Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  “Okay,” Ezra says. “First of all, I don’t know if you need to prove anything to anyone. Places like Brown and the other Ivy Leagues—they boil your worth down to a bunch of bullshit. You’re not your grades. You’re not your test scores or your college application or even your portfolio.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

  “Second of all,” he says, “it doesn’t matter what they think. It only matters what you think. Do you think you’re worthy of respect and love?”

  My mouth is still open, but now, no sound comes out.

  “I think you are,” he tells me, still watching me—totally unashamed to be staring. I almost want to ask him how he can manage to keep eye contact like that, because as the seconds grow, heat builds in my chest, my neck, my face, and I have to blink and look away. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Embarrassment? Self-consciousness? Ezra doesn’t seem to be feeling any of that. I can still sense him looking at me in the dim light.

  I try to think of something stupid to say, to fill the awkward silence, but before I can speak there’s a knock on the door down below. “Mr. Ezra?” a voice calls. “Your mother is asking for you.”

  Ezra collapses into the bed and groans into his arm, then shouts back, “We’ll be there in a second!” He sighs, pushing himself to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get changed.”

  He goes down to his walk-in closet, as if we hadn’t just had an emotional heart-to-heart, and he pulls out a white, long-sleeved shirt that’s way too big on me, tucking it into my shorts. I look like an idiot, but Ezra says he likes the style and changes into a similar pair of shorts and a white-collared shirt.

  When we step outside, it looks like over one hundred guests in glittering gowns and three-piece suits have magically appeared. We get a bunch of stares and double takes, and one woman literally raises her nose at us in disgust, but something tells me this is the way Ezra likes it. He grins, laughing in the face of the snobs of New York City. This is his way of fighting back. But I don’t like this. It’s a whole other world—one where I don’t feel comfortable at all. I don’t like the way the guests and Ezra’s parents stare at me, or the way I feel embarrassed after laughing too loudly into a champagne glass while Ezra and I get drunk in a corner.

  My heart breaks for Ezra. I don’t know how the hell he survived so many years in this penthouse, with these galas and balls. I feel like even more of a horrible person after the shit I told him earlier, and to make it worse, Ezra really seems like he’s already over it—like he’s just happy that I’m here with him, distracting him from his privileged and perfectly fucked-up life.

  Ezra suggests we hijack the DJ and start playing trap music so that we can dance, but before we make it across the room, my phone buzzes. I think it might be my dad, asking me where I am, but I see that it’s a notification from Instagram. I get a bad feeling, and the feeling sinks even lower when I see who the message is from: grandequeen69. I already know that reading the message is a bad fucking idea, but I open my in-box anyway.

  Why’re you pretending to be a boy?

  I stare at the message. There’s a whoosh that goes through me, and I can feel my emotions become still as numbness prickles. Besides the gallery, I’ve never really had to experience this kind of hate for who I am before—not directly. I always see it on the news. The ways the government is trying to erase me, the ways politicians try to pretend transgender people don’t exist, even though we do exist, and always have, and always will. I see the articles, the stories about transgender people being refused health care, students like me bullied and forced into the wrong bathrooms, teens my own age being kicked out of their homes, adults being fired from their jobs just for being who they are, so many of us attacked and killed just for walking down the street—so many of us deciding to take our own lives because we aren’t accepted.

  I know that, as a trans person of color, my life expectancy is in my early thirties, just because of the sort of violence people like me face every day. I know all of this—but somehow, everything’s always felt so far away. I can exit out of the articles online, switch the channel from the news, laugh with Ezra in the park and eat chicken wings and smoke weed and drink cheap chardonnay and only worry about things like my future and what I’m going to do with my life. I’ve felt safe, even with the mistakes my dad makes, even with a mom who I’m pretty sure doesn’t love me anymore, if she ever did. I’m ashamed of it, but these messages—they’re almost surprising. Like I somehow thought that the sort of hate I see every day, happening to other trans people, would never actually touch me.

