Freakboy (15 page)

are higher than Denai's

and, Girl, you'd be right! Ewww,

some of the boys

she's put up with!)

But part of it's

what you could call

a difference in philosophy.

Nothin' to do with standards at all.

When (or if) to Disclose Birth Gender

Such a controversy.

The arguments go back

and forth. Ping-pong.

Denai passes really well—

doesn't see it as an issue.

          “I'm not gonna ask him

          what he was born with

          so there's no reason

          to talk about me.”

And that works for her.

Some say it's a question of safety—

if he finds out later and freaks

she could wake up dead.

Others say choose smart,

suss it out, then tell. Or don't.

Chantal says it's my combat attitude

contributes to dateless Saturday nights.

Whatever. It gets me less boyfriends,

but I like to ask up front

if a potential date's a transphobic bigot.

Leave the disclosing to him.

I Pass Really Well

but there's one thing …

After I got out of the hospital

Veronica said her no-illegal-drugs policy

extended to hormones.

So I had to go see a shrink

for three months

in order to get the legal kind.

Dr. Hendricks gave me

a personality test.

I could tell the results weren't

what he expected.

          (Shrinks always think they're

          better at hiding their thoughts

          than they are. Either that or God

          has given me psychic abilities.

          'Cause I can always tell.)

          “You have astonishingly

            healthy self-esteem.”

His “professional” opinion.

I shrugged.

I'm blessed to like me

the way I am

even if I like my body

on hormones better.

Not my fault the

world just isn't ready to

stop defining gender

the way it always has.

Nothin' to Be Ashamed Of

There's way worse things

to be than transgender,

let me tell you.

Rapists who rape

thieves who steal

racists who degrade

cowardly haters who

do shit like burn crosses or

throw rocks through windows.

        “Take it easy, Girl!”

Denai's laughing brings me back

into the kitchen.

        “You're gonna scrub a hole

        right through that pot!”

I look down at the bristles

of the brush in my hand.

They're flattened out.

Usually I know my own strength

but sometimes I don't.

(BRENDAN)

It Turns Out

moving through life

pissed

is better than

moving through life

sad and

wanting what I'll never have.

I keep my distance from Court,

who always wants a story. I

snap at Andy, who says,

                    “Whatever, Dude.”

Snap at Mom, who says,

                    “Watch it, mister.”

Snap at Claude, who says,

                    “That was out of line.”

Snap at Vanessa, who says

                      nothing.

And just before a meet on Saturday

I even

snap at Coach, who says,

                    “That's my boy, go get 'em.”

He cups a hand on my shoulder

before sending me onto the

mat to crush my opponent

from Jefferson High.

My wrestling's getting wilder,

technique less refined.

I'm on the verge

and my adversaries know it.

                    “Take it easy, Brendan.”

But there's no stopping me.

Even the fact that I've come to

really hate touching other guys—

swarming over and around their bodies—

takes a backseat to the unleashing

fury of this body,

this body that isn't mine.

My new maniac style

impresses Coach.

Bad luck.

Because now he thinks

he can depend on me.

(Vanessa)

Dateless, Friendless on a Friday Night

Thank God Grand-maman

isn't here to witness it.

She got on a plane

back to France yesterday

and my mother

looks relaxed for the first time

in weeks.

I'm flipping through the channels

trying to keep my

mind off Brendan,

who texted me

at six to say he

couldn't go out.

And I'm wrestling temptation

to drive over to his house.

Dad's out with clients

and Mom comes in with a

bowl of popcorn.

                         “What are we watching?”

                         she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

Flip, flip, flip.

She sits next to me.

Asks point-blank what's going on

and I'm pretty sure she

wants to know about Brendan.

I don't want to

talk about it—so

I tell her about

getting into a fight

with Julie and Tanya instead.

I don't tell her it was about him.

             “Friendships can be

             complicated sometimes,

             especially at your age,”

             she says, and

             strokes my hair,

             tucks it behind my ear.

             “But, honey—the truest ones are

             worth the ups and downs.”

That's easy for her to say—

she's had the same best friend since

she was in elementary school.

They're like sisters.

