College Applications, Round One
Most due Monday after Thanksgiving and
I’ve hit Send on a few already, like
my first choice, U of Chicago.
But what does it matter?
U of C or Berkeley,
good schools for math,
UW–Madison,
the school Andy’s hoping for;
his whole family’s gone there.
I glance over at him
hulking on the floor
next to my bed
controller in hand
playing an old-school game.
“We could live together,”
he says, eyes glued to the
screen. “You’d bring the PS3,
—I’d bring the Xbox.
“We wouldn’t have to worry
about sharing a room
with some weenie.”
I want to pause Mortal Kombat
shout, puke, something—
the thought of rooming with anyone …
What if he knew
about trans-thuggy me?
What would he do?
I can’t see
next year at all
and really,
why bother thinking ahead?
I’m a freak and my future
is totally screwed.
I take a shot,
push my kill streak to five,
lean back.
“Sounds good,” I say.
And I’m sorry the game is over.
Wednesday After Conditioning
I hang around
outside the girls’
locker room.
I’m scrambled
strung out
scared but
missing Vanessa
adds to the
turmoil factory.
Lately it’s mostly been
ILY texts between classes,
forbidden looks in wrestling,
lame excuses for taking the bus home.
It’s felt too weird
I’ve felt too weird
for close contact
and now my arms
hurt with wanting
to hold her.
She finally appears,
fresh from the shower
damp hair in
a ponytail—
smiles to see me—but,
“I have to go to
the airport to
get Grand-maman.”
“Paper to write,” I say.
She leans in.
“Thanksgiving night
we’ll have all the
time in the world.”
Her dark eyes are steady.
She’s already told me
about the Smiths’ empty house …
I don’t look down
when her fingertip
brushes my chest.
There’s no mistaking
exactly what
we’ll have
all the time
in the world
to do.
I breathe her in,
the wanting
overpowers
the awkward.
Soft lips
touch mine
before
she walks
away
and
that word
gets quieter.
Vanessa has no idea
I’m a massively confused
vandalizing menace.
With her I’m
someone else
something else
and I can
grab that
feeling
hang on like
it’s my opponent trying to
get out of a double arm bar.
Thanksgiving night
is the night.
(Angel)
Mama’s Sweet Corn Stuffing
sits on the table; she’d be proud.
Turkey, sweet potato pie,
spaghetti, onion rings.
I check out the offerings
of my sisters-in-spirit,
Denai, Brandy, Chantal.
Not bad for a bunch of girls
(used to be) from the street.
Gennifer’s not here
’cause she’s spending the night
with her boyfriend—lucky.
But, Girl, we’re lucky ones, too.
Roof over our heads, even if it’s five
in a two-bedroom apartment
and seems like there’s always
someone in the bathroom.
Legally employed … mostly.
Brandy sells a little pot,
adds to what she
gets as a telemarketer.
She’s saving for surgery.
We’re lucky to be giving thanks
with the family we’ve chosen.
Show the world
your essence
and you find out
faster than a
five-dollar hand job
who’s family
and who’s not.
The ugly-ass
Sperm Donor
who beat the crap
out of you for
dressing like yourself?
A cracked rib
the least of the pain.
Who sent you to
“Hoods in the Woods”
after your mama died?
Thinking they’d teach you
how to be a man—
like learning to catch fish
and dig a latrine
to shit in
could change your DNA,
your soul.
Who You Are.
The asshole
who threatened
to call the police
after he threw you out
just ’cause you snuck back
to see your
baby brother
and the little guy used to
cry and beg for you to stay
because he lost his mother
and his sister the same year,
then he was the lost one?
No, the Sperm Donor
is NOT family.
I count my
blessings and
thank God.
(Vanessa)
It’s the American Way
of an American holiday.
Mom jokes that my father and Uncle Michel
have embraced it too fully since
moving here twenty years ago.
Too much turkey, stuffing, gravy,
mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie.
Before they settle down
to snooze in front of the TV,
Dad waves me over to commence
the Thanksgiving ritual of gently rapping my leg
with his knuckles to hear if it’s hollow.
“Where does such a little girl
hide so much food?” he asks,
eyebrow cocked, fake puzzlement.
“I’m not telling you!” I play along, jerking away
while he tries to hang on and we tussle.
Yeah, it’s dorky and we both know
I’m too old for the game—
but I think he thinks it’s fun
to see the disapproval radiating
off Grand-maman.
“Lucas! She’s a young lady,”
his mother scolds.
My father catches my eye,
winks, then shares a smirk
with Uncle Michel.
“Strange, no? A young lady
with a hollow leg she hides food in!”
My father gives me one last tickle.
I walk back into the kitchen
to tell Mom I’m going out
but she’s already (discreetly)
headed upstairs
probably to escape Grand-maman,
who follows me, practically
catching me with her claws.
“Where is your young man?”
&nb
sp; “Home.
I thought I’d go hang with him
for a couple hours.”
“Let him come to you.
Men chase women, chérie,
this is the nice way.
They run from the ones
who get that wrong.”
I nod (respectfully) and
sit down at the breakfast bar,
flip the pages
of Sunset magazine
with my right hand.
Rub the toothed edge
of the Smiths’ house key
with my left.
She finally heads upstairs herself.
I know how
to deal
with Grand-maman.
You wait her out.
It may not be the nice way—
planning to shed virginity
in my neighbors’ house—
but I know Brendan’ll agree
it’s nicer than doing it in the car.
You Know It’s True
I never had a boyfriend
before there was B r e n d a n.
It wasn’t because I chased anyone.
I’m confident the reason i s
because there was this perfect
person waiting for me. M y
ideal. When we’re together, we’re
the only people in the w o r l d.
At the Smiths’
Suddenly, weirdly
shy with one another
we sit on the floor
backs against the couch
huge blank screen in front of us
packet of condoms next to us.
“We could just watch TV,” he says.
And I can’t tell if he’s serious.
“If that’s what you want.”
I try to make it sound flirty,
which works because
he gently, gently
touches that spot
behind my earlobe
leans in
and softly, softly
kisses my lips.
Somewhere a clock ticks.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“Then yes.”
Mouth again
brushes
lingers
longer
deeper
his shaking fingers
unbutton my shirt.
Mine
shake
too
a joyful shiver
when I
touch him.
(BRENDAN)
No Guidebook
Her lips
sweet
tongue
sweeter still
skin
to skin
thrumming
joy
And no way to prepare
touching
her
softest
neat
tucked up
away
jealous
want
washes
wait
Please, God
hold
held
meld
hers
mine
all one.
Prayer answered.
The Next Morning
Banana pancakes
with fat-free whipped cream
fill the Styrofoam container
wedged flat in my backpack
their warm smell
mingles with the crisp bite
of eucalyptus
from the tree I climb
outside Vanessa’s
bedroom window.
Glass tapped,
curtain pushed aside,
window opened,
entry granted.
“It’s not the fifteenth.”
She’s smiling.
“Today’s just because,” I whisper—
even though her house is huge and
her parents won’t hear.
They never do.
A year ago for
our one-month anniversary
I brought her breakfast in bed.
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 T
anya?”
“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
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