Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
I've been doing it
on the fifteenth of every month
ever since.
I put the pancakes
on her desk and
we settle
into her nest
of quilts and pillows
kissing
touching.
I want to beg,
When can we do it again?
I want to feel THAT.
Want to be with you.
I'm out of my head
and into someone else's.
I feel like a normal guy, so
maybe I'm NOT trans, right?
Right?
(Vanessa)
Things Look Different
feel different
to me.
Some have more meaning:
            Brendan waiting for me
            outside the locker room.
            Our fingers intertwining
            when we walk up the stairs.
            The sense that we're facing
            the day, the world together.
Others have less:
            Mr. Mixed-Message Mathews
            showing off the piece I just made,
            a plate of singing blues, screaming reds
            fired in low heat to retain the
            vibrant colors that pale
            next to the best parts of
Brendan and me together,
our souls.
I'm Bothering Julie
and today she's
the one trying to focus
on the clay in her hands,
centering it on the wheel.
I'm just playing
with a blob,
rolling it with
my dry fingers
making a sphere,
then squishing it.
Sphere
squish.
I want to tell her,
want to tell Tanya,
but not here.
Sphere
squish.
“What are you doing tonight?”
I ask.
            “Tanya and I have
            our Spanish project.”
“Are you guys working
at your house?”
            A shrug. “I'm not sure.”
“Let me knowâ
I'll stop byâbring you guys
a snack.”
            “No thanks.” She looks up
            at me. “We still have gingerbread
            from YESTERDAY.”
Shit.
Yesterday, the Sunday
after Thanksgiving,
we were supposed to
make gingerbread houses,
yet another tradition with us.
I can't believe I forgot.
“Oh my God! I am so sorry!
Why didn't you call me?”
                          She flips the table switch to Off.
                          “We figured if you wanted to
                          be there, you would be.”
10 Hours Later
I stand in the doorway of Julie's room,
a box of powdered donuts
in one hand, a huge bottle of Dr Pepper
in the other.
I'm here to beg forgiveness â¦
and to tell them about
Thursday night.
It's not just that I want to blab
that Brendan and I did it,
best friends tell each other stuff,
right?
But Julie's the only one here,
sitting on her bed,
giving herself a pedicure.
Not a Spanish book in sight.
And she won't look at me.
Deep forest green
slicks off the brush
and onto her nails
deliberate, slow.
I put my peace offering
down on her desk.
“Where's Tanya?”
            “She already left.”
“Look, I am so sorryâ”
            Julie interrupts.
            “Tanya and I like you
            and we like Brendan,
            but we don't like you together.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
My hands are fists.
              “You're so different around him,
              always agreeing with everything he says
              like you don't have your own opinions
              âand we never see you
              when you're not with him.”
“That's not true.”
God, I can't believe her!
“I'm here right now, aren't I?”
            “Because he's busy, right?”
            Julie puts the lid on the polish,
            clinks the bottle on her desk.
            A bossy, decisive sound.
“No.” A twinge at the lie.
            “It's all Brendan this and Brendan that!
            We used to think it was because
            you'd just started going out
            but it's been over a year!”
            Adjusts cotton between her toes.
            No smeared pedi here.
            “You're worse than ever
            and, no offense, we're sick of it!”
They talk behind my back?
What bitches!
My eyes narrow
at her green toes.
“That's a perfect color for you!
You're just jealous!”
I slam out
of her room.
Her mom looks up from her computer
when I rush through the family room
on my way out. But I don't bother
to say goodbye.
Julie doesn't come after me
doesn't even call my name.
Driving away,
tears
behind my eyes,
a tightness
in my throat.
I tell myself
over and over
I don't need Julie OR Tanyaâ
I have Brendan.
(BRENDAN)
Busy Schedules
mean rare family dinners
but tonight the candles are lit
and the table is set.
And if I needed
to be reminded
of how lucky I am
that there's not more
together time for us
I'd look no farther
than the other end of the table
where Claude the Interloper
sitsâranting.
        “⦠and I told Twinkletoes that
        if he had issues with
        my conducting he should
        bring them to me, damn it!”
My mother, seated to his right,
makes a soothing sound.
Across from Mom,
Courtney plays with
the food on her plate.
