Freakboy by Kristin Elizabeth Clark Page A

wasn’t
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  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.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œWho the hell
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â does that little fag
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â think he is?”
    The f word is going too far.
    Mom touches his hand,
    nods toward Court.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œSweetie, that’s enough,”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 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 offense—
    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.
    â€œTwins.” She smiles.
    There’s a red lumpy mouse
    of a bruise over my eye
    which by tomorrow will be
    swollen shut,
    a monster face.
    â€œYou’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.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œGet a room, Casanova.”
    Vanessa flips him off
    but she’s laughing.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œDrive you home?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â she asks me.
    â€œYou know it,” I say.
    It takes a long time
    to get to my house
    from a meet
    with a detour down to
    Mono Cove—
    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
    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 Â Â Â Â Â the waves
    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 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 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