should think about
what’s really important,
what has lasting value.”
“I’m inviting Brendan.”
She shakes her head, exasperated.
“Do what you want.”
She gives up so easily.
“Perfect,” I say.
I always win.
And Speaking of Perfection
I’ve discovered
it’s not in friendship
it’s not in good grades
it’s not in a well-thrown pot
it’s not in a flawlessly wrestled match.
Perfection is the warm feeling
in the deep of my stomach
when his eyes meet mine,
and the memory
of what we did last night
vibrates between us.
The way he touched my face
kissed my eyelids
stroked my hair
caressed my hip
murmured love.
The way our bodies melded
and there was no telling
where one ended
and the other began.
Perfection is
the two of us
together.
No lecture can change that.
(Angel)
“Phewie, That Stinks!”
Denai opens the living room window,
lettin’ out the smell of acrylic.
Gennifer’s doing my fills.
Handy to have a roommate
in cosmetology school.
Haven’t let her touch my hair yet
but nails are fair game.
“So is Liberty allowed
to come back?”
Gennifer asks.
“If she apologizes to
the other kids at the center, yeah,”
I tell her.
Gennifer sets a little fan
to blow on my right hand,
goes to work on my left.
“That all she has to do?”
“It’s a lot when you
think about it,” I say.
Liberty got caught
stealing from Willows
and Lordy, I’m mad with her—
and sorry for her
at the same time.
It was a blue envelope
like the one showed up last week.
Twenty-five bucks, anonymous donater.
Feels good to know
there’s beautiful people out there
balancing the ugly.
I pointed that out to
Jason and Daniella,
’cause, of all the kids,
they were the most
shook up by the broken window.
Mailman brought in the mail
and I put the envelope
on the side desk for Dr. Martina
but by the time she came in
it was gone daddy gone.
I asked around—Daniella
said she saw Liberty take it.
Dr. M took kids
into her office
one by one.
Told me later Liberty
broke down, cried, confessed
and now she has to apologize
to “the community”
if she wants to come back.
I don’t know how Liberty
knew there was money inside
but I know what she wanted it for.
Hormones
cost money
they mean
the difference
between
coarse hair,
man-bodies
and
smooth skin,
girl-curves.
The girls I know
who take ’em illegally
can’t count
on a steady supply
of this remedy
that reveals
their true
selves
and they live
with the fear
of running out.
Me, too, once upon a time.
Roger Was Man of the House
and he let us know it
soon as he moved in.
I’d been living on her
couch a couple months
doing what I could
but Tía Rosa was grateful
having another “adult” there
helping with bills, kids.
He worked under the table—
construction for a
septic tank company
and she didn’t seem to care
he smelled bad, like sweat
and dirt and cigarette smoke
didn’t care he was rude
never said please or thank you
like she made sure me and my cousins did
didn’t care he said
I’d have to dress like a guy
if I wanted to live there.
“It just makes him uncomfortable,
mijo,” she told me. She wouldn’t
call me mija anymore either.
So I did what any
self-respecting girl would do.
Carried my clothes in a bag,
changed when I left the house.
I didn’t like it but all shoulda been fine.
Of course it wasn’t.
The last straw came
when Rosa was at work.
Roger in the bathroom doorway
beefy arms folded, laughing
to watch me scrabble around looking for
the medicine I hid under the sink.
“I flushed it all.”
And, Girl,
I wanted to kill him.
Didn’t know how
I was going to get money
for more or whether
Lupe, with her pills
and injectables from Tijuana,
was even around.
“Didn’t look like
no aspirin to me.”
Before I could stand
he was across the bathroom
grabbing me, pulling
my arm up
behind my back.
I thought I’d pass out.
“And if I ever find out
you touched your cousins,
I’ll kill you, pervert.”
He slammed me
against the tub
then left.
Fire blazed up my shoulder, neck,
but that wasn’t
the worst feeling.
