Chest out
aggressive stance
face pushed
toward mine.
I pull my head back
out of range
of his sour breath.
“I have to babysit my little sister.”
He doesn’t say anything
he just stares at me
like I’m diseased or something.
His eyes get squinty.
“Babysitting is for fags,”
he finally snarls, before
slamming back into the gym.
I stand there
a minute.
My legs
are still shaking
but not from the squats.
Mom and Claude the Interloper
leave as soon as I get home.
Courtney’s still up
twirling around
in a purple dance outfit.
“Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”
I’m exhausted.
“Not now.”
“Now, now, now!”
“Later, squirt.”
“Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”
She’s hanging on me.
“I said later.”
“Come see, come see!”
It’s all too much
she’s too much and
my patience
snaps like a
balsa-wood glider.
“Leave me the hell alone!
I’m not your frigging jungle gym!”
Her face puckers.
But I keep yelling.
Because I’ve had it with everything.
Slow buses. Needy girlfriends.
Sadist coaches. Demanding teachers.
And little sisters who
dress like ballerinas
floating along
while I clump.
I’m unbelievably sick of
everybody and everything.
I shout it all out.
Her face goes from puckered
to screwed-tight eyes
to openmouthed wailing.
And I keep shouting.
She runs to her room.
I go into mine
throw my half-open backpack
against the wall,
a paper avalanche,
try to ignore hiccupy sobs.
I flip on my Mac and
she’s still sobbing.
My gut twists again.
I need to get a grip.
I’ve shouted down Courtney,
who adores me
and in spite
of the sick feeling that
I’m letting her
adore an impostor,
I know I need her love.
Icons come up
against wallpaper—
a screen shot
of my avatar.
I stare at it
until Larissa blends
with the rest
of my virtual world.
I get up and follow
intermittent sobs
like bread crumbs
to Courtney
in her room.
“I’m sorry, squirt.”
“You were mean!”
“I know and I’m sorry.”
Stroke her hair
rub her back.
Her crying, already
slower, stops.
“Be nice?”
“I’ll be nice.”
Smooth the back of her
purple dance outfit.
“I’ll read to you.”
She picks Rapunzel
and I want to groan
not just because I’m sick
of her favorite (I am)
but because it reminds me of
just how short my own hair is.
We settle in on her
comfy, cozy, pink bedspread
to read that tired tale
of the princess fair
with golden hair.
Still, she leans against me
and for a few minutes
my life forgets to suck.
I’m Finishing Homework
when Mom
and Claude the Interloper
come home
chatting and wired
like always
after a concert.
I hear them coming up the stairs
then Mom stops by my door
sticks her head in.
“Courtney go down okay?”
The Interloper continues
on to their room.
“Fine,” I say.
She steps through the door,
elegance in long black dress,
heels, and strand of pearls.
Completely at odds
with the mayhem
of my room.
My teenage boy’s room.
Her nose wrinkles.
She looks around.
“This is a disaster.”
And I have to agree
even for me it’s
pretty bad.
“I’ll clean it tomorrow.”
But she advances,
picking up empty water bottles,
and the closer she gets
the more uncomfortable I am
like she’s going to find
something she shouldn’t.
There’s a plate from the kitchen
on my bed;
she picks it up.
“Brendan…”
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow!”
My shoulders tense,
practically touching
my ears.
“Whoa! Don’t you use
that tone with me.”
“I’m sorry! I said I’ll take care of it.”
Still sitting,
I lean over to scoop up
the mess from my backpack,
stack papers.
A little to my left,
notice that a
smallish piece of paper
with purple ink
sits on top.
That girl’s number.
I put my elbow
over it
like I’m turning
to look
at Mom.
“I just
really need to
get back to work,”
I mutter,
tapping a pen
on my open
Econ book.
Why won’t she leave?
Her eyebrows rise,
head tilts,
considering me for a minute.
“Is everything okay?”
she finally asks.