  Ezra notices something’s wrong—asks what it is—but I don’t want to tell him. A part of me wants to close the app and pretend it never happened . . . but I’m not sure I can actually ignore the message this time. Ezra turns my hand gently with his fingers, taking a look at my phone.

  “What the fuck?” His gaze cuts to me. “Felix, what the hell is this?”

  I don’t answer him. I stare at the message, biting my lip. I begin typing.

  Who are you? Why’re you trolling me?

  And, when grandequeen69 doesn’t respond, I keep going.

  I’m not pretending to be a boy. Just because you haven’t evolved to realize gender identity doesn’t equal biology, doesn’t mean you get to say who I am and who I’m not. You don’t have that power. Only I have the power to say who I am.

  I hit send, feeling a bit proud of myself for fighting back, even if I shouldn’t have had to in the first place—but the victory feels short-lived, tinged with anger and unease. I’m already dreading the moment grandequeen69 sends a message again.

  Ten

  EZRA WANTS ME TO STAY SO THAT WE CAN RETREAT TO HIS bedroom and talk about the Instagram message, but I can’t wait to leave the penthouse. I was already uncomfortable, but the message from grandequeen69 really fucked with my head. Rage and fear and anxiety buzz through me, my stomach tightening until I feel queasy—and suddenly, even pretending to have fun at the Patel gala isn’t a whole lot of fun anymore. There’s only one thing I want to do: get home, pull out my phone, and fuck with Declan Keane.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Ezra asks, again and again, and even his concern is starting to get to me. No, I’m not all right, but I have to pretend that I am so that he won’t worry about me, which takes its own emotional toll. I nod, and he kisses my forehead goodbye so that I can take the A train uptown to 145th Street.

  My dad and I never really spoke after our last blow-up fight. I have no idea if he’s still pissed at me. After what I just witnessed of Ezra’s parents, I’m dealing with a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I have a warm feeling of gratitude for my dad. He makes a lot of mistakes, but at least he cares enough to sit down with me at dinner and ask me how my day was and act like he actually wants me around—to not abandon me in some apartment while he travels the world. But on the other hand, I still can’t help but be annoyed with him for all the shit he says and does. He wants me to know he’s trying—but I’m not sure if there should be anything for him to try. If he loves me, and he knows that I’m his son, then it should be easy for him to say my correct pronouns, even if I’m not always so sure of them myself. It should be easy for him to say my name.

  I make it to our apartment building, up the elevator, and down the hallway. The AC is blasting when I unlock the front door. My dad sits on the couch, feet up on the coffee table while Captain precariously balances on the sofa’s thin armrest.

  My dad looks over his shoulder at me, his expression falling a little. “Hey,” he says. “It’s after ten. I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.”

  “Is it okay that I’m back?” I close the door behind me.

  I’m just joking—sort of—but my dad clearly doesn’t think I’m very funny. He frowns at me before turning back to the TV.

  I kick off my shoes and drop my backpack, sitting on one of the plush chairs, putting a pillow in my lap and fiddling with the fringe. Captain leaps onto the pi
llow and stretches, claws prickling the fabric. I try not to move, so that I don’t scare her off. It’s enough to simply bask in the blessing the Captain has bestowed upon me.

  “How was your day?” my dad asks, eyes glued to some cooking show.

  “Fine,” I say, staring anywhere but at him. Captain’s ears twitch as she gets comfortable.

  “How’s Ezra?”

  I decide to take a risk and reach for Captain’s back to pet her, but as soon as I shift my arm, she’s gone—onto the floor, tail twitching. She pads away. So, so close. “All right,” I say. “With his parents.”

  My dad nods, and that’s the end of our conversation. We never really talk about what I want to talk about. I never ask him what I wish I were brave enough to: Why doesn’t he call me by my real name? Why was he willing to help me so much with my transition, but he can’t stand the idea that he has a son?

