Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  Eventually, the apartments become smaller until there’s a series of bodegas and bars with rainbow Pride flags hanging on their doors, and the fenced-off campus with its hedges and trees appears. St. Catherine’s is affiliated with an arts college that takes up four blocks on its own, but we get a private building in the corner of the campus near the parking lot. We’ve got about one hundred students, all enrolled on talent, wealth, or both. Most people in my grade do the summer program to work on their portfolios for their college applications, and I need as much help on my portfolio as I can get. I don’t even know what my portfolio’s theme is going to be yet, while everyone else is almost halfway finished. Brown has one of the lowest acceptance rates in the country, and I have to get in—need to get that scholarship if I want to attend. Sure, there’re other good art colleges, and I’m applying to a bunch of them, too, but I don’t know . . . I want to prove, I guess, that I’m good enough for a school like Brown.

  The St. Catherine’s building is old-school red brick with giant modern black-glass windows. Ezra and I get to the parking lot where a bunch of other students are hanging out in the shade of the trees. We automatically walk up to Marisol, who’s leaning up against the building’s brick wall as she talks to Leah, smoking next to the No Smoking within 25 Feet sign. I hate that I still can’t meet Marisol’s eye. She always has a steely gaze, hair and makeup and nails perfect, haughty smirk tugging on the edge of her lips. There’re some people who’re careful to only show the part of themselves they want others to see. I know that there are other sides to Marisol. She just never shows them to me.

  “God, I need about another five hours of sleep,” Marisol says, offering her cigarette to Ezra. “Why the hell is this program so early?”

  Ezra taps ash off the end of the cigarette. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I saw a study,” Leah says, “that says it’s really unhealthy to force teenagers to wake up at, like, seven in the morning. Something about our biological internal clocks.”

  “Think we should make an official complaint to the dean?” Ezra says. “We could start a protest.”

  “A sit-in,” Leah offers, “until classes begin at noon.”

  Marisol snorts, playing with the ends of her thick, curled hair. “Tell me how it goes.”

  They keep talking, but I can feel myself getting too wrapped up in my head to pay attention. When I first met Marisol in class, I’d been impressed by her—and intimidated. There was something . . . I don’t know, intoxicating about her confidence. Marisol knows that she’s beautiful and talented and intelligent. She doesn’t question if she’s worthy of respect and love. When I asked her out last summer, just a couple of months after my top surgery, I was still getting used to my new body, feeling a little insecure with all the stares I would get, people clearly confused about my gender . . . and I guess I hoped some of Marisol’s confidence would rub off on me.

  Marisol had shrugged. “Sure,” she said, like it was no big deal—and maybe it wasn’t to her. She’d gone on dates before, but this was my first time. The three dates we attempted were awkward as fuck. We just couldn’t figure out what to talk about without Ezra there as a middleman, and I could tell Marisol was bored with me, staring off into space as I talked to her about my acrylic techniques. I can’t blame her for being bored—I was nervous, babbling, desperate to fill the silence. Finally, on the third date as we sat at Starbucks, Marisol suddenly said, “You know, I haven’t been able to put my finger on why I’m not interested in you, but I think I understand now. In the end, I just don’t think I can date a misogynist.”

  I’d startled, fear clutching my heart. I was worried I’d done or said something sexist without realizing it. “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Then, “Why am I a misogynist?”

  “Well,” she said, “you deciding to be a guy instead of a girl feels inherently misogynistic.” She told me, “You can’t be a feminist and decide you don’t want to be a woman anymore.”

  Fear turned to shock, then anger, then shame. “Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. We told each other goodbye, and we haven’t spoken about that day since. I kept what she said to myself. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone else. And a part of me—a splinter in my chest—was, and still is, worried that she might be right. It’s ironic, I guess. I wanted to date her so that I could prove I’m worthy of love. Instead, she managed to solidify this slowly growing theory that I’m not.

  “I’ll be in the classroom,” I say, but Ezra doesn’t hear me, still wrapped up in the conversation with Marisol, which has now rapidly switched to whether Hazel and James are hooking up in the supply closet (Leah is positive that they are). Ezra can never pass up a good piece of drama, and since he doesn’t know what Marisol said to me, the two still hang out all the time.

  I walk in through the sliding glass doors and into the blast of AC (seriously, why is the AC always on level infinity in the summer?) and make it about three steps across the white tile before I look up.

  There’s a gallery on the lobby walls. There are always student art installations in the lobby during the school year, so I’m not really surprised. What does surprise me are the images. Photos blown up to about 16 x 16.

  Photos from my Instagram.

  Photos of who I used to be.

  Long hair. Dresses. Pictures of me with these forced smiles. Expressions showing just how uncomfortable I always felt. The physical pain is strained across my face in those photos.

  That discomfort is nothing compared to now.

  I can’t fucking breathe.

  I walk up to one slowly, blinking to clear my eyesight, like I’m not sure if this is even real. A placard underneath has a title with my deadname and the photo’s year. What the fuck? What the actual, holy fuck? These were pictures that I’d hidden on my Instagram. Who the hell did this? How the fuck did they get into my account?

