Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  To be honest? You kind of did.

  Sorry . . . I know it’s weird to have a crush on you without even knowing who you are. But I really like talking to you.

  It’s embarrassing to admit to this. I have no idea why I’m admitting this. I like talking to you, too.

  Can we keep talking? Even if I have a weird crush on you?

  I try not to smile. Yeah. I guess that’d be okay.

  Thirteen

  Hey Mom,

  You know when life is just about as confusing as it can possibly be, and then you think to yourself, well, at least it can’t get any worse than this, but then life is like, ha, really, you think so, huh? And then, just to prove you wrong, it gets even more freaking confusing than it was before, so your entire life is nothing but a whole-ass mystery—always a shit ton of questions, but never any answers?

  Okay. Maybe that’s an exaggeration.

  . . . Except, not?

  I feel like I’ve never had more questions in my life than right now. Declan isn’t the person who was behind the gallery, so the first question: Who the hell was? Leah’s been helping, doing things I probably shouldn’t put down into an email, before the FBI shows up at St. Cat’s . . . but I’m not sure our plan is really going to work.

  Declan, it turns out, is actually kind of nice and interesting and smart and funny . . . And, on top of that, he says that he’s falling for me. So, second question: How do I feel about him? It seems totally impossible, but—well—I think I might be starting to like him, too. I don’t know. It’s the first time anyone’s ever said they like me, and it feels really freaking good. Like I can rub it in everyone’s faces. See? Someone thinks I deserve to be loved, even if you didn’t.

  But my third question is: How would Ezra feel about any of this? I’d be really pissed off, if I were him—pissed off and hurt. Is it fucked up of me, to keep talking to Declan? (I guess that’s technically two questions. Oh well.)

  Fourth question, completely unrelated to all of the above, except not, because it’s the most important question of all: What the hell is my identity?

  I’ve been looking up a shit ton of terms, but every definition—every label—makes me feel more frustrated. There’re so many ways for a person to identify . . . So why doesn’t anything feel right for me? Is it possible to not have an identity? To exist, without any labels to say who I am and who I’m not? Maybe that’d feel good for some people, but for me, I’d feel anchorless—drifting with no one to say if what I’m feeling is real—if this emotion is something that I’ve made up in my mind, or if it’s something that others have felt, too.

  There’s another question I might as well ask, I guess, since there’s no way in hell I’m going to send this email to you:

  Why did you leave?

  Dad doesn’t really like to talk about it. Sometimes, people just fall out of love.

  I guess that means you didn’t love him anymore. You must’ve told him that, before you decided to leave us. I wonder how things looked from your perspective. Did you really think that you were just going on a trip to clear your head, or had you already decided you weren’t coming back? Was it really just a coincidence that you met your new husband there, or had you actually already known him, had already been cheating on my dad? When you kept extending your trip, did you even notice that you were making fewer phone calls as the days went on? That you were becoming too busy to answer the phone whenever I tried to call, because your new kid always had soccer or homework or piano lessons? You said you’d call me back, but you never did, and . . .

  I guess that brings me to my last question: Did you stop loving me, too?

  Your son/child/still to be determined,

  Felix

  I sit cross-legged on the sofa, Captain curled up next to me. My dad’s taking his usual afternoon nap, and Ezra’s texting me about a Pride party Marisol invited him to, but I put my phone on silent. I bite my lip, then bring up Google. I don’t even know what to type—not at first. Am I transgender? feels like a stupid question to ask, when I know for a fact that I am, even if being labeled a guy doesn’t feel completely right, either. I know that I’m not a girl. That’s the only thing I know for certain.

  I’m transgender, but I don’t feel like I’m a guy or a girl.

  The results are overwhelming. There are medical articles on transitioning, entertainment sites about Laverne Cox and Janet Mock, Instagram posts showing #transformationtuesday with side-by-side images of people years ago and their photos now, a Tumblr post with a bunch—feels like hundreds—of transgender terms, labels I didn’t even know existed.

