Freakboy by Kristin Elizabeth Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

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:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Brendan waiting for me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  outside the locker room.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Our fingers intertwining
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  when we walk up the stairs.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The sense that we’re facing
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  the day, the world together.
    Others have less:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Mr. Mixed-Message Mathews
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  showing off the piece I just made,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  a plate of singing blues, screaming reds
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  fired in low heat to retain the
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  vibrant colors that pale
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  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.
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight?”
    I ask.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Tanya and I have
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  our Spanish project.”
    â€œAre you guys working
    at your house?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â A shrug. “I’m not sure.”
    â€œLet me know—
    I’ll stop by—bring you guys
    a snack.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œNo thanks.” She looks up
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â at me. “We still have gingerbread
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 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.
    â€œOh my God! I am so sorry!
    Why didn’t you call me?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â She flips the table switch to Off.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œWe figured if you wanted to
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 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 …
    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.
    â€œWhere’s Tanya?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  “She already left.”
    â€œLook, I am so sorry—”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Julie interrupts.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Tanya and I like