Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
the nastier Coach gets
(a real motivator).
He's working
the team,
working me,
harder than
ever before.
(I'd like to see him
do a hundred push-ups
after rope climbing.)
          Training lasts
          three hours now
          and I hear his voice
          in my sleep,
          what little I get,
          because after practice,
          it's home to homework
          till one or two (and I'm down
          to a B in AP History),
          then gaming for an hour to relax
          and when I close my eyes
          I see a river stone
          sail through a window
          and that word gets loud.
My Insides Are Roiling
A concert tonight
means leaving practice early.
Coach didn't say anything
when I first told him
but that was two hours agoâ
steam's had time to build,
and sure enough, he follows me
when I leave the wet heat
of the wrestling room.
Outside, the cool air
feels like an attack.
            “Remind me why you're leaving,
            when the rest of the team is
            in there working their asses off?”
            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 wallpaperâ
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.
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