swallow.

Type

Want to be a girl

instead.

Links pop up

and I see the word

“transsexual.”

When I Was a Little Kid

my dad gave me

a green plastic submarine.

It had a tiny compartment

that you'd shake baking soda

into—and that

made the thing

bob

and dive.

I'd play with it

for hours

wrinkled fingers

pruney palms.

Sometimes

I'd hold

the sub

underwater

thumb half covering

the topside hole,

watch baking soda fizz

to the surface

where

bubbles

would pop.

And if I held the

little hatch closed,

then let go of the toy,

the whole thing would

shoot out of the water.

Splash.

The prickle of feeling

I have when I wake

from a dream

of being in the right skin

of catching my reflection

in the mirror when

I've gone too long

without a haircut

of being into how that

softens the angle

of my jaw,

frames my face

like a girl's

those are fizzy bubbles

rising

on
THAT
word

up to the

top and

pop.

Thinking that being in love

with Vanessa

should have made it

all go away,

that's me

holding the submarine

deep

under

water—

compartment closed and

I don't want to let go.

Splash.

When That Word Bursts

up from the depths,

a drop of water

clings to it.

Small but visible

to my naked eye.

A tiny drop

to hold so much;