Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  I’m thinking of giving up, just walking down to Ezra’s apartment, when Leah appears at my side.

  “A bunch of us are going to White Castle,” she says. “Wanna come?”

  Tyler, Nasira, and Hazel walk with us as we leave the parking lot, heading down the cracked sidewalk, dodging a carton of chicken wing bones and a clump of tumbleweave blowing in the breeze—that is, until Tyler grabs it and starts to chase Nasira, who screams and runs, Tyler cackling.

  Leah winces. “So gross.”

  “Ten dollars Tyler takes it with him to add to his collage,” Hazel says.

  “I’m not betting against that,” Leah says. “He’s one hundred percent bringing it back.”

  “How’s your portfolio going?” I ask Leah. I know that she wasn’t happy to be forced into acrylics, when she could’ve been using the summer classes to finesse her photography for college applications.

  Tyler has stopped chasing Nasira and they wait on the corner and start walking as we reach them, the tumbleweave hanging out of Tyler’s pocket.

  Leah shrugs. “It’s all right. It’ll never be perfect. I know I have to get over the desire for anything I create to be perfect. But it still sucks when I know it could be better. I don’t know—my portfolio’s nothing like your work, anyway,” she says.

  “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that your paintings are always freaking amazing.”

  Hazel rolls her eyes. “You know, no offense,” she says, “but I don’t think Felix is even that good.”

  She might as well have slapped me. Nasira raises an eyebrow. “Tell us how you really feel.”

  Hazel continues. “His portraits are technically good, but I never really feel any emotion whenever I look at them.”

  Defensiveness rises. “Okay. Good to know, I guess.”

  “It’s just my opinion,” she says.

  “No one asked for your opinion, but all right.”

  “It’s nothing to get so mad about. We should all be used to critique and criticism by now, if we want to become better artists.”

  “Yeah, but not good isn’t a real critique,” I say. The others don’t say anything. I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t really care,” I say, even though that’s a straight-up lie. Of course I care what people think of my artwork, and Hazel’s comment stings, a little like hitting my funny bone, the pain vibrating through me.

  “I really didn’t mean to offend you,” Hazel says. “I just get a little tired of these blanket statements. Felix is amazing. Like, what does that even mean? And how is that supposed to actually help you grow as an artist? I don’t think we should ever get complacent with our work or our talent. We should always be pushing ourselves to become better.”

  I know that she’s right. I guess I just would’ve preferred to hear what she’s got to say in class, when we’re supposed to critique each other and I can see it coming—or even alone, in a one-on-one conversation, so that I wouldn’t have to feel as awkward as I do right now. It isn’t until the next thing she says that I even pause.

  “I don’t know. For me, it always feels good to tell the truth,” she says.

  It feels good to tell you the truth. I guess plenty of people believe that telling the truth is important—but that’s also almost exactly what grandequeen69 sent to me in an Instagram message. I squint at Hazel as the echoes of embarrassment give way to numbness. What if it’s been Hazel all along? I hadn’t really considered or suspected her at all, but maybe she was tired of my art and wanted to knock me down off my pedestal—or maybe she really had just considered the gallery to be valid artwork. It was the kind of gallery that I could see Hazel doing—art for the sake of art, without caring how her work would affect others. . . .

  I pause and let everyone else walk ahead, but Leah stays behind with me. She seems uncomfortable, holding an arm to her side, and asks me if I’m all right. “It was kind of mean of Hazel to say that,” she tells me.

  I agree with a nod, but I can’t stop the swirling thoughts that’ve begun to cloud my head.

  “I’m sorry about Coney Island,” Leah says. It takes a second for my mind to catch up with the shift in topic. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Mari recently. I mean, I know she’s having trouble with her dad and everything . . .”

