Freakboy (8 page)

I've been doing it

on the fifteenth of every month

ever since.

I put the pancakes

on her desk and

we settle

into her nest

of quilts and pillows

kissing

touching.

I want to beg,

When can we do it again?

I want to feel THAT.

Want to be with you.

I'm out of my head

and into someone else's.

I feel like a normal guy, so

maybe I'm NOT trans, right?

Right?

(Vanessa)

Things Look Different

feel different

to me.

Some have more meaning:

             Brendan waiting for me

             outside the locker room.

             Our fingers intertwining

             when we walk up the stairs.

             The sense that we're facing

             the day, the world together.

Others have less:

             Mr. Mixed-Message Mathews

             showing off the piece I just made,

             a plate of singing blues, screaming reds

             fired in low heat to retain the

             vibrant colors that pale

             next to the best parts of

Brendan and me together,

our souls.

I'm Bothering Julie

and today she's

the one trying to focus

on the clay in her hands,

centering it on the wheel.

I'm just playing

with a blob,

rolling it with

my dry fingers

making a sphere,

then squishing it.

Sphere

squish.

I want to tell her,

want to tell Tanya,

but not here.

Sphere

squish.

“What are you doing tonight?”

I ask.

             “Tanya and I have

             our Spanish project.”

“Are you guys working

at your house?”

            A shrug. “I'm not sure.”

“Let me know—

I'll stop by—bring you guys

a snack.”

            “No thanks.” She looks up

            at me. “We still have gingerbread

            from YESTERDAY.”

Shit.

Yesterday, the Sunday

after Thanksgiving,

we were supposed to

make gingerbread houses,

yet another tradition with us.

I can't believe I forgot.

“Oh my God! I am so sorry!

Why didn't you call me?”

                          She flips the table switch to Off.

                          “We figured if you wanted to

                          be there, you would be.”

10 Hours Later

I stand in the doorway of Julie's room,

a box of powdered donuts

in one hand, a huge bottle of Dr Pepper

in the other.

I'm here to beg forgiveness …

and to tell them about

Thursday night.

It's not just that I want to blab

that Brendan and I did it,

best friends tell each other stuff,

right?

But Julie's the only one here,

sitting on her bed,

giving herself a pedicure.

Not a Spanish book in sight.

And she won't look at me.

Deep forest green

slicks off the brush

and onto her nails

deliberate, slow.

I put my peace offering

down on her desk.

“Where's Tanya?”

             “She already left.”

“Look, I am so sorry—”

             Julie interrupts.

             “Tanya and I like you

             and we like Brendan,

             but we don't like you together.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

My hands are fists.

              “You're so different around him,

              always agreeing with everything he says

              like you don't have your own opinions

              —and we never see you

              when you're not with him.”

“That's not true.”

God, I can't believe her!

“I'm here right now, aren't I?”

             “Because he's busy, right?”

             Julie puts the lid on the polish,

             clinks the bottle on her desk.

             A bossy, decisive sound.

“No.” A twinge at the lie.

             “It's all Brendan this and Brendan that!

             We used to think it was because

             you'd just started going out

             but it's been over a year!”

             Adjusts cotton between her toes.

             No smeared pedi here.

             “You're worse than ever

             and, no offense, we're sick of it!”

They talk behind my back?

What bitches!

My eyes narrow

at her green toes.

“That's a perfect color for you!

You're just jealous!”

I slam out

of her room.

Her mom looks up from her computer

when I rush through the family room

on my way out. But I don't bother

to say goodbye.

Julie doesn't come after me

doesn't even call my name.

Driving away,

tears

behind my eyes,

a tightness

in my throat.

I tell myself

over and over

I don't need Julie OR Tanya—

I have Brendan.

(BRENDAN)

Busy Schedules

mean rare family dinners

but tonight the candles are lit

and the table is set.

And if I needed

to be reminded

of how lucky I am

that there's not more

together time for us

I'd look no farther

than the other end of the table

where Claude the Interloper

sits—ranting.

         “… and I told Twinkletoes that

         if he had issues with

         my conducting he should

         bring them to me, damn it!”

My mother, seated to his right,

makes a soothing sound.

Across from Mom,

Courtney plays with

the food on her plate.