Lining up short noodles,
oblivious to the Interloper's
crappy idea
of dinnertime conversation.
We've been treated
to this topic,
          this opinion
before.
A year ago, Simon Adderly,
spiffy new first violinist,
turned out to be a
“special friend” of Viktor Jensen,
the orchestra's executive director.
And now whenever Simon
has questions about anythingâ
say the tempo
for some piece of music,
the Interloper comes home and
explodes into tirades
about this “light in the loafers” guy.
(And people in the arts
are supposed to be more enlightened?
Another stereotype bites the dust.)
          “There's no way he'd be
          bringing it up at all
          if he wasn't
          Viktor's little boyfriend!”
The real problem
isn't that a lowly musician
expresses his thoughts about music to
the “great maestro.”
It's that he's gay
when he does it.
Claude the Interloper, great
conductor of the philharmonic,
stabs his food with energy
that would make
a serial killer's mom proud.
                    “Who the hell
                    does that little fag
                    think he is?”
The f word is going too far.
Mom touches his hand,
nods toward Court.
                    “Sweetie, that's enough,”
                    she says.
Tamed
(by her new breasts?)
he shuts up.
It dawns on me that
if he knew about Willows
my mother's husband
might actually, secretly
approve of my vandalism.
I eat my salmon
and try not
to think about it.
Saturday's Tournament
My lucky day.
In the second match
I pinned the champ,
Bechert from Hanover Academy.
A way better wrestler
(great defense, killer offenseâ
seriously painful)
who made a dumb mistake.
I went on to finals
while he languished
in the consolation rounds.
I won second,
he took fourth,
and his eyes were daggers
when I got the medal.
Riding the yellow bus
back to school,
Vanessa curled against me,
feels like another lucky win
(maybe undeserved?).
Teammates drowse away
various injuries.
Singlets stiff
dried sweat
BO, stringy hair.
Vanessa touches
her second-place
medal for 103
to my second-place
medal for 152.
“Twins.” She smiles.
There's a red lumpy mouse
of a bruise over my eye
which by tomorrow will be
swollen shut,
a monster face.
“You'd better hope not,
this thing's gonna be ugly,”
I say.
She laughs, low,
kisses me.
Even as I kiss her back,
a little tongue,
I wonder for a second
what it would be like
to have
that smooth cheek,
long hair.
But it doesn't mean anything.
Now that we're doing it
I'm better.
That word is quiet.
Flannigan, the thirty-five pounder,
pops his head over the seat.
                    “Get a room, Casanova.”
Vanessa flips him off
but she's laughing.
                    “Drive you home?”
                    she asks me.
“You know it,” I say.
It takes a long time
to get to my house
from a meet
with a detour down to
Mono Coveâ
its nickname earned
through the years,
a place to catch
the kissing disease.
Bluff hidden
private
tucked away
tiny beach
salt-air smell
in our noses
surf pounding
in our ears
aching bodies
come to comfort.
Questions slide back
                                the waves
                                          at low tide.
I love the feeling
just afterward, too.
Nuzzling love
soft whispers
quiet jokes.
I wish more
than anything (almost)
we could go to sleep
and wake up
the next day
together.
Because Going Home Is Such a Ride
Rain-painted headlights
sweep past in the mist,
I stare at them
to avoid looking
at Willows
when we
go by.
I'm better
in my body
but guilty
in my brain
of taking
my freak
out on them.
And I know
I need to
do something
to soothe my mind,
my conscience.
Sunday Night at Andy's House
                    “You guys doin' it?”
                    His question out of nowhere.
My thumbs stab the controller.
“None of your business.”
                    “Oh, Dude! That means
                    you're not,” he says. Laughs.
The weird thing is that evasion
might have been the case.    Before.
I might've even implied
doing the deed.                    Before.
It's different now.
This connection,
more than physical,
makes me careful.
I'm protecting her,
protecting us
protecting We.
I raise my eyebrows,
shrug, as if to say,
“What can I do, she won't put out?”
I'm very manly.
Online Before Bed
I feel even manlier
when I
figure out
a way to
make it up
to Willows.
To that girl.
I discover
the cost
of replacing a window
that size
equals
half my allowance
for the next
five months.
I'll send money
every week
till then.
And the final payment
will    wipe
                    my      conscience    clean.