I leaned into the peeling wall,
wondered how long I had till the
hormones in my system would wear off—
and added
Roger to the list of people I hate.
I left that night
when everyone
was sleeping
but first I emptied his wallet
(only time I took anything
didn’t belong to me).
Oh—and I called the DMV
to narc on him
for his unregistered car.
Guess you could say
I sometimes have a problem
with lettin’ things go.
(Vanessa)
Sunday Afternoon
We go to the ballet.
(I promise bowling afterward
to make up for his having
to do a chick thing.)
At Weiss Performing Arts Center
the red velvet curtain
sweeps open to a
Christmas scene.
Onstage, children
dance and fight.
We slouch,
bored for most of it
until the Sugar Plum Fairy
comes out.
Brendan, suddenly
NOT bored,
leans
forward.
We’re only
five rows away.
Is she that sexy?
Looooong legs
blond hair
nothing like
ch
estnut-brown me.
I’m not the jealous type
(don’t want to be anyway)
but he’s practically drooling.
I want to yank off
that stupid costume
wrestle with her
see how long
she lasts on the mat.
The next hour
seems like five,
hard seat
tense neck.
When it’s finally over
I drag Brendan from the theater.
He’s glassy eyed;
I’m pissed.
“What’d you think?” I ask.
He pauses, suddenly cautious.
“Ballet’s not my thing.”
“What about the Sugar Plum Fairy?”
I hate how accusing it sounds.
Hate my shrill tone.
Never let them see you jealous.
Grand-maman’s advice out the window.
“What do you mean?”
“You couldn’t stop staring.”
“I was watching the show.”
“Don’t give me that!”
“What are you so mad about?”
“You liked her!”
He freezes,
knowing exactly who
I’m talking about.
Then he smiles.
“Jealous?”
I’m mortified.
“She has nothing on you.”
He kisses me
and I should feel reassured, right?
But it’s a distant kiss
like his mind
and his lips
are disconnected.
(BRENDAN)
Crisis Averted.
But peace not restored.
Trans after all?
A bow-curved mouth
with lipstick I could taste;
that Sugar Plum Fairy was hot.
I think about brushing thick
blond hair into a bun.
Moving spinning leaping,
body light, spirit free
no extra flesh
between her thighs.
I jiggle my foot.
Do I want to do her?
Or do I want to be her?
Drum my fingers.
Quiet my freaky brain.
Bowling
is safer, kind of.
Get our shoes,
step to lane six.
The ball has heft,
it’s substantial,
a heavy thing.
Solid and you
can count
on it to
do what
it’s supposed
to do. No whining
that it would rather be
a football or a hockey puck.
Fingers slick, I hurl it hard, my
s h o u l d e r s t r e t c h e s o u t.
This solid, this strong, this unchanging
ball goes wild into the next lane. And it
knocks down the white sentinels at the
end of another alley. The manager’s mad
(like I had the skill to do that on purpose)
and other bowlers are looking at us. The
kind of attention I hate. We finish the rest
of the game under their glares, inspection.
Later, just before sleep, I replay the scene
and know I wasn’t knocking down pins. I
was annihilating the Sugar Plum Fairy
who danced in my head.
Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks
but not because of him.
Mall’s stuffy and
Christmas lines are
as long as the plot
of the movie
he’s telling me about.
Still, I listen.
You listen to your friends.
Even if you don’t tell them everything.
Christmas shopping means
Where the Wild Things Are,
book with Max doll for Court.
Astronomy book for Dad.
The ugliest tie I can find
for Claude the Interloper.
A leather journal and a
cool-looking fountain pen for Mom.
Two presents for her
since her birthday’s on the
twenty-eighth.
That leaves Vanessa.
I want to go home
take a nap
play Diablo.
“Dude, you should totally
get her something sexified!”
Slugging him would
require too much energy.
“You’re talking about my
girlfriend, asswipe.”
“I’m just sayin’. Look!”
He points.