  I grab my phone from my pocket and flip open random apps until I make it to Instagram. The app itself makes my heart spike with anxiety now, but I have to stick with my plan if I want to make Declan pay for what he’s done—for his stupid anonymous messages as grandequeen69. He would’ve looked me right in the eye earlier today, knowing that he was going to send me that transphobic post tonight. How fucking evil and vindictive can a person be?

  I log into my luckyliquid95 account, scrolling through the feed—Ezra’s posted one of his parents’ dinner party, looks like it’s still going strong, and Marisol has baked a blueberry pie. Declan’s uploaded something recently also. Another piece of art. The moon, craters and all, created by crumpled-up pieces of newspaper clippings. Frustration and jealousy pumps through me. It’s beautiful. Even I have to admit that the piece is extraordinary. It doesn’t seem fair, that such an evil bastard can be so talented.

  I double tap to like the image. Ask in the comment section what it means. As I type, I try to imagine Declan—maybe in his father’s SoHo apartment, legs crossed as he sits on his bedroom floor, pieces from his collage-themed portfolio spread out all around him. Just an hour or so ago, he would’ve decided he was bored, or—I don’t know—feeling particularly diabolical, and grabbed his phone to send me that message. I try to see it in my head, to remind myself why I’m doing this . . . but the more I try to imagine Declan caring enough to actually take the time and energy to send me a message on Instagram, just so that he can hurt me, the harder it is to picture it.

  It’s true, I guess, that I don’t really have any proof that he was behind the gallery, or that he’s actually grandequeen69. I don’t know. Maybe Ezra has a point. Maybe this revenge plan isn’t really worth it. I can’t stop thinking about earlier today—sitting on the bench beside Declan, our argument in the lobby, his weird-ass apology. The overwhelming realization that the guy looking at me was the guy I’m fucking with online, even as fury beat through me.

  “This show always makes me hungry,” my dad says, staring at the TV.

  I get a response from Declan a second later.

  thekeanester123: The point isn’t really what it means to me. It’s what it means to you.

  Is that his way of asking what his piece means to me? Christ, why can’t he just say that?

  luckyliquid95: I guess it means . . . I don’t know, this dichotomy. Newspaper clippings, symbolizing the world and humans and all our problems, crumpled up into a ball of the moon, so far away from it all. It makes me feel lonely.

  thekeanester123: Lonely? Is the moon lonely to you?

  luckyliquid95: Yeah. I mean, that’s the feeling I always get, anyway, whenever I look up at it.

  thekeanester123: I look at the moon, and I can’t help but think of everyone else on the planet who’s looking up at it, too, and how alone I am, even though we’re all here on the same Earth. I think about the fact that we should all be connected, but we’re not. We’re too preoccupied trying to hurt each other. It makes me think of how hypocritical I can be, and the mistakes I’ve made, and the ways I’ve hurt people, too.

  My breath catches in my throat. It almost feels like Declan’s about to confess to everything—to the trolling, to the gallery.

  luckyliquid95: What’re the mistakes you’ve made?

  thekeanester123: I don’t know. The usual, I guess.

  There’s a pause, and frustration builds as I try to think of what I could say to get him to keep going in a way that wouldn’t be too obvious, too desperate—but the phone buzzes in my hand.

  thekeanester123: This has become a little too “forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

  I smirk a little, even as I feel a wave of disappointment. I feel like I was seconds from getting the truth out of him.

  luckyliquid95: There’re worst things than being a priest, I guess.

  thekeanester123: I’ve kind of got a thing for priests, actually.

  I stop, staring at my screen.

  luckyliquid95: Um, sorry. What?

  thekeanester123: I was raised Catholic, and there was this after-school program with the Sunday school priest, Father Duncan. He had no idea I had a crush on him, but he was always really nice and was never judgmental, and it was the first time I actually heard any sort of religious authority say that it’s okay to be gay, that God loves all of His creations. I’m not super religious now, but . . . I don’t know, I guess Father Duncan made a lasting impression on me.

  luckyliquid95: . . . Priests? Really?

  thekeanester123: Lol, yes. Don’t judge me.

  luckyliquid95: I’m not judging you!

