Freakboy

by Kristin Elizabeth Clark

  “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.
/>   “Look, if you want to come in and

  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