  I didn’t know that. I’m not sure I need to know, either. Does having a hard life give anyone an excuse to treat someone else like shit? I’m not sure I need Leah to humanize Marisol for me—that I need Marisol to become some sort of antihero in Leah’s version of everything that’s happened. We all make mistakes. We all have a chance to learn and grow from them. But we all also have the right to choose whether we’ll forgive someone for the mistakes they’ve made, and I’ve chosen not to forgive Marisol.

  “I feel like I’m supposed to say it’s all right,” I tell her, “but it’s really not.”

  She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right.”

  We cross in front of a bunch of bars with Pride signs hanging up outside. Leah asks me if I plan on going to the march. “Ezra invited me and Austin,” she says.

  I don’t know why, but my heart jolts a little at that. “Oh,” I say. “No, I don’t really like the march.”

  “What?” Leah says, eyes shining with surprise. “Why not? I freaking love the march. I mean, I know there’s shitty stuff going on with corporations joining in on the parade and everything, but everyone’s so happy and it’s the biggest celebration of love and self-love and it’s the one time of the year where you can just be queer as hell—well, I guess nothing’s really stopping any of us from being queer as hell every day of the year, but you know what I mean.”

  The excitement in her eyes makes me laugh a little. “You sound like Ezra.”

  Her smile fades as we walk in quiet, watching as the others laugh at something Tyler’s said up ahead. “I checked out Marc’s phone,” she whispers. “I didn’t find anything except some pictures that have forever scarred me. He doesn’t even have an Instagram account.”

  I should be used to the frustration, the disappointment, but it still sinks into my stomach. I wonder if I should tell Leah that a part of me suspects Hazel now, but I feel an exhaustion I wasn’t really expecting. I don’t think we’ll ever figure out who was behind the gallery, and now, I’m suddenly tired of trying. Leah could check every single person’s phone at St. Catherine’s, and I think I already know how it would end. “Thanks anyway.”

  “I don’t know, I wonder if I should check out Marisol’s phone,” she tells me. “I mean, I know she said she didn’t do it, but—well, it wouldn’t be the first mistake she’s made. And even if it wasn’t her, maybe she knows who it was. Maybe she talked about it with someone in a text or something.”

  I hesitate. “I don’t think we’ll ever figure out who was behind the gallery.”

  Leah stops in her tracks. I turn around to look at her.

  “You’re not giving up, are you?” she says. “You can’t give up. We’ve barely even started. It might take a month, a few months, an entire year—but I will find out who did this.” She pauses. “Unless that’s what scares you.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you’re scared of knowing who did the gallery.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’m a little scared myself. I’ve never been great at confrontation.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know if it’s really worth the drama.”

  “Ezra is here to support you,” she says, “and I am, too. So let’s catch the asshole. Okay?”

  I can’t help but smile a little, and she loops her arm around mine as we walk. The White Castle is next to a gas station. A few other students are hanging out in the parking lot with bags of snacks and sodas. Declan’s there, I see with a quick flutter of my heart, with James and Marc, just leaning against the wall of the gas station and talking. Tyler walks up to them, and he and Marc start laughing about something while James turns to follow Hazel into the White Castle. Leah grins at me
as she hurries to catch up with them.

  I hesitate. This probably isn’t a good idea. No—no, this definitely isn’t a good idea, not at all. But even knowing that, I walk across the parking lot, slowing down as I reach Declan. He walks away from Marc and Tyler so that he’s standing alone in the shade, phone out, scrolling through Instagram. He looks up with surprise when I stop in front of him.

  He stares at me.

  I stare at him.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Yes . . . ?”

  I don’t know what to say. Shit. God fucking damnit, I have no idea what to say.

  He full-on frowns now. “What do you want?”

  And it hits me—of course, only now does it hit me—that if I speak, he might just recognize my voice. Over the phone was one thing, but to have heard that voice, and see it actually coming from my mouth—something might click, and Declan could realize I’m Lucky.

  But I can’t just walk away now. I open my mouth, hoping words will come out, but none do.

  He’s making the okaaaaaaay expression now. He pushes away from the wall, like he’s going to leave me standing there, maybe join the others and go into the White Castle—

  “Thanks,” I manage to blurt out.