Aunt Jennifer lives in Washington

but they still visit each other

and talk on the phone

and laugh at weird inside jokes

that no one else gets.

I'm sure the best-girlfriend thing

isn't Grand-maman's idea of paradise—

she's all about the guys,

but it's something

when you consider that my mom

has that AND she gets to have Dad, too.

(BRENDAN)

“People, People, Settle Down”

Dean Johnston is trying to get

all 900 of us to shut up

for monthly assembly.

The gym is loud

but that word is quiet

and I woke up today

feeling almost okay.

Andy's sitting next to me

bragging about how far

he's gotten with Lindy

now that they're together.

“So you really like her, huh?”

He looks confused for a minute.

          “Of course!”

Damn, he's a big mouth.

I just can't picture talking about Vanessa,

or anyone I cared about,

that way.

We sit on hard benches

divided into classes

to listen to whatever

antidrug motivational speaker

the administration's

dragged in today.

Lillian Bruner

climbs up the bleachers,

steps over my legs,

and sits down between me and

her girlfriends.

She's the queen of Miller Prep,

star of the drama department,

popular, and surprisingly cool.

I glance over.

She and Elise Hart

are checking each other's teeth

making sure nothing's stuck.

A wave

of weirdness

washes            over me.

Dean Johnston is still

trying to get people

to shut up.

Lillian says something low,

her friends crack up,

and my tenuous okay feeling

sinks into something else.

I notice the way they talk and

laugh and touch one another

and I can't help it.

Everything makes me jealous.

The clothes they wear,

the way people treat them.

God, I'm even jealous

of their little vanities.

(You don't see guys

brushing their hair

between classes.)

I'm jealous of the way

they hug in clusters,

the way they always

seem to have something

to say to each other.

Contrast that

          (even accounting

          for occasional mean-girl

          bitcheries)

with

sweat-stained shoves,

murmurs of “Faggot,” “Queerbait,”

and “In your face, asshole!”

I glance at Andy,

who seems to have finished

providing me with the

intimate details of his sex life,

try to imagine hugging him.

It's a good thing I don't want to,

he'd probably pound the crap out of me.

“Quiet, People!”

Dean Johnston

repeats into the mic

for the third time.

          “We have a really special

          presentation for you this morning,

          brought to you by Plus Healthcare.

          “Later today

          your homeroom teachers

          will pass out”—

Lil leans into me.

“Give them air!” she says,

even as Dean Johnston

continues his sentence—

         “packets of information.”

It's funny and I laugh,

one of her entourage

for a delicious

minute

in time.

(Vanessa)

In the Bleachers

Flannigan nudges me,

points across the gym.

            “Check it out.”

I look over to where

the seniors sit.

“What?” I ask him,

scanning the rows.

            “Look who your boyfriend's

            sitting next to.”

Sheahan looks, too, shakes his head.

            “Flannigan, you're such a shit-stirrer.”

And it takes me a minute

to see what they're talking about

because Brendan's sitting

almost sideways,

his back to Andy.

            I'm sick, he says

            I'm depressed, he says

            I'm just not in the mood, he says

and I've accepted his lame excuses

for the distance,

unreturned phone calls,

short temper with me.

And there he is

laughing it up

with Lillian Bruner,

looking anything

but sick

or depressed

or not in the mood.

“Shut up, Flannigan.” I strike a bored tone,

                                            outwardly calm in the

                                            din of the gym.

Why doesn't he laugh

with me anymore?

What happened to our

Nation of Two?

Is it about to include

the state of Lilliandia?

There's no way he'd

cheat on me though.            Skin prickles.

Is there?

Thank God

ceramics is

right after assembly.

Julie is at the table closest to the door.

She nods at me when I walk past.

I nod back, too preoccupied

to think very hard about this subtle thawing.

I settle in at my table

to slam the hell

out of a block of clay.

Push and work

knead and fold.

            “Take it easy, Vanessa,”

            Mr. Mathews says

            when he walks by.

            “Be careful—I think you're

            working air bubbles into that.”

I ignore him,

pound and push

knead and fold.

All tail

no tongue.

Oh, God.

What if Brendan

just doesn't love me anymore?

(BRENDAN)

The Closer Finals Get