“Alas, poor Fredricks,
I knew him well,” I said.
It wasn’t true
though he’d always been
nice to me, considering
I couldn’t sing.
I was just
taking off
on a line from Hamlet,
required reading senior year.
A swig from the bottle.
Then Gil jumped out from
behind a nearby tombstone.
And even though I’d expected
something like it somewhere
in the back of my head,
my heart slammed
into my throat
and I yelled.
“You scream like a girl!”
First Gil was laughing,
then Andy joined in.
“Screw you,” I said,
trying to sound jokey.
(At least Vanessa didn’t laugh.)
Gil’s eyes narrowed.
“What did you say?”
“Aw, c’mon.”
Tried to keep it light.
Gil’s an eighty-two-pounder—
wrestle-speak for
one hundred eighty-two.
Big.
A wild man
on the mat.
Off the mat
just a dirty fighter.
“I didn’t scream like a girl.”
My vocal cords wispy,
traitorous.
Andy pointed to Fredricks’s grave.
“Look, I see a ghost!”
Distracting Gil,
the ugly drunk.
I’m always
a little surprised
when
Andy
has my back.
He howled
and pretty soon
from distant places
other kids, other voices
joined in.
“Woooo wooooo.”
Until the wailing
was joined by a different kind.
Cemetery neighbors
probably called the police.
Flashing lights at the front gates
gave just enough time
for us to jump the fence,
s c a t t e r laughing g a s p i n g,
back to the house
where Gil forgot to punch me
or maybe he just didn’t want
to risk a fight with Andy
who’s even bigger than him
and a black belt, too.
Everyone else partied,
breathless enthusiasm over
the graveyard adventure,
while my ears flamed
at the memory of
my voice
my shriek
my girlish
noise.
I pushed Vanessa
to dance in the crush of bodies,
(why should she suffer
just because I was miserable?)
I stood to the side.
And drank.
And watched
my beautiful
girlfriend.
And waited
to go home.
Where
thanks to a mom
who never waits up
even when she’s
not recovering
from surgery
I could be
all by
my
ugly
self.
After Vanessa Dropped Me Off
I crashed in bed
but lay awake forever
hearing my girl-voice, Gil’s laugh.
Reliving the shittiness
through the hours
until finally I drowsed
into that dream I’ve had
off and on
since freshman year,
more
often
lately.
And if the dream
itself isn’t
bad enough
the way I always feel
when I wake up
is worse,
sense-memories
that make me sweat
like I just got off the mat.
Nightmare
Courtney clenched in a dragon’s fist.
I stand below,
arms stretched out
worried.
I sacrifice myself to save her
by turning into a hot princess
while everyone else looks
confused.
I’m dragon bait,
still I feel right
with full breasts, long hair—
peaceful.
I wake up
to flat chest,
morning wood,
nauseous.
Thank God for Dry Toast
I gnaw, trying to focus
on that instead of my dream
or how shitty I feel.
Trying to focus on the fact
I have to make it through
wrestling during the
stupid-early
zero period
before school starts,
then class
and a test in AP Calculus
(easy if only I wasn’t hungover).
A sick-the-day-after-
Halloween story and
Coach’d pour on the abuse.
Brush my teeth,
shove my feet
into shoes
I don’t bother to tie.
No one awake to
shout bye to.
I finally drag my body
onto the 34 West bus.
Too early for crazies
except me
who dreams of
turning into a girl.
And likes that feeling.
Does that make me gay?
Alone in my weirdness,
buildings (filled with normal people)
swirl past; my stomach bubbles.
My forehead’s slick
against the seat
in front of me.
A groan escapes.
Across the aisle
a real girl speaks up.
My true self
must not show.
“Big night?” she asks.
Can’t tell if she’s making fun,
risk nodding yes,
avert my eyes—
in case
they really
are a window
into my twisted soul.
“You okay?”
What can you say to that?
I mean, with honesty.
Nothing.
“I’m fine.”
But in the next second
I know I’m going to puke
if I don’t get off.
Right now.
