Freakboy

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Freakboy Page 16

by Kristin Elizabeth Clark


  I’m clean and

  at the table and

  exhausted.

  Eating’s a chore.

  After Dinner

  I go lie down.

  Mom comes into

  my room, sits

  on the bed.

  My eyes stay closed.

  She doesn’t beat

  around the bush.

  “Honey, I’m worried about you.”

  Her hand smooths

  my high forehead.

  “I’m okay,

  just don’t feel well.”

  “I hear that a lot from you.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Even so—I have a thought…”

  Uncertainty in her voice

  makes me open my eyes.

  Hers are welling.

  There’s Courtney in her face.

  “I know you’re not comfortable

  talking to me—

  and I know I’ve had issues

  with counseling in the past…”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She gets a faraway look.

  It lasts a long time

  and I think she’s forgotten

  the question, until she

  speaks again.

  “I think I misread your father’s

  intentions,” she says quietly.

  “When people divorce, even when

  they try to keep it amicable …

  there’s a lot of hurt feelings,

  misunderstanding…”

  She looks down at me

  and I want to look away

  but I don’t.

  “Now I think he really was

  worried about you.”

  She stares

  off again.

  I stay silent.

  Finally:

  “But maybe Dr. Andrews

  just isn’t a good fit?”

  The whole conversation

  so out of left field.

  No idea what to say.

  “I just want you to know our

  insurance has a list

  of other therapists,

  if you want,

  and if it’s something you choose

  for yourself—maybe it

  could be a good thing.”

  I’m tired.

  She’s trying.

  She’s too late.

  “Andrews is fine.

  I’m just sick.”

  “Maybe—but it might be good

  for you to talk to someone else,

  anyway … Will you?”

  I’m not going to argue

  but I’m not committing either.

  “We’ll see.”

  She doesn’t push

  for more than that.

  The truth is

  I am not planning to talk to anyone else

  ever.

  Tiny White Torpedoes

  squeezed tight in my fist.

  Leftovers from breast surgery.

  Discovered behind the vitamins

  in Mom’s medicine cabinet.

  How many,

  I wonder?

  How many

  would take me under

  slow

  breath

  heartbeat

  let

  this

  body

  this

  wrong

  body

  this

  brain

  this

  wrong

  brain

  sleep?

  No Note

  could ever explain

  and why

  reveal

  that the

  inexplicable

  even exists

  when it will just

  lead to more

  questions?

  No answers.

  Far beyond

  feeling mean

  at the thought

  of making them guess

  all I feel

  is a forever

  dull ache

  that will

  probably

  exist

  for as

  long as

  I do.

  Midnight

  The wedge of light

  under Mom’s door

  is snuffed out.

  I line up the pills

  on my nightstand

  one row of twenty

  is this it?

  rearrange them

  two rows of ten

  I don’t think it will hurt

  now three of six

  with two left over

  and even if it does—

  now four of five

  with none left over—

  it’ll stop eventually

  now two of seven

  with six left over

  No school tomorrow;

  they’ll let me sleep

  now two of eight

  with four left over

  hours from now

  I don’t know where I’ll be—

  now two of nine

  with two left over—

  but this body will be here

  stiff,

  cold?

  “BRENDY!!!”

  My door slams open

  a hallway shriek,

  night-terror eyes wild

  hair sticking out.

  My heart explodes

  like it did

  that night

  in the graveyard.

  Courtney’s too freaked

  by whatever monster

  she’s seen

  to notice my girlish yell

  or the pills

  on my nightstand.

  I’m Leading Her

  back to her room

  when Mom sticks

  her head out.

  “Nightmare,” I say.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Are you sure?” She yawns,

  clearly hoping to go back to bed.

  My throat closes; that’s it.

  I will be Little Mother.

  In the pretty pink

  princess palace.

  I sit with my baby sister

  waiting for her to sleep,

  heart squeezing,

  folding, turning over.

  Courtney

  could be the one

  to find me dead.

  What would that do?

  What would

  her tomorrow look like?

  And the tomorrows

  after that?

  How messed up

  would she be?

