Freakboy (23 page)

everything.

Of pushing

that word

down.

Away.

That I AM in the

wrong body and

no one will

ever love me.

That I'm in the wrong skin

but there's no way

to make it right

because I'm not into

long fingernails,

high heels, or skirts

either.

I'm Freakboy and

there will never

be a place for me.

Anywhere.

And out of

thoughts that've

floated for

a long time

a plan starts

to take shape in

my exhausted head.

(Angel)

I Have My First Fight

with Marcus

heading home from

the Bean Scene

full on mochas

and conversation

about his moms.

“They're pretty great,” I tell him.

He smiles.

          “I know—they liked you, too—

          even if you told them

          the wrong dilemma.”

“Huh?”

          “I thought you were going to ask

          them about the ethics of a

          friendship with a client.”

“It's not about me—

it's what I should do

about Brendan breaking

the window!”

        “The window thing is

        Brendan's,” he agrees.

        “But you said yourself

        you'd have a hard time

        explaining your friendship

        to Dr. Martina,

        because he came to Willows

        as a potential client.”

His words poke

at me and, Girl,

I stop walking.

        “You're keeping something

        from your boss because you think

        it might show you did wrong.

        Baby, that's an ethical dilemma

        right there.”

“You sayin' I'm wrong

to be friends with

a kid who needs one?”

I stare him right

in his cocoa eyes.

        “Easy there!”

        He takes a step back.

        “No judgment, it was just

        an observation!”

The hell?!!

Sounded

pretty judgmental

to me.

I look away, try not to notice how his

biceps bulge when he crosses his arms.

I'm ready to

tell him

he sounds like a

self-righteous asshole

when he

          says soft, “I'm not even saying

          it's for sure wrong—I'm just

          saying maybe you should give

          Dr. Martina a chance

          to weigh in on it.”

My Boyfriend Won

our first fight because, Lord?

I think he's right.

But I'm gonna need

Your help in this

for sure.

Confession is good for the soul

but it might be

hell on a résumé.

Marcus kisses me good night

when we get to my place.

And even though

there's no answer when I call

I leave a message for Brendan

before I go to sleep.

Because if I'm risking

getting in trouble

at my job,

I may as well be

a true friend—

and pay it forward first.

(BRENDAN)

Angel's Message

A beacon

over water,

          “I'm not gonna lie—

          I'm mad—but

          I didn't give you

          a chance to explain.

          I wanna

          know more.

          Give me a call

          so we can talk.”

Shines useless

on a

sinking ship.

Asking Myself the Biggest Question

Pills or rope?

Gets interrupted

by Courtney,

who comes

to my door.

It's late

she should

be in bed.

          “Brendy? I brought you a cookie!”

She hands me a snickerdoodle,

props the Max doll I gave her for Christmas

on my nightstand,

settles her back against me.

          “I made it for you. Eat it!”

she demands.

Long after you go down

and the vessel rusts apart

your bones sunken

buried in the ocean floor

I wonder if you miss people?

(Vanessa)

Lillian Bruner's Having a Party

I go with Sheahan.

None of us are strangers to big houses

but Lillian's is gargantuan.

And I want to make a joke about her

needing it to house her giant ego

but Sheahan has a crush

on her and I don't want anyone

to think I'm a snide bitch.

No one here knows me well enough

to know that a joke is just a joke.

I miss Julie

I miss Tanya

I miss Brendan.

The people who know me.

The music's crazy loud

so we wander out

to the backyard

drink beer

from red plastic cups

stand away from the smokers

watch a couple of seniors

play some weird

gladiator game on the lawn.

Andy runs out of the house,

tackles one of the players.

“Centurion, welcome!”

the other one shouts.

            “Talked to Brendan lately?”

            Sheahan asks me.

I shake my head.

            “Sucks to be him.”

We watch the guys

rolling around on the grass

being stupid.

And all I can think

is how much it DOES suck.

Because if I'm feeling

friendless even with Sheahan,

Brendan really is

                                      alone.

We never had that

we'll-still-be-friends talk.

It Sucks Even More

that I'm good at things

as challenging

as ceramics

as grueling

as wrestling

but simple friendship

turned out to be

something too hard

for me

to stick with.

(BRENDAN)

Sunday Night Dinner

I'm not hungry

but it's my turn to set the table.

Courtney's happy—

she gets to light the candles,

but wrinkles her nose.

                     “Brendy, you stink.”

“So do you.”

          “No really.” Mom butts in.

          “When was the last time

          you showered?”

“Really?”

I can't say exactly

when the last time

my skin, this skin

was clean.

          “Really,” she says, glancing at

          the Interloper. “Dinner's not

          for twenty minutes.

          Go. Bathe.”

          She manages to look disgusted

          and concerned

          at the same time.

A half hour later

I'm clean and

at the table and

exhausted.

Eating's a chore.

After Dinner

I go lie down.

Mom comes into

my room, sits

on the bed.

My eyes stay closed.

She doesn't beat

around the bush.

            “Honey, I'm worried about you.”

Her hand smooths

my high forehead.

“I'm okay,

just don't feel well.”

            “I hear that a lot from you.”

“It's true.”

            “Even so—I have a thought…”

Uncertainty in her voice

makes me open my eyes.

Hers are welling.

There's Courtney in her face.

            “I know you're not comfortable

            talking to me—

            and I know I've had issues

            with counseling in the past…”

“Why?” I ask.

            She gets a faraway look.

            It lasts a long time

            and I think she's forgotten

            the question, until she

            speaks again.

            “I think I misread your father's

            intentions,” she says quietly.

            “When people divorce, even when

            they try to keep it amicable …

            there's a lot of hurt feelings,

            misunderstanding…”

She looks down at me

and I want to look away

but I don't.

            “Now I think he really was

            worried about you.”

            She stares

            off again.

I stay silent.

Finally:

            “But maybe Dr. Andrews

            just isn't a good fit?”

The whole conversation

so out of left field.

No idea what to say.

            “I just want you to know our

            insurance has a list

            of other therapists,

            if you want,

            and if it's something you choose

            for yourself—maybe it

            could be a good thing.”

I'm tired.

She's trying.

She's too late.

“Andrews is fine.

I'm just sick.”

            “Maybe—but it might be good

            for you to talk to someone else,

            anyway … Will you?”

I'm not going to argue

but I'm not committing either.

“We'll see.”

She doesn't push

for more than that.

The truth is

I am not planning to talk to anyone else

                                                        ever.

Tiny White Torpedoes

squeezed tight in my fist.

Leftovers from breast surgery.

Discovered behind the vitamins

in Mom's medicine cabinet.

How many,

I wonder?

How many

would take me under

slow

breath

heartbeat

let

this

body

this

wrong

body

this

brain

this

wrong

brain

sleep?

No Note

could ever explain

and why

reveal

that the

inexplicable

even exists

when it will just

lead to more

questions?

No answers.

Far beyond

feeling mean

at the thought

of making them guess

all I feel

is a forever

dull ache

that will

probably

exist

for as

long as

I do.

Midnight

The wedge of light

under Mom's door

is snuffed out.

I line up the pills

on my nightstand

one row of twenty

is this it?

rearrange them

two rows of ten

I don't
think
it will hurt

now three of six

with two left over

and even if it does—

now four of five

with none left over—

it'll stop eventually

now two of seven

with six left over

No school tomorrow;

they'll let me sleep

now two of eight

with four left over

hours from now

I don't know where I'll be—

now two of nine

with two left over—

but this body will be here

stiff,

cold?

          “BRENDY!!!”