Just then she pulls the cord,
the bus glides to a stop. Thank God.
I stumble off, reach a
sidewalk planter just in time.
After the dry toast
and last night’s Jack is gone
(no trouble making weight today)
I feel better—except the
girl from the bus stands
holding out a water bottle.
I shake my head.
No candy from strangers.
“Someone had too much
fun last night, for sure!”
Offers the bottle again.
“Never been opened.”
“No thanks.” Why is she being so nice?
“No rinse?” she asks.
“I’m okay.” Now I really
can’t look her in the eye.
“Suit yourself,” she says
but she doesn’t sound mad.
“I work right here.”
Points to the building whose
shrubs I just baptized with my
breakfast, all hail the holy vomit.
“Sorry.”
Please God, just send
another bus now.
“It’s okay.
get cleaned up, it’s a teen center…”
Again I shake my head. A block away
the next bus rounds the corner. See?
Maybe God answers prayers.
(If you’re careful not to ask for
anything that’s not in his goodie bag—
apparently he mostly keeps stuff like
salvation and plagues in there.)
“Okay, okay,” she says. She’s
smiling again.
“But do me a favor—
tie your shoes.”
I feel like an idiot,
bend down to tie and that
makes my head pound again.
She puts the water back
in her purse, writes
something on a slip of paper.
“If you ever want to talk…”
Older than me.
Twenty-something maybe?
Flirting? Or just being friendly?
I take the paper,
purple sparkly ink
spells out Angel Hansted,
her phone number,
then underneath,
Willows Teen Center.
The bus stops.
Muscles tense,
I say thanks, board,
shove her note into my backpack,
take a seat, look out the window,
see her stride toward the building.
Tall,
graceful,
easy in her skin.
She’s hot.
See? I’m not gay.
(Angel)
Off the Bus
and at Willows Teen LGBTQ Center
ass-crack-of-dawn early.
I left my music theory book
here last night. I’ll pick it up,
come back to open the doors
after class.
Kids’ll straggle in later. Just like
I used to: ditching school, foster care,
parents, assholes who mistreat them.
They’ll hang out in the rec room.
Faded couches, torn-up magazines,
a big TV.
Laughing, bickering, gossiping.
Being themselves.
Waiting for Group with Dr. Martina
or afternoon classes,
learning everything from how to
avoid date rape to
balancing a checkbook,
and if donors have been
generous with supplies,
a little underwater basket weaving
thrown in there, too.
When I’m Not at School
I’m hanging at the center.
Part-time receptionist,
crafts leader,
janitor.
My friends don’t get why
I’m here so much.
“No offense, Girl—
you a glutton for
punishment!
Everybody there
look so sorry—
and you a i n’ t.”
Meant as a compliment, but see—
kids at the center? Not just sorry;
sad sometimes; scared, f yeah—and if
they’re sorry it’s not what
the girlfriend means by s o r r y.
When it comes to the ones I
hang with, even the ones who at least
got their shit together enough to find
their way here, the kind of sorry I’ m
talking about is just the sorry that
they are who they are. In the world
that hurts us all, even m e.
The Bus Roars Away
and I wonder about the kid.
Hungover, twitchy, uncomfortable, lost.
Familiar.
Those untied shoes reminded
me of my little brother.
Frankie never tied his either.
I unlock Willows
and walk around
the front desk.
Jim from Adult Day Care
shuffles in.
Supposed to be next door.
“Got any beer, Girlie?”
Same question every time.
We’re some distant-memory
liquor store in his brain.
“Nuh-uh, Jim, time to go back.”
I grab my book, take his elbow,
lock up again.
Deliver him to a nurse—
his keeper of the day.
“Second time this week,”
I tell her.
Her skinny face gets red like
I’m blaming her for his escape.
(Oooh, that’s right, I am.)
She takes him by the sleeve.
“Come sit down,” she tells him.
“You just got confused.”
Glares at me.
“Everybody does,
sometime or other.”
Confused? Hardly.
I’m twenty years old and I never been
confused a day in my life.