  The little-kid

  memory

  of touching

  poking

  prodding

  my lifeless body?

  Not Dying

  isn’t the same as

  choosing to live,

  not right away.

  In the bathroom

  I pee sitting down,

  thinking about it.

  Go to the beach?

  Would the i m p u l s e

  to throw my body into

  night-blackened water

  outlast my bio-instinct

  to breathe?

  Would this body struggle

  against my own intention

  mind, soul, body connection d e n i e d?

  Would I care who

  found me, looking like

  a bloated small seal,

  a tuskless walrus?

  As long as it wasn’t Courtney?

  What do humpbacks think

  when they beach themselves

  on land and people go to crazy efforts,

  tugging them

  pushing them

  rolling them

  back into the sea?

  Afterward, do the whales

  look back to shore, thinking,

  I feel better now—

  and there are

  some humans

  I need to t h a n k

  for disallowing my

  self-destruction.

  Or do they just
>
  think, Oh, G o d,

  I have to try, try again.

  When I get into bed

  I think maybe

  I won’t try

  not right now anyway.

  Instead

  I call Angel

  first thing in the morning

  because

  there has to be

  a better way

  to deal

  with being me

  and that

  other option

  will always

  exist

  if I need it.

  We Meet Down at Mono Cove

  Waves crash

  sea spray

  and

  I come out

  into sunshine

  that almost hurts

  my eyes.

  We walk.

  I talk.

  Angel listens.

  I tell her about that night.

  “I don’t know why I did it.”

  And I don’t, not for sure.

  “Maybe I thought

  the sound of breaking glass

  would drown out

  that word?”

  She nods.

  “Uncool,” she says.

  “But I think I understand.”

  Pauses.

  “You got freaked

  figuring out

  you’re genderqueer.”

  And even though

  Angel says it quiet

  the new word

  bounces off the bluff

  soft round sound

  for such sharp edges.

  Queerbait.

  Queer as a three-dollar bill.

  Smear the queer.

  I consider

  in silence.

  Genderqueer.

  The way

  she says it

  doesn’t feel

  like a put-down.

  I slip it on over my head

  stretch around

  feel it on my skin

  not male

  not female.

  A gull wheels by,

  swoops down,

  pecks in the

  tangled

  seaweed.

  It reminds me of

  the grabby women

  at the bra-and-panty table

  in Girl World.

  “I have no idea where I fit in.”

  She smiles. “You think

  you’re the only one?”

  “I’m just not … flamboyant.”

  “Shit, it’s not about

  how you dress—it’s

  not even about your body parts.

  Uh-uh—it’s about your soul.”

  Maybe, maybe not.

  My voice

  is small in my ears.

  “I’ll feel like Freakboy

  no matter where I go.”

  She stops walking,

  looks me in the eye.

  “Everyone feels like a freak

  until they make up their mind

  they’re not.”

  It’s full confession time.

  “I read about people who’ve known

  forever they belong in a different body,

  “but I’m not even always sure I’m trans.

  “Sometimes, being a guy is … not horrible.”

  My shrug tightens,

  my shoulders go round.

  “Sometimes, it hurts more than anything.”

  A tortuous

  back and forth.

  “What’s it even mean

  that I’m never sure

  either way?”

  And really.

  How can

  you ever

  get a grip

  on THAT?

  “Lord knows,

  we don’t need

  more labels,” she says.

  But then

  she gives me

  two words

  that push

  the

  pieces

  of

  the

  puzzle together.

  “Gender Fluid”

  I study the phrase.

  My soul a vapor

  wafting

  wafting

  between male

  and female.

  I am

  everything

  and

  nothing

  but moist breath and soul.

  We sit in the sand

  backs against

  the bluff

  quiet

  for a moment

  just watching the waves

  until a couple

  one man

  one woman

  walk by us,

  holding hands,

  at ease.

  Vapor condenses

  falls to earth. Heavy.

  “I just can’t imagine what

  my future could possibly look like.”

  “Only God knows what’s in store!

  You could win the lottery or

  get hit by a bus.”

  In spite of me

  I almost smile.