And I get the feeling
she thinks I’m hiding something.
Knows I’m hiding something.
It’s almost 11 p.m.
We’re going to have
a heart-to-heart now?
“Just fine,” I say.
Arms full,
she stands there
looking at me a minute,
then stoops to kiss
the top of my head.
“Let me know if
you want to talk.”
She finally leaves
and I move my elbow
off the
purple
sparkly
inked
paper
I had
all but forgotten.
I Think of THAT Night
Anxiety bubbles
in my throat.
Is there any way
that anyone could’ve
seen me throw the rock?
Would I be recognized
if I showed up there?
But no one was around.
Right?
No one was around.
I’m going to have
to hope that’s true.
Because
I need some help
figuring this out
and there’s
nowhere else
to go.
&
nbsp; Next Day’s a Minimum Day
and I escape after early practice.
Home alone, I get ready to go.
Talk myself out of it.
Ready to go.
Not.
I feel like once that move’s made
there’s no turning back.
It will be weird
to group myself with them.
And weird to get help
from a place I vandalized.
What if someone recognizes me?
Or if they call my mom?
What’s it like there?
What do I say?
(Other than “Window?
What window?”)
Hi, my name is Brendan.
I think I’m trans, but I’m not really sure.
I’m not one of those people
who’s always wanted to wear a dress.
Who’s always known
he should have been born female.
As weird and confusing
as sex can be for me,
I still like it.
I have a hard time (pun intended)
wishing away something
that feels so good.
And probably,
since this is the case,
I really AM a freak.
I’m neither here
nor there.
Can’t I just be
a girl with a dick?
I Get Off a Stop Early
and walk down the block
so the bus driver
can’t tell where
I’m headed.
There’s no way
anyone saw me
that night, still
my heart’s pounding
like the hip-hop beat
thumping out of
the door when I
push it open.
“Welcome. Can I help you?”
That girl, Angel, is sitting behind a little table
and she doesn’t seem
to recognize me at all.
I breathe, but don’t know where to begin.
“I … I’m just curious
about your programs,” I finally say.
God, I sound stupid.
She hands me a brochure
and an intake survey.
“Thanks.” I start to turn away.
“You want a tour?”
I shrug okay.
But I’m holding my breath again.
Light purple paint
covers the walls
of the common room.
Sofas and chairs
a big-screen TV
some gaming controllers.
Right now
there’s a guy in tight black jeans
doing DDR
while another guy,
in a thrift-store business jacket,
cheers him on.
Two kids about my age,
looking totally feminine
but a little … slutty,
lounge on one of the sofas.
“Girl, you so bad!”
one says, giggling.
He/she’s painting
the other one’s nails.
“Now hold still!”
I exhale,
breathe in
the smells of
nail polish,
hair spray,
and Axe.
The two on the sofa
wear thick makeup
eyes ringed with black liner.
A girl comes in,
taps Business Jacket
on the shoulder.
They both squeal
as if it’s been ten years
since they’ve seen each other.
I don’t think this is the place for me.
I fold up the papers
Angel handed me,
get ready to leave.
I just can’t imagine
drawing attention to myself
the way
they do.
Whatever else I am
I’m not
a flashy person.
And I wonder
if this is
how
I’d end up
looking.
Who
I’d end up
being.
Willows is
not my space
not my thing.
No help
for me
here.
There’s bile in disappointment.
(Angel)
It’s the Shy Kid from the Bus
the one reminded me of Frankie.
I look down
and this time his shoelaces are tied.
Frankie’s never were.
Smart-ass would do it on purpose,
’cause he knew it drove me crazy.
When I saw him on New Year’s
he wore Top-Siders
and I cried all the way home.
Group hasn’t started and
everyone’s just hangin’ around.
I can tell it’s a lot for this kid to take in.
Looks like he wants to run
so I tell the other intern, Lisa,
to take the front desk,
and I challenge him to Mario Kart.