Grew up in a white neighborhood
till I was fourteen. Mexican mama and all.
She met my dad working
in the clean room for his company.
Had to wear one of those ugly
white spaceman outfits they have
so dust doesn’t get in
the computer chips.
He must of liked what he saw
when she took off her helmet,
shook her thick hair, because
Smooth Dude swept Cinderella off
to a gated community in La Jolla.
Mama hated it. Hated living there—
said she had more in common
with the pool man than
with the white neighbor ladies.
“It’s not real,” she’d tell me and Frankie,
about that difference we couldn’t hide.
“But they think it is.”
The bigger difference
I couldn’t hide
even back then
caused a giant shit-storm.
In kindergarten she had to pick me up.
Baby Frankie, nap interrupted,
suckin’ his thumb in the car seat.
Mama’s knuckles, copper metal
crunching the steering wheel.
“Angel, you HAVE to stay out
of the girls’ bathroom!”
The third time.
In three days.
“There’s BOYS in the other one!”
Thinking she HAD to understand,
but Mama shook her head.
“If you can’t use the right one,
you better hold it
till you get home.”
I couldn’t use the right one
’cause they wouldn’t let me.
Was it my fault they couldn’t see
who I was? Nope.
None of this
“trapped-in-a-man’s-body” bullshit.
I am a woman.
And back then?
I was a little girl.
(Vanessa)
I Like a Challenge
I’d have to, right?
Getting ground into
the mat six days a week.
My mom’s proud of what she
calls my competitive spirit,
no matter what form it takes.
Dad’s side of the family?
A different story
though it’s really their fault.
Spring break in France
every year since I was born.
Three cousins my age. All boys.
Charles, Étienne, Gaston:
smug, superior, cliquish
always a contest with them—
run faster
hold your breath longer
find more Easter eggs.
Subdue your partner
pin him to the beach
smile when he gets mad.
We’d wrestle on the shore,
&nbs
p; Greco-Roman rules, and I
learned to think two moves ahead.
Scrappy, with no bigger wish
than to triumph over them,
no sweeter joy than when I did.
Until I was twelve, that is. Grand-maman—
of the floppy hat and severe eyebrows—
ended it, calling me fille d’une truie,
daughter of a female pig.
The tantes élégantes laughed.
I pretended not to hear
and even nodded respectfully when
Grand-maman, perfumey hand on mine,
told me, en français, “No boy wants a rough girl.”
I quit without a fight because
I was tired of sand that
clung to my scalp, stuck in my ears—
but I wasn’t tired of wrestling. Winning.
And from the safe distance of La Jolla
I joined the team my freshman year.
It took a conference with
Miller Prep’s headmaster,
my mom, Coach, the dean of students,
and the school psychologist
for me to even get to try out.
(It was helpful that the public school
down the street
had just settled a lawsuit by
Lenora Jenkins,
now their thirty-five-pounder.)
On the mat, my moves
spoke for themselves and
since then Coach
has had to admit
I’m an asset
to the team.
In the beginning
I got called dyke a lot
put up with bullshit from everyone
even some of my teammates.
Still, I win more than I lose.
I’m strong. And the best thing?
A “rough girl” got the boy,
Brendan.
A Change of Weather
This morning
humid rain,
car windows fog
with my breath,
hot coffee.
It’s hard to see
the school parking lot
from this cocoon
but I hear vehicle doors slam,
remote locks beep.
I brought Brendan’s favorite, mocha and a muffin.
Maybe I should have brought soda crackers;
he was pretty drunk
when I dropped him off
last night.
But oh, so sweet.
I drove with my left hand
while he held my right—
“I love you so much.” Rubbing my
thumbnail
over and over
like I was his Aladdin’s lamp.
“You’re the best.”
Leaned his head against me—
“Sorry, so sorry about tonight.”
I parked in front of his house.
He stroked my hair.
Played with it.
Kissed me.
Then got out
of the car
a little unsteady,
shut the door.
I rolled down
the passenger window
and he bent his head
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