Then it’s off to Vanessa’s.
Holiday-Schedule Bus
is slow
and after I get off
I still have to
walk up the hill
past a little guardhouse
where the attendant
waves me into the
gated community.
At her house,
a lingering kiss
under the mistletoe.
I hand over her gift.
She smiles,
hands me one, too.
We open together.
World of Warcraft and a
masculine thick bracelet
for me.
Name-engraved
stainless steel water bottle
for her.
A minute of quiet.
“You know—so you don’t
always take mine,” I joke,
but the silence stretching
like a lake between us
tells me I screwed up.
I don’t know what to
say to her
about anything.
Wrong gift on so many levels.
And I’m a knotted snake of
love and guilt.
If she’s disappointed in this,
how much worse
if she could
read my mind?
After a minute
of quiet she kisses me,
says thank you,
and we pretend it’s okay.
Sometimes you don’t get what you want.
(Vanessa)
Could He Be Less Romantic?
I guess it could be worse:
a tool set
or a book about
war atrocities.
I’m not materialistic,
but a water bottle
with my name on it?
And it makes me feel stupid
for always drinking
from his—
like it annoys him
every time I do that
when I thought
the gesture was
our little connection,
a welcome way
around his idiotic
no-contact rule.
I have to wonder
if he loves me
as much
as I love him.
I drive him home.
No time for a detour.
“See you after dinner?”
(We have a plan: ditch the holly-
and-the-ivy stuff,
later head down to Mono Cove.)
“No. Family crap.
My mom says I have to
stay home.”
It may be true
but she let him come over
after dinner last year.
He doesn’t look me
in the eye.
“Really.”
It’s not a question.
“Really,” he says.
The statement is firm.
“Pick you up tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I’ll call.”
“Is something wrong?”
I ask. Stomach curling.
Was I bitchier about
the present than I thought?
“No—I just have to go.”
He leans over
kisses me so fast
I hardly feel it,
then gets out
and practically runs
up the path to his house.
Merry f’ing Christmas.
Back at My House
“Did I hear Brendan?”
Mom’s voice drowsy from her nap.
We celebrate le réveillon.
The traditional French feast
starts after Mass on Christmas Eve
and keeps on all night—she’s tired.
Or maybe her mother-in-law’s
long visit is wearing on her
very last nerve.
“I just took him home.”
Slam into my room
before anyone can get
a look at rejected me.
“Honey?” Tap tap tap.
“Are you okay?”
Mom calls through the door.
“Fine,”
I tell her.
But of course
I’m not and she knows it
in that radar way she has.
“What is wrong with Vanessa?”
Grand-maman
doesn’t sound drowsy.
“Nothing.” Mom’s voice
snaps shut. They both go away.
Crying into My Pillow
is
a
cliché.
I hate being a loser
but
hurt
feelings
leak out and
make
it
wet
anyway.
(BRENDAN)
At Bedtime
even after the bath
that usually mellows her out,
my little sister
bounces around her room
on a Candy Cane Christmas high.
Mom makes sure Court brushes
her teeth, then I take over.
Where the Wild Things Are
makes her a little wild.
I pick up another story.
Beauty and the Beast,
a cloth-covered book.
No dancing teacups here.
Inky, dark illustrations
loom every few pages.
Courtney snuggles her head
on my shoulder.
A Johnson’s Baby Shampoo cuddle.
I read the long story
thick with big words.
Court quiets, listens until the picture
of the Beast transforming to prince,
his face an agonized half-man mask.
She sits up.
“Why does he hurt?”
“I guess it hurts to change,”
I tell her, turn the page.
She turns it back,
points to Beauty,
watching the Beast
from the corner,
fright distorting
her features.
“Does she hurt, too?”
“I think Beauty’s just scared.”
“I wouldn’t be.”
But I wonder.
The Next Day
Caterers show up early
set their trays and racks
in the kitchen for
Claude the Interloper’s
annual holiday party
in honor of the
symphony’s biggest donors.
It’s all about gloss and glitter
and as much Christmas warmth
as can be squeezed out of
a credit card.
My stomach
is growling
from the smell
of garlic
and pastry
by the time
guests and
favored musicians
start arriving.
They cluster around
my mother, who laughs and
chats and sparkles perfection
in a deep blue dress.
I spend most of the time
in the playroom with Courtney
trying to avoid everyone
and the inevitable question
(“Where are you going to
school next year, young man?”)
that comes up every single
time I’m introduced
or reintroduced
to any of these people.
Eventually
Claude the Interloper
comes to drag us out.
“I have a surprise for your
mother,” he says. Courtney
holds his hand, skips along.
She loves surprises.
I follow them to the
meticulously decorated
living room.
T
he sound of
“Happy Birthday to You”
in four-part harmony
accompanies the caterers’ entrance
with a gigantic harp-shaped cake.
Courtney squeals,
the Interloper beams,
Mom’s eyes glisten.
I hang back.
“Now there’s a gorgeous lady,”
one of the percussion guys
tells me, nodding in my mother’s
direction.
Everyone else’s attention
is now on the
standard celebratory dessert.
Mom’s beautiful.
High cheekbones
long neck
graceful arms
curvy outline.
She blows out
the single candle;
her audience claps
and my confused heart hurts.
(Angel)
New Year’s
When I was little
my mama let me believe
the clanging pots and pans
and fireworks were
in honor of me,
her Angel.
God’s little gift—
no matter what.
By the time Frankie came along
I knew better and so
we’d stand on the
deck at the country club
watching the bursts
and I’d say, “Okay, Frankie,
this next one is in honor of you,”
when the s k y
“Angel, do it again!”
Frankie would say.
Little brother thought
I could do anything.
A brain aneurysm
killed our beautiful mama
and after that it was
adiós, madre dulce,
goodbye, little brother.