MAKING HOLIDAYS BRIGHT SALE
Neon panties in Victoria’s Secret window.
“Come on, Dude.”
Starts walking over.
“I’m not going in there.”
“Dude, you know
she’d love it.”
“I’m not.”
“Quit being a pussy!”
“I’m not, you idiot!”
“Afraid panties will bite?”
“What if someone sees?”
“They’ll be all over you!
The ladies love a dude who buys
his girlfriend something romantic.”
What can I say?
“I’m not going to buy
her underwear in front of
you, perv!”
“Whatever—Lindy Carmichael
works in there.”
He heads over
toward the store.
I reluctantly follow.
“So?”
“I wanna go say hi.”
“Why?”
“She’s hot!
What’s your problem?”
My Problem
is back in a big way
since the day
of The Nutcracker.
(I would love the irony
of THAT if I could love
anything right now.)
For weeks
that word had been quiet
and I didn’t mind
my body all that much.
Not totally at peace, but it was
serviceable, functioning.
And sex—
itself feels great
even if the parts sometimes
seem a little wrong
and it floats through
my head more often
than it should
that I’d give anything
to experience it
the way she does
from the other side.
Still, it’s my body
that gets to feel it
and that made
the rest … livable.
But that’s not
enough anymore.
I have to get away
from Andy’s questioning stare.
“Catch you later,”
I say.
“You’re a freak.
You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
He falls
back
into
step
with
me.
Arrrrgggghhhhh.
We head to GameStop,
shop a little longer,
check out
new games.
“Let’s go see Lindy.”
“Gotta get home—”
“C’mon, Dude.”
He drags me over.
Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume
A kaleidoscope the second
we’re through the doorway
into Girl World.
Andy goes off to find Lindy,
leaving me alone.
And piles of thongs and bikini briefs
are strewn on the table in front of
women and girls
who peck through panties
like ma
gpies or crows.
They have every right
to be here, to be at home.
I don’t.
It feels awkward, I knew it would.
And I’m furtive.
What if someone guesses?
Illogical, I know.
But is there any logic
to the fact that I’m once again
Jealous? With a capital J?
Girl World isn’t my place
but I wish it were.
Any logic to the fact that
everything’s softer, better
or that I know
I could belong here?
(With the right body parts, that is.)
An extremely helpful salesgirl
(not Lindy Carmichael, thank God)
presents her tall,
thin but muscular,
near-perfect self—
asks if I need assistance.
Heart thumping,
I clear my throat,
point
to a mannequin wearing
a satin padded push-up bra.
“I’d like that for my girlfriend.”
My voice strange to me.
The Girl World envoy asks about size.
I have no idea what to say.
I shrug.
She laughs, asks, “Is she about
my size? Bigger, smaller?”
My stomach flips.
“Bigger than you,” I say.
Tense shoulders, dry mouth,
I wait for it to be rung up.
I punch in my PIN.
Transaction complete
I can
breathe again.
At the door Andy
catches up with me.
“Scored a date with Lindy!”
We high-five,
then he
grabs the bag
looks in to see the gift box.
“Awesome, Dude. Maybe
now you’ll get some!”
Christmas Day
Claude the Interloper
plays Santa and
Court tears through her presents.
Loves mine best of all
hugging squeeze around my neck. Kisses.
“Brendy, you’re the
best, read it to me?”
And I feel good
for a minute.
I open my gifts slowly.
A video game,
some books,
and, inside a thin blue envelope,
tickets to see a hockey game.
“Boys’ night out.” Mom smiles.
“Just us guys,” Claude says.
I know the tickets weren’t his idea.
Maybe Mom’s looking at it as bonding
but you’d think having been my mother
for seventeen years she’d have a clue
that I don’t like sports.
Not even the one I play
because it will look good
on my college apps.
(It’s not just me—
lots of guys don’t.)
Still, it’s
the wrong gift on so many levels.
Throat tight, I thank them.
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