  He pauses. “For what?”

  “For what you said earlier.” I swallow. “For saying my painting is good.”

  He smirks now. “I didn’t realize you needed my validation that badly.”

  “I don’t need your fucking validation,” I snap.

  Declan lets out a laugh. The same laugh, I realize, that I’ve started to love hearing over the phone. “Sure you don’t, Felix.”

  I take in a breath. “It was just nice of you,” I mutter.

  “Right. Well, I can be nice sometimes, believe it or not.”

  I scratch at my arm. “I believe it.”

  He narrows his eyes a little, like he’s waiting for the insult to follow. And I get it. I really do. Usually, I’d jump at the chance to start an argument with Declan. It feels odd, now—so fucking strange—to look Declan in the face and attempt to have an ordinary conversation, without trying to figure out a way to attack him.

  “Well,” he says slowly, watching me. “I’m going to join the others.”

  I feel a wave of disappointment, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He only knows me as Felix, not Lucky—and this Felix is acting weird as fuck right now. I nod, stepping aside, as Declan heads back over to Marc and Tyler. He glances over his shoulder at me with a lingering frown.

  When Declan calls me later that night, he doesn’t mention the strange way that guy who hates him was acting today. A part of me hoped that he would—hoped there’d be some sort of acknowledgment that he thinks about me. Me, me. Felix. Not just Lucky.

  But he doesn’t mention me as Felix at all. I’m back in my dad’s apartment, in my bedroom—I’d tried stopping off at Ezra’s and buzzed his apartment, but he didn’t answer his door, and he wouldn’t respond to my texts. I have no idea if he’s actually more pissed off at me than he’s letting on, or if it really is just a bad cold. When I’d asked Austin about it earlier, he told me that Ezra might just need a little time alone—which isn’t, you know, ominous at all.

  “What is one thing about you,” Declan asks me, “that no one else knows?”

  I think about it for a second, but only for a second. “I have 476 emails in my drafts box.”

  There’s silence on the phone.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” Declan says. “Did you say 476 emails?”

  I hesitate, smirk growing. “Yeah. Is that crazy?”

  “Um—you know, I don’t know, we all have our quirks . . .”

  “It’s okay if you think it’s crazy.”

  He laughs. “I don’t want to sound judgmental.”

  “I know it’s a lot.”

  “Why do you have so many emails drafted?”

  “Well,” I say, taking a breath. “They’re all emails I’ve written to my mom, but have never sent.”

  I can practically feel Declan’s smile fading away. “Why haven’t you sent them?”

  I take a second, trying to form the right words in my head. “She left my dad when I was ten and started this new life in Florida. She’s happier now—loves her new life more than she loves her old one, and she never answers my calls or my emails . . . I’m pretty sure she doesn’t love me anymore. But—I don’t know, I guess I miss her, so I’ve always written these emails about everything I’m going through. Maybe one day I’ll just send all of them at once and fuck up her in-box.” I force a laugh.

  Declan’s voice is soft. “It’s hard to believe that she wouldn’t love you.”

  Warmth spreads over my skin. I smile into my hand. “What about you?”

  “My biggest secret?”

  “Yes.”

  He takes longer to speak than I did. In the beats of silence, the irony strikes me: just a couple weeks ago, I’d been desperate to learn Declan’s biggest secret. Eager to use it against him, so that I could hurt him in the same way I thought he’d hurt me. Now I only want to know his secret because I want to know more about him. Because I think I might be falling for him, too.

  “My father,” he says. I play with my bedsheet in between my fingers. “My father disowned me.”

  I stop breathing. I sit up.

  “Lucky?” Declan says. “You there?”

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “When I told him I had a boyfriend—when I told him about Ezra,” Declan says, “my father disowned me.”

  Pain swells in my chest. I can feel myself starting to cry.