  I’m 100 percent judging him.

  luckyliquid95: So that, uh—priest uniform really does it for you?

  thekeanester123: You just made me spit out my coffee. Priest uniform?

  Of course he’s drinking coffee at eleven at night. It’s probably black, no cream or sugar.

  luckyliquid95: I don’t know what it’s called. That white thing they wear around their necks.

  thekeanester123: The . . . clerical collar . . . ?

  luckyliquid95: I mean, of course you’d know what they’re called. You’re into them.

  My dad shifts on the couch. “What’re you grinning about over there?”

  I look up with a frown. “Grinning? I’m not grinning.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  I roll my eyes and look back at my phone.

  thekeanester123: It’s not that I’m specifically into priests or their collars. It’s more like . . . I don’t know, I didn’t always have the easiest time being out, and sometimes I still feel a little . . . ashamed. Embarrassed. There’s something about priests, or any sort of religious figure, and being accepted by them that makes me . . . attracted to them.

  luckyliquid95: Doesn’t seem super healthy.

  I’d typed and pressed send without really thinking, but when he doesn’t respond right away, I bite my lip. I thought we were having fun, but maybe I took it too far. What if I say one wrong thing, make one wrong move, and he decides to stop speaking to me? But my phone buzzes in my hand again.

  thekeanester123: Yeah. You’re probably right.

  luckyliquid95: You know, I’m not a priest, but I can still listen. If you want me to, anyway.

  This is its own particular brand of evil—telling someone that they can trust me, hoping that they’ll tell me something personal, just so that I can betray them.

  thekeanester123: I appreciate that. It’s . . . easy to talk to you. I’ve never really spoken with anyone like this before.

  The guilt twists in deeper.

  luckyliquid95: If it makes you feel any better, I’ve made mistakes, too. I think we all have, even if no one really wants to admit it.

  thekeanester123: I think that’s why I like talking to you. That’s something you’re actually willing to admit.

  I can’t think of anything to say to that. There’s warmth in my chest, which I know I shouldn’t be feeling—not for Declan, and not while I’m trying to destroy him. I get another notification.

  thekeanester123: Do you go t
o school in NYC? You don’t have a lot of details up in your bio.

  It’d be stupid to say I’m not in New York—half of my photos on this account are of random streets, restaurants, skyscrapers. If I say I’m not in New York, Declan will realize I’m lying.

  luckyliquid95: Yeah, I do.

  thekeanester123: Which school?

  I hesitate. I could tell him I’m going to another school, but what if he digs for more details, or he randomly has a friend or cousin or something that goes to that school, and he tries to ask about me, only to realize I don’t actually go there? But if I tell him the truth—that I’m a St. Cat’s student—he might be able to figure out that I’m luckyliquid95.

  luckyliquid95: Why do you want to know?

  thekeanester123: I’m just curious. I like the way you think. About art, and life, and everything, I guess.

  My dad gets up from the sofa with a groan, muttering that he’s getting old, and makes it to the kitchen. I’m not sure how to answer Declan. He could call me out for pretending to be someone I’m not. Maybe he’s even known it’s been me all along, and he’s just playing with me before he fucks me over.

  thekeanester123: I know this is weird, but do you think you’d want to exchange numbers?

  I stare at the message. Read and reread it a good handful of times.

  thekeanester123: Maybe we could text instead?

  Another chef is sent home, and the winner cries victorious tears as he thanks his daughter for being his inspiration, his motivation, his very reason for living. My dad sniffs from the kitchen as he clatters pots and pans.

  Declan sends his number. No pressure.

  I hesitate, finger hovering over the screen. We never had each other’s numbers, even when we used to hang out. Ezra was always the point person between us, so I would text Ez, and Declan would text Ez, and we’d end up at the same place. But now . . .