Lining up short noodles,

oblivious to the Interloper's

crappy idea

of dinnertime conversation.

We've been treated

to this topic,

          this opinion

before.

A year ago, Simon Adderly,

spiffy new first violinist,

turned out to be a

“special friend” of Viktor Jensen,

the orchestra's executive director.

And now whenever Simon

has questions about anything—

say the tempo

for some piece of music,

the Interloper comes home and

explodes into tirades

about this “light in the loafers” guy.

(And people in the arts

are supposed to be more enlightened?

Another stereotype bites the dust.)

           “There's no way he'd be

           bringing it up at all

           if he wasn't

           Viktor's little boyfriend!”

The real problem

isn't that a lowly musician

expresses his thoughts about music to

the “great maestro.”

It's that he's gay

when he does it.

Claude the Interloper, great

conductor of the philharmonic,

stabs his food with energy

that would make

a serial killer's mom proud.

                    “Who the hell

                    does that little fag

                    think he is?”

The f word is going too far.

Mom touches his hand,

nods toward Court.

                    “Sweetie, that's enough,”

                    she says.

Tamed

(by her new breasts?)

he shuts up.

It dawns on me that

if he knew about Willows

my mother's husband

might actually, secretly

approve of my vandalism.

I eat my salmon

and try not

to think about it.

Saturday's Tournament

My lucky day.

In the second match

I pinned the champ,

Bechert from Hanover Academy.

A way better wrestler

(great defense, killer offense—

seriously painful)

who made a dumb mistake.

I went on to finals

while he languished

in the consolation rounds.

I won second,

he took fourth,

and his eyes were daggers

when I got the medal.

Riding the yellow bus

back to school,

Vanessa curled against me,

feels like another lucky win

(maybe undeserved?).

Teammates drowse away

various injuries.

Singlets stiff

dried sweat

BO, stringy hair.

Vanessa touches

her second-place

medal for 103

to my second-place

medal for 152.

“Twins.” She smiles.

There's a red lumpy mouse

of a bruise over my eye

which by tomorrow will be

swollen shut,

a monster face.

“You'd better hope not,

this thing's gonna be ugly,”

I say.

She laughs, low,

kisses me.

Even as I kiss her back,

a little tongue,

I wonder for a second

what it would be like

to have

that smooth cheek,

long hair.

But it doesn't mean anything.

Now that we're doing it

I'm better.

That word is quiet.

Flannigan, the thirty-five pounder,

pops his head over the seat.

                    “Get a room, Casanova.”

Vanessa flips him off

but she's laughing.

                    “Drive you home?”

                    she asks me.

“You know it,” I say.

It takes a long time

to get to my house

from a meet

with a detour down to

Mono Cove—

its nickname earned

through the years,

a place to catch

the kissing disease.

Bluff hidden

private

tucked away

tiny beach

salt-air smell

in our noses

surf pounding

in our ears

aching bodies

come to comfort.

Questions slide back

                                the waves

                                          at low tide.

I love the feeling

just afterward, too.

Nuzzling love

soft whispers

quiet jokes.

I wish more

than anything (almost)

we could go to sleep

and wake up

the next day

together.

Because Going Home Is Such a Ride

Rain-painted headlights

sweep past in the mist,

I stare at them

to avoid looking

at Willows

when we

go by.

I'm better

in my body

but guilty

in my brain

of taking

my freak

out on them.

And I know

I need to

do something

to soothe my mind,

my conscience.

Sunday Night at Andy's House

                    “You guys doin' it?”

                    His question out of nowhere.

My thumbs stab the controller.

“None of your business.”

                    “Oh, Dude! That means

                    you're not,” he says. Laughs.

The weird thing is that evasion

might have been the case.    Before.

I might've even implied

doing the deed.                    Before.

It's different now.

This connection,

more than physical,

makes me careful.

I'm protecting her,

protecting us

protecting We.

I raise my eyebrows,

shrug, as if to say,

“What can I do, she won't put out?”

I'm very manly.

Online Before Bed

I feel even manlier

when I

figure out

a way to

make it up

to Willows.

To that girl.

I discover

the cost

of replacing a window

that size

equals

half my allowance

for the next

five months.

I'll send money

every week

till then.

And the final payment

will     wipe

                     my      conscience    clean.