Free Choir Boy by Unknown Author Page A

and surplice to cover them, Berry thought everybody must be able to see his buds. On Sundays, he had to walk upright and tilt his chest slightly. He looked up at the cathedral’s ceiling fans as he marched into church. His music folder didn’t cover anything. Everyone in church must be staring at Berry’s chest. The thought sickened and thrilled him. Berry felt hazy, pee-blinded and alarmed, like the night he’d drunk a three-liter Coke before bedtime.
    Finally he had to ask Wilson, after a service where he’d hardly been able to read notes. “I gotta know. Has anyone noticed?” They leaned against the cathedral wall watching for Lisa. Berry’s question came in the middle of Wilson’s lecture about NASCAR.
    “Noticed what?” Wilson scratched his head.
    “Nothing.” Berry grinned like a puppy.
    “Yes, Berry, we’ve all noticed you’re a retard. Anyway, the point is full-face helmets are for wusses.”
    One day after school, Berry didn’t have choir practice or a session with one of his two therapists. He met Maura at a juice bar downtown. She perched on a stool, pastel clad like the world’s smoothest virgin pina colada. Berry wondered if Maura ever got sick of people looking at her, or whether it would bug her if they stopped.
    “You keep hugging yourself and bowing like a chilly geisha,” Maura said. “Are you all right?”
    “Side effects. Dizzy. Plus, umm . . . these spook me.” Berry unfolded his arms and straightened enough to show contours.
    “Trust me, nobody will notice unless they get way bigger. Maybe not even then. People don’t see what they don’t expect. And you can always bind them—get bandages at the drug store. I’ve known trannies who hid breasts C cup and over. And once you look female enough, you can go stealth. Most folks aren’t used to wondering if somebody’s what they seem, so as long as no alarm bells go off, you’re fine.”
    “Do you think truth is beauty?” Berry was studying Keats for Rat’s class. “I think you have to believe in the beauty of truth if you present a game show, even more than you have to treasure the prizes and getaways.”
    Maura just shrugged.
    “I just can’t keep track of who people think I am any more.” Berry slurped his banana-mango smoothie. “Marsha at the Benjamin Clinic thinks I’m a ho.”
    “What would be wrong with that?” Maura suddenly sounded upset. It was the first time Berry had seen her anything but breezy.
    “What? What did I say? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings ... What’s wrong?” Panic opened Berry’s arms wide, spilled his secrets into his shirt.
    Maura laughed.
    “I guess I’m still kind of defensive about it. But seriously, didn’t you ever wonder what I did for a living?”
    “I thought you were a student.”
    “I go to Hoochie Mama U. I learn on the job,” Maura giggled. “Seriously, I like my job. It’s nice to be appreciated for being different, instead of hated. And I get to meet interesting people and fuck them.” She gave a too-much-infor-mation laugh and tilted her styrofoam cup to let the obstinate clump at the bottom slide down her long, canted neck,
    • • •
    “Show me what you got,” Marco ordered Berry the next afternoon. “I never hear you sing anymore.”
    Berry had his back to Marco, who sat on the couch with his legs spread and his shirt half open. A Roiling Rock sweated in his hand.
    Marco sang, in the shower, along with TV commercials before he broke the TV, when he drove Judy’s car, and when he summoned spirits for a client. In the right light, Marco could look like an Italian tenor. He swore his voice had sparkled once. Now it grumbled like a deep fat fryer.
    “You never come to church,” Berry told the mandala on the wall.
    “Fuck church. I wouldn’t be able to tell anything from hearing a million people singing,” Marco said. “I want to hear your voice by itself.”
    “I don’t feel like singing,” Berry mumbled.
    “Aw, come on. Anything