Freakboy (12 page)

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.

The 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,