  One of the results takes me to a Facebook event at the LGBT Community Center. The event is for a gender identity discussion group. It’s supposed to be tonight at eight o’clock, in about three hours. It’s a little too much of a coincidence, right? I click on “Going.”

  I’ve only ever been to the Center once before, way back when I was just starting to wonder about my identity. I didn’t go to any groups. I didn’t even speak to anyone. I just walked up the front steps and into the reception area before I got so nervous that I turned right back around and left.

  I walk back into the reception area again now. Not much has changed. White walls, white benches. There’re older folk sitting in a café area, speaking with low voices. Two teens closer to my age sit nearby, heads bent together as they share earbuds.

  I walk up to the desk and ask the receptionist where I should go for the discussion group, and she sends me up to the second floor and into a broiling room with wooden floors and faded peach-colored walls and large, open windows. Floor fans hum and push the hot air around. Metal folding chairs are set up in a circle. There’re already a few other people here. An elderly man with crossed legs, reading a newspaper. A tall woman with brown hair, bright red lipstick. Someone with pink hair waits at the door with a sign-in list and a smile. Their name tag reads Bex, with they/them pronouns scrawled beneath.

  In my research online, even back from when I was just starting to question if I was trans or not, I remember reading about the nonbinary identity. A lot of people who use they/them pronouns don’t feel like they’re a boy or a girl, which is something that could maybe, possibly, describe that niggling feeling—that being seen as a girl definitely isn’t right, but being seen as a guy isn’t totally right, either. But there’re also times when I know, for a fact, that I definitely am a guy, and I feel like I’ve just imagined the niggling, the questioning, the confusion. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to say that I’m nonbinary if there’re still days when I know that I’m a guy, too. But if I’m not nonbinary, and I’m not a guy, and I’m definitely not a girl, then what am I? I came here for answers, but it just feels like my questions are growing.

  I write in my name without writing any pronouns and sit at the chair that feels farthest away. I wrap my arms around myself and cross my legs, knee jiggling. I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable. Like maybe someone will walk into the room, point right at me, shout, “Fraud!” and escort me from the premises.

  A few more people filter in, of all different ages, races—but it becomes pretty obvious that I’m the youngest by far. Only Bex looks like they might be in college. Everyone else is an adult. I start to worry that I’m not allowed to be in here if I’m under eighteen. Would someone tell me that I’m too young and ask me to leave?

  Time moves agonizingly slowly, before Bex claps their hands and stands in the center of the circle.

  “Welcome to the LGBT Center gender-identity discussion group,” they say. “Let’s go around in a circle and introduce ourselves. Say name, pronouns, and where you’re from. I’ll start. I’m Bex, I use they/them pronouns, and I’m from the Bronx.”

  There are four others. The elderly man—Tom—folds his newspaper in half and rests it on the empty chair beside his own. The woman with the bright red lipstick, Sarah, sits beside a woman with pockmarked skin, Zelda. A man with a Final Fantasy shirt and a patchy beard says his name is Wally. Whe
n it gets to my turn, my heart’s hammering so hard that my voice shakes.

  “Felix. Um. I’m not sure about pronouns right now.” I pause, waiting for someone to say that I should leave, but everyone just stares at me without blinking. “I live in Brooklyn—no, ah—I moved. I’m in Harlem now.”

  Bex gives me a reassuring smile.

  I already know that I have exactly zero plans to speak up. I came here deciding I’d do nothing but listen—listen and learn, try to find an answer to my questions.

  “There are too many expectations on gender roles, even within the transgender community. To prove that you’re a man, you must act aggressively. To prove that you’re a woman, you must be passive.” Sarah holds her head high. “I’m an aggressive woman. I won’t apologize for that.”

  “You can’t blame people for defining their identity by traditional gender roles,” Zelda says.

  “I can if those traditional gender roles are harmful,” Sarah says.

  “I guess we have to decide what’s most important,” Wally tells us. “Validation through traditional gender roles, or the destruction of those roles.”