Nothin’ I could do.
New Year’s sucked then.
But this year’s gonna be different
not like when I was working—
or even last year when I was
playing nurse to Gennifer.
Her parents actually
helped pay for her
gender-affirming surgery.
Making her outsides
match her insides was
the only way
she was gonna feel right
—and that’s cool.
For me personally?
Even if I could afford it,
it’s just not that important
to how I see myself.
My junk doesn’t dictate who I am.
Frankie’s Back from Cancún
where he and the Sperm Donor
always spend Christmas.
I’m waiting for him at Denny’s
so I can give him his present.
Then it’s back home before
he’s noticed missing—
and it’s off to party for me.
He’s really late.
I check for messages
every thirty seconds
in case I missed something.
Color me relieved when finally
crisp khakis, polo shirt, woven belt,
Top-Siders
slide into the booth.
I lean over to give him a hug.
Broad fifteen-year-old
shoulders drop
STIFF as his buzz cut.
“Happy New Year!” I tell him.
“I got you a Christmas present.”
Hold out the box.
“Thanks.” He takes it.
Doesn’t look me in the eye.
Doesn’t open it.
“Go ahead!
I want to see if it fits!”
He unwraps the box
not sayin’ anything.
Pulls out the funky PacSun shirt.
Something flickers across his face
then,
again,
“Thanks.”
The waitress comes by.
I’m about to ask
for a couple more minutes,
when Frankie says,
“I don’t want anything.
I have to get back.”
There’s that look again.
I tell her I’m gonna
hold off on ordering.
“Thanks for coming to see me.
I miss you,” I say.
Try to take his hand.
He pulls away,
looks around at the same time,
and I pick up what he’s laying down.
Screw the Rest of the World
Who cares
what it thinks
of me—
but my little brother
who thought I hung the moon
and made the stars explode
just for him
is embarrassed of me.
I’ve been through some shit,
you know?
Both living on the streets
and off.
I’ve been beaten
by my father
and by bullies
and most memorably
by a sadistic-pervert john
who put me in ICU for a week
and the pain and torture
of physical therapy
for a long time after.
But I have never hurt this bad.
And there’s nothin’ I can do.
(Vanessa)
Brendan’s Sick on New Year’s Eve
and can’t come
to Girard family festivities.
The adults are tipsy.
I’m bored out of my head.
I wish we lived on the East Coast
so it’d be over already.
“Why not ask another friend?”
my mother said, when I told her
Brendan wasn’t coming.
I acted like I didn’t hear her.
Now Grand-maman’s eyebrows tilt.
“Where IS that young man?”
She’s shuffling the cards for vingt-et-un.
Her hands are smooth, a wax doll’s.
“He’s sick.” If what he said was true,
and I feel bad hoping that’s the case.
But I’ve only seen him
twice since Christmas.
He’s gone through moods before but
he used to let me in—said I made him feel better.
What if he just doesn’t want to see me?
My father pours more champagne.
He gets to my glass, I shake my head.
I don’t like it. Grand-maman disapproves.
My American tastes are all failings.
I wonder when she’ll disown me.
“Your grand-papa came to see me on
my birthday with a temperature of 39.”
Way to spread disease, I think.
But I know what she’s telling me.
Brendan would be here
if seeing me was worth it to him.
I suffer through two card games,
then my mother proposes Bananagrams.
Crafty, because Grand-maman won’t play—
only English words allowed.
We move to the coffee table.
Mom shakes up the bag, letter tiles click.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
She’s quiet so no one else hears.
“I think so, why?” My fingers flick
the smooth squares. Rearrange five letters.
I usually like this game—it’s like Scrabble
only faster—but tonight I feel slow, and
I hate that feeling of knowing ahead of time
that I’m going to lose.
We both take more tiles, and she says,
“I haven’t seen much of Brendan lately.”
I get an n, “broke” is “broken” (broken up?)
and my stomach clenches.
(BRENDAN)
I Pretend
I’m in the right body, a n d
/>
my slicked-back hair
is a ponytail.
I’m grateful n o w
the gray-blue eyes
I inherited from Mom
came with a matching set
of high cheekbones, since I ’v e
come to appreciate that even they
could be male or female.
I like the illusion.
(What else have I g o t?)
For the moment,
this moment alone,
illusion’s enough.
The thought that it
might not always be is a n o t h e r
more radical issue entirely.
I cross my legs
tuck myself under
love how I look when I’m alone.
The crowning touch,
under a plain T-shirt,
came from Victoria’s S e c r e t.
A Forbidden Jewel
in a shimmering gift box,
it sat at the back of my closet
for over a week
and images of Bugs Bunny
ran through my head.
When he wore a coconut bra
it didn’t make him female.
Padded green satin
won’t make me a girl either,
but I wanted
to see myself.
Tonight Mom and
Claude the Interloper
are safely off with their
New Year’s Eve–concert audience.
Courtney, worn out
from jumping
on the trampoline,
is safely off to sleep
after I read her four books.
I unwrapped
the package
containing this
symbol
emblem
bra
inside my chest
a furnace.
Excitement
battling
fear.
You know Pandora. Her box?
Nothing on me. And mine.
I fumbled,
caught up
straps too short
cups too high.
I knew I
looked stupid—
turned my back
on the mirror
until satiny material
slid through plastic clips
longer, longer
just right,
struggled to fasten the back clasp
shoved away a rogue memory
of helping Vanessa get dressed.
I pulled on a shirt
looked down,
saw a feminine
shape and
I was home.
My soul
had found
a shell.
Relief from
the gray sadness
of what I’m not,
a rising flood.
I imagined moving
through the world
alive and at home
in this, my body.
Physical form
matching my spirit
matching me.
But Cinderella Perfection Can’t Last
Freakboy Page 8