It’s all about me, boy. I am the boy. I wear my cap turned backwards, I rollerskate into school and do my homework during class. Nobody got nothin’ on me, and I don’t got nothin’ on nobody; why would I? It’s all about me, after all.
“Yo, sup?” the babe Molly asks, running around me trying to get a piece of this boy. I am the boy. “I’m so into you, boy, how do you got anything so good for me I don’t know, it just happened.”
“That is what I say, and I never believe it for a second,” I say, hopping on my longboard with my rollerskates and double-grinding down the rails. I sweep by so fast, so fresh, so cool she can’t even see me being gone before I am.
I hear her giving a “Wowee!” and that’s all I know to be true, because that’s essentially the life I live, the life that’s all about me, boy.
Sittin’ down on the floor in my house, lookin’ at the TV, is the thing that is happening to me as I watch the cartoons that are so mysteriously precious to me. I really like’em, it’s all I can say, and that’s all I have to say on the matter anyway.
“So fresh, so cool,” my mom says. She’s lookin’ at me, not the TV, though the TV is certainly so fresh, so cool. She’s givin’ me a peanut butter sandwich since it’s afterschool, after cool, but before supper. I’m munchin’ on it.
“Who said it’s all about you, boy?” My younger sister cries. She seems upset and jealous that it isn’t all about her, but I know underneath that surface of hers that she’s really just saying, “I wish it was even more all about you, boy.” That is something I could get behind.
I rollerskate up the stairs, down straight into the heaven of my bedroom, through the hallway. I match the skidmarks on the wall from the last time I wall-jumped with my rollerskates on and rode all the way into the room, and I match them perfectly.
“Darn tootin’ straight!” My best friend Jamal tells me, already in the room, playing a video game that is not only so fresh, nor is it only so cool, but it beats the heck outta school and is nobody’s fool. I sit on the rad purple beanbag in front of the video game console system outlet visual receptor known as a TV and I just jam out on my air guitar. Jamal shakes his head with some pretty enthusiastic nods. We’re both feeling the music, even through the air, because it’s really all about me, boy. You flyin’ with this?
Because I’m flyin’ with this. I feel great, I look great, I rollerskate great. It’s basically the only life I really need, and it’s the only life I really want. It’s perfect and fun and I can blade around the place like nobody’s business, dancing in the wheels and seein’ my mom all happy at me. Very enjoyable, I think.
Back at the school, and Molly’s still there, just waiting for me and trying to be all happy for me because she doesn’t understand the degree to which she’s into me. “I don’t understand the degree to which I’m into you,” she says. “It doesn’t make sense, boy, but I know that I don’t care.”
“Rad,” I say.
“Take me to the school dance next week,” Molly says. I’m already laughing before she finishes the sentence, and she gets all puffy and mad, like I’m doin’ something wrong. I’m not. “What’s so bad about a dance? Are you too rad to jab a fad and nab a dance to put me in a trance?” she asks.
I’m just here shrugging, rollerskating in a circle around her. “I can’t say I’m not too rad at all.” I do a couple flips and a spin. “But you know it’s all about me, boy, and that’s all it’s gonna get. It being life. What a relief.”
I should just be glad she’s still so into me, because dang Molly’s so fresh so cool, beats the heck outta school, ain’t nobody’s fool, the farthest thing away from a tool, wearin’ her wool.
I should just be glad, but I’m still lying here in bed, groggy and my head on my pillow. And right now is when you realize I’m just a metaphor for a transgender kid’s fantasies, and it’s really not all about me, boy. I wish I was the boy. I’m just not. And I cry.