  “Well, those roles are what got us into this mess of a patriarchy in the first place,” Sarah says.

  “But, then, why have any gender at all?” Zelda asks.

  Tom speaks for the first time, and I can tell by the way the room quiets that he holds a lot of respect here. “Some of us don’t have any gender at all,” he says. Bex smiles.

  “Is that the answer, then?” Zelda asks. “To destroying the patriarchy and misogyny? Eliminate gender altogether?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s suggesting that,” Tom says. “Though that’s the answer for some, it doesn’t have to be the answer for everyone. We can’t help who we are. There isn’t much point to passing judgment on our community. We already get enough judgment from others.”

  Everyone else nods.

  I have so many questions, so many swirling thoughts flooding my mind. My heart’s almost out of my throat and in my mouth. My knee won’t stop jiggling, and I’m sweating so much in the heat and from nerves that my shirt’s sticking to my back. Bex meets my eye, and even though I look away from them, they say my name.

  “Do you have anything you want to add?” they ask, and when I only swallow, blinking, they say, “Or is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

  The others watch me expectantly, almost bored. Zelda checks her nails. Wally scratches his beard. There are so many things I want to talk about—so many questions I want to ask—but they’re all a tangled twist of words and feelings in my mind, impossible to translate. The silence, as it grows, echoes in my head, and the longer I don’t speak with my mouth hanging open the more bored everyone is, staring at me and wondering what the hell is wrong with me—

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to say, my voice breaking. “I have to go.”

  No one says anything as I scrape my chair back, stand up, and walk out the door. I hurry down the hall, and embarrassment fills my chest and my throat, reaching my eyes. I’m almost crying. I run out of the LGBT Center lobby, but the summer heat doesn’t do anything to help the growing pressure in my chest. Turns out no one needed to actually point and scream, “Fraud!” at me—I took care of that myself just fine.

  I’m barely down the block when I hear my name. I spin around. Bex has followed me.

  “Jesus, you run fast,” Bex says as they slow down, slightly out of breath.

  Shit. I can’t even look at them.

  “Are you okay?” they ask.

  I swallow and nod, staring at the sidewalk. There’s a crack with a weed pushing through.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just wanted to be sure you felt welcome. And you are. Welcome, I mean,” they say. They give me a smile. “I remember how hard it was when I was a teen, surrounded by a bunch of know-it-all adults, ignored and . . .”

  I’m fidgeting, pulling on the end of my tank.

  “I have to get back to the room,” Bex says. “But I wanted you to know that you’re always welcome to join us. The group meets every Wednesday at eight o’clock. If you have any questions, or if you just want to come in and listen—anything’s fine. All right?”

  I glance up, meeting their eye for a second, and I can see that they really mean what they’re saying. They want me to come back, to try again. And even though I’m still dying a little inside, I don’t know—a part of me really appreciates that, too.

  I nod. “All right.”

  It’s going on nine o’clock and getting darker, the sun starting to make its way down. I’m already on my way home, walking toward the A and being bumped into by every single person on the street, when my phone buzzes in my hand. I have a new Instagram message. I’d never responded to grandequeen69’s last message—but it looks like they decided to send another one anyway.

  You think it’s so cool and trendy to be transgender. It isn’t real. You’ll always be a girl.

  It’s too much. The discussion group, and now this. I can’t even stop the tears that sting my eyes. “Fuck!” I yell. A few people startle, turning to look at me. I wipe my eyes, my nose.

  What do you get out of being a transphobic piece of trash? Does it feel good, to try and belittle someone because of who they are? I guess it must be a rush of power for you, attacking someone and making them feel like they don’t belong. But I know who I am. I know that I’m trans. Transgender people have always existed. Trans people are everywhere through history, even if society tries to erase us. We’re not a trend, even if it makes you feel good to pretend that we are. I know that I’m not a girl. You don’t get to say who I am and who I’m not. Now leave me the fuck alone.

