Freakboy (6 page)

inside it is my princess dream.

And a horror that

    starts small,

multiplies

with other droplets containing

                        drowsing sensations,

                                    fleeting desires.

The water gathers until

  certain knowledge that this

          ugly word applies to me,

                becomes a tidal wave that

                                knocks me

                                                        over.

Transsexual

Snap

screen

shut.

Grab my bus pass,

charge downstairs.

I have to move

get out

get away.

Transsexual

“Going to the library,”

I shout toward the

music room's

closed door,

and then

I'm outside

running

            Transsexual

past wide

lawns,

huge

Band-Aid-colored

stucco houses,

fake streams,

and fake waterfalls.

Transsexual

Skid to

the stop.

A bus pulls around

the corner and

I don't look at

which one it is

don't care

where it's headed.

I just need to

ride

Transsexual

for a long time.

When it

gets too quiet

the word

too loud.

        Transsexual

I get off

at stops

                      familiar

                      unfamiliar.

Take the next one

that comes my way

zigzag across the city

and back.

TRANSSEXUAL

I stare

into the dark

until a guy

about my age

about my size,

gets on

grunts

across

the aisle.

Cigarette smell

bar code–tattooed neck

ring-pierced eyebrow

announce him.

He's Tough Guy.

And he's looking at me.        For a fight?

I turn my head

               Transsexual

my face feels ugly

I make it uglier

just in case.

When the bus

stops I get off

on a dim street.

Am
I
looking for a fight?

Tough Guy

doesn't follow.

But my fists

don't unclench.

I
was
looking for a fight.

The bus heaves off

into the late night.

I turn around

and BAM

Willows Teen Center

looms    ahead

on the empty block.

I get closer, see the

smaller letters painted

on darkened windows.

A PLACE FOR LGBTQ YOUTH.

        Transsexual

My heart slams

into my throat

exactly like that night

in the graveyard

but my stomach

is sick, too.

Is that why the girl

was so nice?

Did she think I was gay?

Is there something about me?

Something obvious

I don't recognize but

others do?

How can other people

see something in me

that I have never seen

in myself?

        Transsexual

No breath

deserted block.

            Transsexual

Next to the curb

a river stone

just bigger than

my fist.

Rounded, smooth,

like something

you'd see in the back

of a landscaper's truck

nestled with others

of its kind.

            Transsexual

Here,

out of place,

                                lonely

in the middle

of the sidewalk.

Transsexual

My fingers close

around it

cool

to the touch

heavy

in my palm.

A current rushes

my body

shoots through

my arm,

a hand that isn't mine

hurls a rock

it wasn't holding

right through the

T
for Teen Center

T
for

     Transsexual

Glass Shatters

shocks my ears

and I'm off

running

up the block

away from

here.

What the hell

what the Hell

what the HELL.

Alarms should

          be screaming.

Lights should

          be flashing.

People should

          be shouting.

But the street sleeps on.

I round the corner just

in time for the next bus.

It picks me up,

takes me toward home as if

everything

is                             fine.

(Angel)

Sometimes the Real World Hurts

'Specially when you're looking

at it through a hole some

homophobic asshole made

by throwing shit

through the window

of a center for queer kids.

          Bus takes me by here

          on my way to the class

          I'm gonna miss

          'cause this morning I got off

          to see why

          Dr. Martina

          and the PoPo were

          standing outside.

There's broken glass,

a rock

inside.

        Officer takes a report, then tells

        us catching someone probably

        won't happen. Dr. Martina nods,

        shrugs. “I figured.”

Wait, we're just supposed

to lay down and take it?

        “This stuff happens, Angel,”

        she says to the face I'm pulling.

When the cop leaves I get out

the Shop-Vac. Doctor tapes the hole,

calls around for replacement glass.

This is so fucked up

I got the shakes

like a junkie.

“So there's nothin'

at all we can do,”

I say when she hangs up.

         “We
are
doing something.

         Every day we fight ignorance

         and hatred with education.”

I like the good doctor too much

to tell her what bullshit

that sounds like right now

when I'm standing here

looking at all the shiny

pieces on the floor

and I'm thinking

of the glass coffee table

that broke

when

the Sperm Donor

pushed me into it.

How blood soaked

my favorite Juicy shirt.

                  “No son of mine!”

                  Damn straight—and now

                  I'm not his daughter either.

I know Jesus says forgive but

I'm not Jesus—I'm just a girl with

a vacuum cleaner, suckin' up shards,

and they may look like they're gone

'cause you can't see 'em,

but they're poking around inside.

I Pray to God

and it's not just

for me I'm praying.

I think of the kids

coming in

seeing that taped-up window

hearing what happened.

Bad enough they get

told at home

at school

on the street

that they aren't okay.

A broken window

of the only place that

welcomes 'em

gives the message

there's not one single

                            spot

on this earth

that they are

safe.

(BRENDAN)

All the Next Day

the question I'm asking,

“What the hell?”

trails me.

And

that              other                word

follows it right behind.

Toilet paper

stuck to

my shoe.

What a crappy thing

to do.

What a crappy thing

to be.

All I need is

a bar code tattoo,

an eyebrow piercing,

and a sex change

to announce

to the world

I'm the new

American degenerate.

Freak-style.

Tuesday morning,

AP History,

looking for a pen

in my backpack

fingertips brush

the paper

that girl

gave me

outside of Willows.

What did she see

when she looked at me?

Guilty, I imagine

her kneeling,

picking up glass,

cutting herself.

In class

out of class

wrestling practice

awkward ride home.

(“Just in a bad mood,”

my excuse to Vanessa.)

Then finishing college applications

where the writing prompt asking me to

describe an incident that changed me

brings on a whole new anxiety.

Transgender.

Transwoman.

Transformed into a freak.

Transported to hell.

A Couple Days Later

Andy comes over

after dinner.

We're headed upstairs

when Mom grabs me. Says,

          “You look tired.”

I grunt.

          “Were you up late

          playing video games?”

“No.”

          “Are your applications done?”

“Mostly.”

I brush by her.

Andy's ahead of me

already disappearing

into my room.

I go after him, thinking

focusing on gaming's a good idea.

That escapist virtual world

trumps this one

with its

twisted question

electric in my brain:

WHAT IF IT'S TRUE?

College Applications, Round One

Most due Monday after Thanksgiving and

I've hit Send on a few already, like

my first choice, U of Chicago.