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Overview
From the outside, Brendan Chase seems to have it pretty easy. He's a star wrestler, a video game aficionado, and a loving boyfriend to his seemingly perfect match, Vanessa. But on the inside, Brendan struggles to understand why his body feels so wrong—why he sometimes fantasizes having long hair, soft skin, and gentle curves. Is there even a name for guys like him? Guys who sometimes want to be girls? Or is Brendan just a freak?
In Freakboy's razor-sharp verse, Kristin Clark folds three narratives into one powerful story: Brendan trying to understand his sexual identity, Vanessa fighting to keep her and Brendan's relationship alive, and Angel struggling to confront her demons.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780374324735 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 03/26/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 448 |
| Sales rank: | 875,429 |
| Lexile: | HL700L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Kristin Elizabeth Clark always knew she wanted to be a writer. She began dabbling in haiku in the third grade – this "experimentation" turned out to be a gateway to the harder stuff: book-length verse. She lives and writes in Northern California where she has worked as a child advocate within the juvenile justice system, and as a children's theatre producer. She is a proud volunteer at Project Outlet in Mountain View, CA. Freakboy is her young adult debut.
Read an Excerpt
Freakboy
By Kristin Elizabeth Clark
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2013 Kristin Elizabeth ClarkAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-374-32473-5
CHAPTER 1
Pronoun
A pronoun is a ghost
of who you really are
short
sharp
harsh
whispering its presence,
taunting your soul.
In you
of you
but not
all you.
Struggling,
my own
He She
Him Her
I You.
Scared that
for scrambled-pronoun
Me,
We
might never
exist.
(BRENDAN CHASE)
The Name Is Brendan
Dinner table,
silverware gleaming.
Claude the Interloper finishes
telling a story.
Mom passes me steak.
"How was your day?"
She's chirping, despite
surgery two days ago.
I shrug
the missed bus,
shrug
the half-hour wait for the next one,
shrug
the wrestling practice that blew.
Don't bother to elaborate.
Mom hates Coach
(almost) as much as I do.
Freshman year
she wanted me to skip holiday practice
so what was left of our family
could go on vacation.
Coach described the importance of
"consistent training and conditioning."
Said he always mentioned "dedication"
in his college letters of recommendation.
She wavered and then
he told her flat out that
I was the weakest link
and always would be if I was a
mama's boy who'd miss training.
She was ticked, but
we stayed in town
with the other manly
and dedicated jocks.
He was on my ass today
for getting caught
by a head-and-arm drag.
A crappy thing itself,
our faces so close.
Still he yelled.
And through all the drills
my head wasn't in it.
Wrestling Didn't Always Suck
Miller Prep Academy
requires a six-term
commitment to
at least one sport
and at first
it seemed like
less torture
than the others.
No ball to get nailed by,
or drop. No baton to fumble
in the last leg of the relay,
pissing off your teammates.
Just you and
your opponent.
Grappling
one on one.
But four years
of relentless splat on the mat have
brought out a bunch of little hells
I'd never even considered
so that now
I hate touching other guys.
I hate my own body.
And most of all?
I hate Coach Childers.
He calls me Brenda.
I Know What He's Saying
But I like girls. Always have,
even in elementary school.
Sandbox dust in my nose,
jungle gym–blistered hands.
Hanging with the guys,
but glad when a girl'd
ask me
to
play
something.
Yeah, mostly the same games
when it came to
handball and foursquare.
But comfortable.
When you got hurt
girls'd ask
what
was
wrong.
Guys would ignore you,
call you names
when your eyes watered
at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.
If you couldn't stop the tears
they'd yank out more words,
like "crybaby" (or worse), to
hit
you
with.
And I loved the way girls wore their hair.
Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.
Loved the colors they strutted
across the yard: bright purple, pink.
Loved other things they played,
like animal hospital or house.
Loved the sound of their voices
when
they'd
call
to
me.
Still,
a shadow lurks
near the
edge
of
my
head
whispering,
"You like girls too much,
and not in
the same
way
everyone
else
does."
My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places
I twitch, gulp milk,
slam the glass back on the table.
A salad plate jumps.
Claude the Interloper frowns.
Mom winces.
Sister giggles.
"Hey, squirt," I say,
pinning girl-thoughts
to the mat and
gaining control
of my brain.
"Do you like my princess hat?"
She tilts her head toward me
like I might not otherwise
notice the pink cone,
its lace ribbon dangling
close to her mac and cheese.
I move the plate a little.
"So you're a princess now."
"No, Brendy, it's just
for Halloween!"
A gap toothed smile.
I was twelve
when she was born.
Everyone said we looked alike.
Mom's gray-blue eyes,
Dad's cheekbones.
But Courtney has it all over me
in the hair department—
hers thick, wavy, and long.
Mine straight, short, and,
I swear, already falling out.
Still, she's my favorite person
besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.
(Sounds lame, I know.)