  I reach up, trying to unhook the framed photo in front of me. I can’t even look at it without my stomach twisting, and it’s embarrassing, but I can feel hot tears coming—I’m too short, can’t reach it, and there are seven others that need to be taken down, too—

  The door opens, and over my shoulder I can see a few students walking in, stopping for a second to stare, confused, before—thank God—they keep moving—

  “Felix?”

  I turn, and Ezra comes in after me. He mouths the words what the hell as he stares around. “Is—is that you?” he asks.

  “No, it’s not fucking me,” I say, louder than I mean to.

  He locks eyes with me, realizing his mistake. “Shit—sorry, no, I know it’s not you.”

  Without another word he marches over and reaches above me, grabbing the frame and pulling it off the hook to take it down. He hurries to the next one, and I sink to the floor, sitting with my back against the wall, watching him. A few students—I think they’re in sculpture—walk in, glancing at the photos and then at me.

  “Keep it fucking moving,” Ezra barks, and they jump before hurrying down the hall. He moves faster and faster so that he’s flat-out running from one frame to the next, until all the images are down. He picks the frames up together at once, looking around for a place to trash them, then hides the photos behind the empty security desk. The guard doesn’t come during the summertime. Whoever put up the gallery must’ve been waiting for this moment.

  I shut my eyes and pull my knees up to my chest. I can feel Ezra sitting down beside me, the rustle of his T-shirt against my arm—his hand, unsure, on my shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice low.

  I shake my head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “You need me to take you to the bathroom?”

  I shake my head again. “No. Just—don’t talk for a second. Let me . . .”

  We sit there. I don’t know for how long. More sounds of sliding glass doors, voices and footsteps. Someone calls out, asking Ezra if I’m all right, and he doesn’t say anything, but from his body shift
ing beside me, I think he might be waving them on.

  “I don’t think too many people saw,” he whispers to me, hand rubbing my shoulder. Instead of throwing up, a wave of pain hits me, and I hunch forward. The urge to scream is deep in my chest. He rubs my back. The bell rings, and we stay exactly where we are.

  I open my eyes with a breath and let the back of my head rest against the wall. Ezra watches me, worry and concern all over his face, eyebrows pinched together. He swallows, hard.

  When I feel like I can talk again, I tell him, “I just want to know who the hell it was.”

  He shakes his head. “I mean—who would’ve even known?”

  A lot of people, I think. I’m not exactly stealth. I don’t hide my scars from my top surgery, and it’s come up in conversation enough times that I’m pretty sure everyone is fully aware. . . . But that’s also never been a problem before. I thought no one gave a shit.

  “I think everyone knows I’m trans,” I tell Ezra.

  “No, I mean—” He hesitates. “Who would’ve known your . . . old name?” he asks. “Or even where to get these photos?”

  I have no idea. Not even Ezra knew my birthname. The realization that he does now sends another stab of pain through me. I start hunching forward again, but he turns to face me, both hands on my shoulders.

  “Hey,” he said. “Look at me. I’ve got you, all right? We’ll figure out who this piece of shit is and get them kicked the fuck out of St. Catherine’s. All right?”

  I’m nodding, trying not to cry. Ezra pulls me into a hug, bone-crushingly tight, and he doesn’t let go, not for a solid ten seconds. When he pulls away, I’m wiping my eyes.

  “What do you want to do?” he asks. “Should we tell a teacher or something?”

  I roll my eyes. “They won’t do shit.”

  “Do you want to go back to my place?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t want whoever did this to know they got to me.” They’re probably in class right now, sitting on the edge of their seat, waiting to hear that I ran out of the building sobbing.

  Ezra nods. He stands and pulls me to my feet. We stop off at the bathroom so that I can splash water on my face and wait until my eyes aren’t so red.

  “It could’ve been literally anyone,” I tell him as we walk out the doors and down the hall to our first class in acrylics.

  “God, how did they even—I don’t know, get that gallery approved?”

  “I don’t think it was. No security guard. No teachers around. They must’ve snuck the picture frames up early this morning when no one was here.”

  “Who the fuck would go through all of that trouble?”

  “I don’t fucking know, Ezra.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just—it’s hard to believe anyone would go out of their way to hurt you like that. Why? Why the hell would they do that?”

  “Anyone could be secretly transphobic—or maybe they just straight up don’t like me.”

  I try to say it flippantly, like I couldn’t care less either way, but my voice cracks, and I’m on the edge of tears all over again. I know I haven’t been alive long, and that for these seventeen years, I’ve had a pretty privileged life. I get pissed at my dad for his shitty mistakes, sure, and I still feel pretty fucked-up over the fact that my mom left me and my dad to start a new family—but I have a place to live and food to eat. I attend a private arts school, and I might be able to go to college. I’ve never known a pain like this before.

  I’m definitely feeling it now.

  I feel like I’ve been physically attacked. Like someone took control of who I am. Took that control away from me.

  Maybe Ezra’s right. Maybe I should just go back to his apartment.