  “I’d rather win the lottery.”

  “Only one thing’s for sure,”

  she says. “You will never,

  EVER

  beat me

  at Mordock’s Giant.”

  And now I do smile.

  A small thing

  that feels good.

  (Vanessa)

  Teacher In-Service Day

  means no school

  but Brendan’s not home.

  “Would you like to come in though?”

  his mom asks me.

  She gestures on a cloud

  of light perfume that

  Grand-maman would appreciate.

  I think of the way

  Mrs. Chase traded in

  one husband for another

  and I realize

  that Grand-maman’s little lessons

  are all about how to get a guy

  but not about how to have a relationship

  with anyone.

  Even yourself.

  Waiting Around

  is not what I do best,

  but I think

  about Brendan

  all alone.

  He needs a friend.

  I need a friend.

  It’s worth some time

  with his mom.

  Everything looks like

  it did weeks ago.

  I sit on the same old sofa—

  she offers the same old soda.

  “We’ve missed you,”

  she says.

  The same old grandfather clock

  ticks away the awkward minutes

  but it all somehow feels different.

  “I’ve been busy with

  wrestling.”

  “Oh, of course! I’m just

  glad to see you.

  Brendan’s seemed a little

  down lately.”

  She’s looking at me

  with some expectation

  in her eyes, like I can

  tell her what’s going on with him.

  But I can’t.

  And I’m feeling weirded out,

  so I make small talk

  until I can politely leave.

  At the door,

  she surprises me

  with a hug.

  “I’m glad you came by—

  Brendan needs his friends.”

  I head to my car

  thinking that

  of all the things

  I’m good at,

  wrestling,

  ceramics,

  even school,

  being a friend

  is not what I do best.

  Not to Brendan.

  Not to Julie.

  Not to Tanya.

  But I’m willing

  to work on it.

  With all of them.

  (Angel)

  We Go Back to Brendan’s

  and his girlfriend’s

  just comin’ down the wa
lk.

  He seems surprised to see her.

  “Vanessa!”

  We just stand there

  looking at each other,

  till he remembers his manners.

  “This is Angel.”

  We shake hands

  like we’re old people.

  “Courtney’s new babysitter?”

  Her voice has an edge to it.

  Brendan looks to me

  for a second

  like he wants to lie

  but he straightens his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  She nods once

  turns to get in the car.

  Brendan’s face is so sad …

  these two need to talk.

  I was supposed to go in with him

  get a game he was tellin’ me about

  but it can wait.

  “I better get going.

  I have a big date

  with my boyfriend, Marcus,” I say.

  Brendan’s look,

  pure gratitude

  sunshine.

  I Take the Bus to Willows

  My heart starts beating

  when I see Dr. M’s in her office.

  “You got a minute?” I ask.

  She smiles, gestures me in.

  It’s warm today

  and her blazer’s slung

  on the back of the chair. Even so,

  she looks totally professional.

  Someone you can look up to.

  “I have an ethical dilemma,” I say,

  and she raises her eyebrows.

  I tell her about

  the first time I met Brendan

  when he got sick in the planter.

  And she looks serious

  when I tell her about how

  he came into Willows

  a few weeks later,

  how I didn’t think he’d come back,

  and how I gave him my number again.

  I tell her about going to his house,

  borrowing his PS2.

  I tell her about everything

  except the window

  because Brendan’s

  paying for it

  and I’ve pretty much

  decided it’s

  his to tell.

  I’m hoping

  one day

  he just might.

  When I’ve finished talking

  she leans back in her chair,

  still looking serious.

  “The fact that he

  technically wasn’t a client

  does make this a gray area.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But you’re correct

  in thinking that there’s an

  ethical problem here,” she says.

  And my heart sinks.

  “There are good reasons

  for the no-fraternization policy.

  Our kids can be fragile—

  an unscrupulous person

  could take advantage.”

  Dr. M’s chair creaks

  when she leans toward me.

  “But I know you, Angel.

  “You’re not unscrupulous

  just unschooled. The fact you

  brought this to my attention

  tells me you’ve learned enough

  that it won’t happen again.”

 

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