I figured him for a gamer
and I’m right.
Kid hesitates, then,
“I guess.”
We wait for Tiffany and Eric
to finish their DDR
so we can have a turn
with the GameCube,
and we talk game talk.
Halo and Call of Duty,
Gears of War, Assassin’s Creed,
Dead Space, BioShock.
And we talk platforms.
Xbox 360, PlayStation 3,
Wii. And PC games Warcraft,
Half-Life, Command & Conquer.
“You’re a gamer?” he asks.
Emphasis on “You’re.”
I’m not the
stereotype PoPo,
girls can be gamers, too
but I get he has no
idea I’m trans.
“My little brother used to beat me—
then I spent about
four months laid up and
I got really good.”
Quirky smile from him.
Almost smart-ass?
“Really good, huh?”
I know a challenge when I hear one.
“It’s so on.”
Eric finishes his dance
and steps aside.
I set up Mario Kart and
away we go.
The kid picks Yoshi
so I take Princess Peach
and I beat him two out of three.
We’re done and
just kind of chatting
when I mention
coming to Willows
around his age,
looking for a healthy
trans community.
His eyes get wide,
then he nods,
glances at the other kids.
Shifty, like
he’s not sure
about this place.
“I have to get home,”
he says.
I walk him to the door.
“Come back and see us anytime.”
“Maybe,” he says,
hand on the doorknob.
And I can tell he’s never comin’ back.
And I don’t know if it’s ’cause
he makes me think of Frankie
or if it’s God tellin’ me
this kid needs a friend.
We’re not supposed to have private
contact with the kids at the center
and I do something I wouldn’t
if I didn’t know sure as shit
Brendan’s never gonna be a client here.
“Okay then—
you still have my number?”
He looks surprised,
even more nervous,
and I re
alize the kid
didn’t think I would
remember him.
“Tell you what.”
I grab paper,
write down my info.
“Call me when the next
Mordock’s Giant comes out.
I’ll play you.”
Of course I want to
help him if he needs it
but also, between school, work, interning
—being all-around productive Angel—
I forgot how much
I love gaming.
(BRENDAN)
Q Is for Question
(Holy crap!)
Angel is transgender!
She’s feminine and beautiful
and easy to talk to.
And there’s so much I want to ask—
like how do you know what’s right?
What if you aren’t always sure?
What if there are days when being a guy
only kind of tortures you?
And you just don’t see yourself
as a supergirly girl?
(And how did you beat level five
in Machines at War?)
What does it mean that even if this body
doesn’t feel like the right one,
high heels and dresses
aren’t really for you either?
What if sometimes you feel like
you’re pretending to be male but
you don’t want to feel like
you’re pretending to be female?
(Are you alone in this?)
And how can you keep
who you really are from
hurting your girlfriend?
Funny Timing That Boys’ Night Out
falls on the day
I visit an LGBTQ center.
It starts with a two-hour drive
to Honda Center in Anaheim.
Just me and Claude the Interloper,
who wants to get sushi on the way
even though I try to convince him
that getting crappy food
at the arena
is part of the hockey experience.
“Your coach won’t be too happy
if you don’t make weight.”
Like he knows anything about it.
I know to the ounce what I weigh.
“Sashimi’s pure protein, on
the other hand,” he says.
As if it’s news to me.
“Also, this will give us
more guy time.”
Exactly.
I study the menu like I care.
Order hot tea
so I’ll have something to drink
while Claude the Interloper has sake.
“How’s the girlfriend?”
“Fine.”
“She seems nice.”
“Yep.”
“Which school is your first choice?”
“No idea.”
“How’s the new semester?”
“Fine, I guess.”
It feels like an awkward date.
I’m not trying to be difficult—
I just have no idea what to say to him.
At least in the car we could listen to
the radio.
Claude falls quiet. Then—
“You still miss your dad.”
I wasn’t expecting this.
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