  We walk into the acrylics class. It’s a maze of corkboard walls that lets us spread out to work, but first there’s always our daily check-in. The professor—she tells us all call her by her first name, Jill, to prove she’s cool and down-with-the-kids—spreads herself out on a pink, paint-splattered corduroy couch, while everyone else sits on their stools at the high metal tables that’re cramped together. Marisol sits in the back with Hazel and Leah, where Ezra and I always sit with them. Declan and his dumbass friends sit at the next table over.

  Ezra and I walk in while Jill’s in midsentence.

  “It’s about pushing yourself creatively, but knowing the craft, and using that craft as a tool,” she says, glancing at us, waving us inside. “Thanks for joining us.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ezra says, holding my hand as we walk through the room. A few heads turn, and there’re some whispers. Three guesses about what. We sit at our usual table. Leah leans over.

  “I heard what happened,” she says. “In the lobby.”

  “Stop,” Ezra says.

  “I just wanted to say I’m so, so sorry,” she tells me.

  “I said stop, Leah.”

  She sits back in her seat, staring forward.

  Jill gives us a brilliant smile. She’s a talented artist, but she’s kind of small and mousy and young for a teacher, maybe only twenty-five or something—I’m pretty sure this is her first job—and she always feels the need to prove her dominance as the professor. “Would you like to offer an explanation for your tardiness?” she asks.

  Declan, of course, decides to insert himself into the conversation. “Oh,” he says, leaning back in his stool, hands folded behind his head, “those two never have an explanation. You’re lucky they decided to show up at all.”

  I’m not in the mood. Really, really not in the mood. Ezra squeezes my hand.

  Declan clearly isn’t over what happened yesterday. He sits a little taller in his seat. “You know, Ms. Brody—”

  “Jill.”

  “Yes. Right. I think it’s unfair. They get to waltz in whenever they want, and there are no repercussions? What about everyone else who makes a point to get into class on time? To hand in their work on time?” You’d think that he would decide he made his point and finally shut up, but no—he keeps going. “It’s especially unfair if we’re applying to the same schools and scholarships.”

  “Yeah,” Ezra says sarcastically, “and what about the assholes who should mind their own fucking business? It’s not fair that we have to deal with their bullshit, either!”

  This gets a few scattered laughs. Jill clearly doesn’t know what to do, so she just lets us off with a warning, which leaves Declan glaring at me and Ezra as she continues her morning lecture.

  I pull out my phone, under the table, and open my Instagram. I click on each and every single one of the photos that’d been in the gallery, and I delete all the pictures. I was hoping that, with each press of the trash can, I’d feel a little less sick, but it doesn’t help. If anything, I’m pissed at myself for not doing this sooner—before someone somehow got into my account and stole them.

  I zone out. Acrylic is my favorite medium, but there’s no way I can concentrate, not right now. I stare around the classroom at all the students. Nasira pops bubble gum and stares forward with glazed-over eyes beside Austin, who texts beneath the table. Tyler flat-out sleeps with his head in his arms, and across the room, Elliott and Harper whisper to each other, Harper sneaking a look at me over her shoulder before turning to face forward again. There’re dozens of others who could’ve put up the gallery, but I can’t help but start to wonder if the asshole is in this room. My gaze lands on Declan. He catches me looking and rolls his eyes. His friend James leans closer to me.

  “Hey,” he says, “so your name’s really—?”

  He deadnames me. He might as well have punched me in the gut. Ezra tries to stand up, and I think he might actually walk over and hit James, so I grab his arm and shake my head at him. Not worth it. Ezra would get kicked out of St. Catherine’s for the school’s zero-tolerance policy on violence.

  James snorts and turns back to the front. Declan just keeps staring at me. That sneer still on his face.

  Declan. Declan fucking Keane.

  Is it just
a coincidence? The day after he calls me a fraud, there’s a gallery with my old photos, my old name? Would it really be that surprising, if he and his shitty friends figured out how to hack my social media accounts, printed out my pictures, and hung my photos up in the lobby?

  Jill lets us get started on our projects for the day. Ezra and I choose spots next to each other at a wall, canvas already stretched and prepped.

  “It was Declan,” I whisper to him.

  His eyes snap to mine. “What? How do you know?”

  “The way he was looking at me just now. And yesterday—he called me a fraud, remember?”

  “Yeah, but—” Ezra pauses. He turns back to the canvas and starts—unsurprisingly—squeezing black out of a tube. I start squirting red, orange, and yellow blobs.

  Ez lifts his brush. “I mean, it’s not like I’m defending him or anything, but that’s not really proof, is it? What if it isn’t him?”

  I know Ezra’s right—but I can’t explain this feeling I’ve got deep in my chest, wedged in there right next to the pain, which has become a dull ache—an ache I’m not sure will ever leave, not even twenty years from now, maybe not ever. Declan Keane did this. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “It’s him,” I say firmly. “I know it is. Who else would do something like that?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but—”

  I can already sense what he’s going to say. Maybe I’m just fixating on Declan because I need a place to put all this anger building in me. I know that’s what he’s thinking, so I cut him off.

  “It was him,” I say again.