I'm not religious; in fact
I'm not sure I even believe in God
(though we used to go
to church religiously [ha]),
but from the second Dad
put her
into my arms,
burrito-wrapped
in a little pink blanket,
innocent face
and tiny fingernails,
I saw Divine
attention to detail.
So small.
So perfect.
It's not a guy thing,
but I like babysitting.
Andy called her chick bait.
We used to push her stroller
to the park
and girls would wander over
to oooh
to ahhh.
When Courtney
took her first steps
toward me
Dad called me smitten.
Mom called me Little Mother.
That homey scene in eighth grade,
on my baby sister's first birthday.
Exactly one month before
Mom, the harp player, left
Dad, the biomedical engineer, for
Claude, the Interloper.
Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.
His orchestra's music
poison to my father's ear.
Dad's banished—2,000 miles away.
(Not that we hung out a ton
when he lived closer
but at least it was an option.)
Now he's president of a biotech firm,
seen only in summer
when Mom needs to dump us—
"Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!"—
so she can tour with
her new (and improved)
husband.
"Big plans tomorrow?"
she asks.
"Party at Andy's."
Claude the Interloper
raises an eyebrow.
He doesn't like Andy,
hates the way he just walks
into the house without knocking.
Thinks it's rude that Andy
checks out the food in our kitchen
when he's hungry
and maybe it is—
but I do the same thing at his house
and have since seventh grade,
a year before any of us were aware
of the Interloper's sorry existence.
"I wanted to ask if you'd
take Courtney
trick-or-treating first."
Don't mind the trick-or-treating
but I'm tortured by the reason
Mom's asking.
She's recovering from
"an enhancement procedure"
and SURPRISE she's sore.
Still, I avert my eyes
from her new shape
and nod yes.
"What are you going to be?"
Court asks.
Now there's a question
and a depressing memory.
The Night I Was a Girl
Last year sucked.
The whole wrestling team
went to school as cheerleaders.
No choice but to go along.
Shaved legs and everything,
we all did it—even Rudy and Gil.
They're team co-captains.
Jerk-asses, towel snappers,
the first to bend fingers
when the ref's on the blind side.
They told Vanessa,
"Brenda looks so natural
she must do this a lot."
(Angel Hansted)
Opportunity Knocks
The bus makes a lurching turn
and I'm tellin' you,
I'm thrown against
the hottest guy ever
to wear a Halloween-theme tie.
He has that slicked-back,
butter-on-hot-corn-wouldn't-melt-
in-my-mouth, don't-touch-me-I'm-cool
look—but doesn't lean away
not at first.
I can tell he's checking me out
but isn't gonna be obvious.
What's the point in being so shy, I
wanna ask him. Get bold.
"Opportunity curves"
is what I say instead. He grins at me
for a second—then eyebrows raise.
He gets up and changes seats.
The smile
(it wasn't so
hot after all)
leaves when he clocks me.
I mostly pass—but
I've been made enough times to
know the exact second it happens.
And I just wanna say to Mr. Corn-hole
mouth, "Your loss."
My stop's next, anyway.
Toss my head, get off
at Evergreen Community College.
Got my GED here.
I tell you now
classes are a habit.
Finish my degree
(social work major),
then it's off to difference-making
full-time employment
for Angel.
Maybe I can change up some things.
Someone's gotta do it.
Someone like me, I mean.
Someone who knows simple basics.
You wanna assign roommates
in group homes based on birth sex assignment?
Go ahead, idiot.
Make it easy for thugs to
S m e a r
the Queer.
Three Years Ago
My first day at Evergreen
I was ready for flight OR fight.
Out of the baking August parking lot
and into Admissions. I tell you—
my foster mom hadn't of been there
I mighta shot back through the door
like some kind of Olympic runner.
Stood at the end of the line,
freezing in my fuchsia tank top,
turquoise skirt, strappy gold sandals.
Girl, that building was icy but
the papers I held were floppy,
my hands sweatin' so bad.
Finally my turn. Big crabby-looking guy
with beady eyes called, "Next."
I went up to his window,
handed him my application.
He looked it over, looked at me,
and he
frowned.
People get uptight
when your ID
calls out a gender
different than what you present.
My foster mom touched my elbow
soft — lettin' me know she was there.
Still, my back was up when
Beady Eyes stepped away
to get a supervisor, muttering,
"Right name, wrong gender."
And I'd heard it before—
but God was with me that day.
Beady Eyes's supervisor
came to the window.
"You're Angel?" Adjusted her
glasses. Looked over them.
At me.
I nodded,
stretched my neck,
made sure my
courtesy-of-a-sadistic-
pervert-john
collarbone scars
showed.
Not afraid of this.
Ready to lay me down some attitude.
"We're admitting you today
but you might want
to get new state identification.
"You need a note
from your doctor and
signed by a witness,
the identification you have now,
and a special form, DL 328.
"Then your information
will match you better."
That sweet little old lady
winked at me
and I almost fell over.
Now every time
I pull out my ID
F for Female
feels like T for Triumph.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Freakboy by Kristin Elizabeth Clark. Copyright © 2013 Kristin Elizabeth Clark. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
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