Freakboy (7 page)
Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
But what does it matter?
U of C or Berkeley,
good schools for math,
UWâMadison,
the school Andy's hoping for;
his whole family's gone there.
I glance over at him
hulking on the floor
next to my bed
controller in hand
playing an old-school game.
                      “We could live together,”
                      he says, eyes glued to the
                      screen. “You'd bring the PS3,
                      âI'd bring the Xbox.
                      “We wouldn't have to worry
                      about sharing a room
                      with some weenie.”
I want to pause Mortal Kombat
shout, puke, somethingâ
the thought of rooming with anyone â¦
What if he knew
about trans-thuggy me?
What would he do?
I can't see
next year at all
and really,
why bother thinking ahead?
I'm a freak and my future
is        totally            screwed.
I take a shot,
push my kill streak to five,
lean back.
“Sounds good,” I say.
And I'm sorry the game is over.
Wednesday After Conditioning
I hang around
outside the girls'
locker room.
I'm scrambled
strung out
scared but
missing Vanessa
adds to the
turmoil factory.
Lately it's mostly been
ILY texts between classes,
forbidden looks in wrestling,
lame excuses for taking the bus home.
It's felt too weird
I've
felt too weird
for close contact
and now my arms
hurt with wanting
to hold her.
She finally appears,
fresh from the shower
damp hair in
a ponytailâ
smiles to see meâbut,
                    “I have to go to
                    the airport to
                    get Grand-maman.”
“Paper to write,” I say.
She leans in.
                    “Thanksgiving night
                    we'll have all the
                    time in the world.”
Her dark eyes are steady.
She's already told me
about the Smiths' empty house â¦
I don't look down
when her fingertip
brushes my chest.
There's no mistaking
exactly what
we'll have
all the time
in the world
to do.
I breathe her in,
        the wanting
                    overpowers
                              the awkward.
Soft lips
touch mine
before
she walks
away
and
that word
gets quieter.
Vanessa has no idea
I'm a massively confused
vandalizing menace.
With her I'm
someone else
something else
and I can
grab that
feeling
hang on like
it's my opponent trying to
get out of a double arm bar.
Thanksgiving night
is the night.
(Angel)
Mama's Sweet Corn Stuffing
sits on the table; she'd be proud.
Turkey, sweet potato pie,
spaghetti, onion rings.
I check out the offerings
of my sisters-in-spirit,
Denai, Brandy, Chantal.
Not bad for a bunch of girls
(used to be) from the street.
Gennifer's not here
'cause she's spending the night
with her boyfriendâlucky.
But, Girl, we're lucky ones, too.
Roof over our heads, even if it's five
in a two-bedroom apartment
and seems like there's always
someone in the bathroom.
Legally employed ⦠mostly.
Brandy sells a little pot,
adds to what she
gets as a telemarketer.
        She's saving for surgery.
We're lucky to be giving thanks
with the family we've chosen.
Show the world
your essence
and you find out
faster than a
five-dollar hand job
who's family
and who's not.
The ugly-ass
Sperm Donor
who beat the crap
out of you for
dressing like yourself?
A cracked rib
the least of the pain.
Who sent you to
“Hoods in the Woods”
after your mama died?
Thinking they'd teach you
how to be a manâ
like learning to catch fish
and dig a latrine
to shit in
could change your DNA,
your soul.
Who You Are.
The asshole
who threatened
to call the police
after he threw you out
just 'cause you snuck back
to see your
baby brother
and the little guy used to
cry and beg for you to stay
because he lost his mother
and his sister the same year,
                  then he was the lost one?
No, the Sperm Donor
is NOT family.
I count my
blessings and
thank God.
(Vanessa)
It's the American Way
of an American holiday.
Mom jokes that my father and Uncle Michel
have embraced it too fully since
moving here twenty years ago.
Too much turkey, stuffing, gravy,
mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie.
Before they settle down
to snooze in front of the TV,
Dad waves me over to commence
the Thanksgiving ritual of gently rapping my leg
with his knuckles to hear if it's hollow.
            “Where does such a little girl
            hide so much food?” he asks,
            eyebrow cocked, fake puzzlement.
“I'm not telling you!” I play along, jerking away
while he tries to hang on and we tussle.
Yeah, it's dorky and we both know
I'm too old for the gameâ
but I think he thinks it's fun
to see the disapproval radiating
off Grand-maman.
            “Lucas! She's a young lady,”
            his mother scolds.
My father catches my eye,
winks, then shares a smirk
with Uncle Michel.
            “Strange, no? A young lady
            with a hollow leg she hides food in!”
            My father gives me one last tickle.
I walk back into the kitchen
to tell Mom I'm going out
but she's already (discreetly)
headed upstairs
probably to escape Grand-maman,
who follows me, practically
catching me with her claws.
                        “Where is your young man?”
“Home.
I thought I'd go hang with him
for a couple hours.”
                          “Let him come to you.
                          Men chase women,
chérie
,
                          this is the nice way.
                          They run from the ones
                          who get that wrong.”
I nod (respectfully) and
sit down at the breakfast bar,
flip the pages
of
Sunset
magazine
                                        with my right hand.
Rub the toothed edge
of the Smiths' house key
                                        with my left.
She finally heads upstairs herself.
I know how
to deal
with Grand-maman.
You wait her out.
It may not be the nice wayâ
planning to shed virginity
in my neighbors' houseâ
but I know Brendan'll agree
it's nicer than doing it in the car.
You Know It's True
I never had a boyfriend
before there was   Â
B r e n d a n
.
It wasn't because I chased anyone.
I'm confident the reason   Â
i s
because there was this perfect
person waiting for me.   Â
M y
ideal. When we're together, we're
the only people in the   Â
w o r l d
.
At the Smiths'
Suddenly, weirdly
shy with one another
we sit on the floor
backs against the couch
huge blank screen in front of us
packet of condoms next to us.
              “We could just watch TV,” he says.
And I can't tell if he's serious.
“If that's what you want.”
I try to make it sound flirty,
which works because
            he gently, gently
                        touches that spot
                                    behind my earlobe
leans in
            and softly, softly
                        kisses my lips.
Somewhere a clock ticks.
            “Are you sure about this?”
“I love you.”
            “And I love you.”
“Then yes.”
Mouth again
brushes
lingers
longer
deeper
his shaking fingers
unbutton my shirt.
Mine
shake
too
a joyful shiver
when I
touch him.
(BRENDAN)
No Guidebook
Her lips
sweet
tongue
sweeter still
skin
to skin
thrumming
joy
And no way to prepare
            touching
            her
            softest
            neat
            tucked up
            away
            jealous
            want
            washes
            wait
Please, God
hold
held
meld
hers
mine
all one.
            Prayer answered.
The Next Morning
Banana pancakes
with fat-free whipped cream
fill the Styrofoam container
wedged flat in my backpack
their warm smell
mingles with the crisp bite
of eucalyptus
from the tree I climb
outside Vanessa's
bedroom window.
Glass tapped,
curtain pushed aside,
window opened,
entry granted.
                    “It's not the fifteenth.”
                    She's smiling.
“Today's just because,” I whisperâ
even though her house is huge and
her parents won't hear.
They never do.
A year ago for
our one-month anniversary
I brought her breakfast in bed.