  “We were never really close,” he tells me. “He’s always been horrible. He was pretty abusive. Not physically, but emotionally. He always made me feel like I was worthless, you know? He does the same shit to my mom, and she doesn’t fight back. She just does whatever he says. She didn’t fight for me when he kicked me out. It took a while to heal from that. I’m still kind of healing, I guess. And it’s stupid, but—even though he hurt me so much, and even though I know he isn’t healthy for me, I still want him to love me. It’s fucked-up, I know it is. I’m living with my grandfather now, up in Beacon—just takes a long-ass time to get in and out of the city, so I try to stay with someone for part of the week, when I can.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. That’s all I can think to tell him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I get pissed at my dad. So fucking frustrated with him when he refuses to say my name, or when he messes up my pronouns. But I’ve never considered that he might disown me for being trans. I’ve been lucky enough that the thought never crossed my mind.

  “It’s all right,” Declan says. “I’ve been doing better, living with my grandpa. Now the main issue is that my dad was going to pay for my college tuition and everything, and I have to figure out how to take care of that on my own, since my grandpa can’t afford it—he’s just barely surviving on retirement savings. He’s offered to sell the house for me, and it’d admittedly be a huge help, but I can’t let him do that. I know that house means a lot to him. I’ll just have to figure something out on my own. A privileged-as-fuck problem to have, believe me, I know.”

  I had no idea. Ezra had no idea, or he would’ve mentioned it. Declan rarely talked about what he was thinking and feeling, when we were all friends—but this? I hold my phone away from my mouth so that he won’t hear me crying. I even cover my mouth with my hand. He hears me anyway.

  “Are you crying?”

  I don’t say anything. I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe.

  “Don’t cry for me. Seriously, don’t. My dad’s horrible, and yeah, it hurt—but it was for the best. I hate the commute, but my granddad’s great. Really. I’m not just saying that. I’m happy. All right?”

  I nod. Force myself to choke out the words. “All right.”

  We’re silent for a while. Maybe Declan’s just waiting for me to pull myself together, I don’t know. A few minutes pass before I stop cryin
g, before I can breathe again. My voice is stuffed up. “Is that why you broke up with Ezra?” I ask.

  Declan must be shuffling through something on the other end. I hear papers. “I mean—yeah, it really fucked me up, and I guess it made me—you know, need some space to figure myself out in my new life, but it wasn’t the whole reason.” He sighs. “I wasn’t lying before. I could tell Ezra wasn’t as into me as I was into him.”

  I frown, shaking my head. This isn’t the first time Declan’s said Ezra wasn’t into him. “What made you think that?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure he’s in love with his best friend,” Declan tells me. “That guy, Felix.”

  Eighteen

  SATURDAY NIGHT, EZRA TEXTS ME, BEGGING ME TO HANG out.

  I’m finally over this effing cold and I want to celebrate.

  As soon as his name pops up in my phone, all I can hear is Declan’s voice. I’m pretty sure he’s in love with his best friend. That guy, Felix.

  At first, I’d thought Declan was joking. That’s what I said to him. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No,” he said. “No, I’m not joking. You ever watch the way Ezra looks at him? Or the way he follows Felix around like a lost puppy?”

  I’d wanted to correct him. Ezra doesn’t follow me like a lost puppy—it’s the other way around. Ezra’s the only friend I really have at St. Cat’s, while everyone flocks around him like he’s the sun itself. I caught myself before I started arguing, though. I’m pretty sure Declan would’ve been able to immediately guess who I am if I did.

  Declan kept going. “We all started hanging out at the same time, and the longer we hung out, the more Ezra fell for Felix. Simple as that.”

  I stare at the text Ezra sent. There’s no way Declan’s right. Ezra isn’t exactly shy about who he wants or who he likes. Case study number two: Austin. Ezra’s been all over the guy since his party. Why would he be with Austin if he’s in love with me? He would’ve said something. Declan just misread things, or wasn’t feeling the relationship anymore and wanted a reason to break up with Ez.