  I press send, breathing heavy, tears still building and threatening to fall from my lashes. When my phone buzzes in my hand again, I almost jump—dread fills me, and I think it’s grandequeen69 again, but this time, it’s a text from Ezra.

  WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??? Papi Juice is hosting for Pride at warehouse. Come thruuuuuuuuuuu.

  I forgot about the Pride party. I’m so, so fucking tired—emotionally exhausted from the train wreck that was the LGBT Center discussion group, the never-ending swirling tide of questions filling my head, and now from this latest message from grandequeen69, too. But before I can even respond, Ezra starts calling literally three seconds later.

  “Felix!” he yells. There’s background noise and music. I hear Marisol and Leah laughing. “Felix, come through!”

  God, he’s already drunk. “I don’t know. I’m a little tired.”

  He groans. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a boring fuck. You’re seventeen. How many more times do you get to be seventeen, Felix? Huh? How many fucking times?”

  I sigh. I’m not in the mood for a party—not at all—but there’s no way I can just go home with nothing but my thoughts and questions and grandequeen69’s trolling messages and Declan with his texts.

  “Where should I meet you?”

  Fourteen

  THE ADDRESS EZRA TEXTS ME TAKES ME TO GREENPOINT, past all the closed groceries and bakeries, into the streets with flickering streetlights and the kind of dark alleys I’ve always been warned not to go down alone. Brick factories that are 100 percent haunted start to pop up. The blue dot on my GPS keeps jumping back and forth, and I can’t find the street where the party is supposed to be. I kind of want to kill Ezra right now. This is exactly the sort of shady part of town that’s just a little more dangerous for someone like me.

  I turn the corner, and there’s a line wrapped around the sidewalk. People in short skirts, netting, and tanks filter into one of the warehouses. I run across the street, checking both ways even though there aren’t any cars around. I join the end of the line, the bouncer checks my fake ID, and I slide in through the heavy metal doors.

  A staircase leads up into darkness, music thumping. I hold on to the railing to steady myself as I climb the steep stairs.

  There’s another pair of doors on the
landing—and when I open them, the music blasts so loudly that it almost knocks me off my feet. There’re no lights except for red streaks, illuminating faces and hands thrown into the air. Music with a heavy beat vibrates through the floor, up my shins, and the crowd—I didn’t even know so many people could be stuffed into a single room—moves as one. I might be the only person standing still. People are dancing against each other, against the walls, against the bar, against the speakers, as if everyone’s been cursed to dance until they die.

  I don’t see Ezra anywhere. I make it through the crowd, across the dance floor, to another set of doors. I burst through them, taking one long breath. I’m on a rooftop. There’s enough space for dozens of people to stand around, talking and smoking. The wall is only waist-high. It’d be too easy to trip and fall over the side. A cool breeze wafts in over the skyline of warehouses and factories, glowing yellow lights against the black night.

  I text Ez to let him know that I’m here. I’m always a little nervous around huge crowds of people I don’t know. I walk through the groups slowly, checking to see if I recognize anyone, glancing at my phone over and over again to see if Ezra has responded. Arms grab me from behind, yanking me into a tight hug, and Ezra laughs in my ear.

  “You’re so late,” he whines.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Got distracted.”

  Austin appears at Ezra’s side. I feel a twinge of disappointment. Even if I’m tired, I was kind of looking forward to hanging out with just Ezra. I don’t really feel like dealing with his maybe-and-looking-more-likely-boyfriend.

  “Hey!” Austin says, head bopping to the beat.

  I nod and force a smile. We all stand there for a solid five seconds, looking at one another. It’s awkward as fuck. When it was me, Ezra, and Declan—I don’t know, the three of us just worked. We always had something to talk about, to laugh about. I never felt jealous or like I wasn’t being included. Before Declan broke up with Ez, we were all friends with each other. And now, Ezra and Austin are both looking at me like they expect the same thing to happen again—for me to just befriend Austin, welcome him into the group.