I feel a flare of embarrassment at the mention of Declan. “I don’t know why I tried to—you know, be with him in that way,” I say.
“I can’t judge you. I have no idea why I agreed to date Austin.” A shadow crosses his face, and I know he’s thinking of Austin and his gallery, his fucked-up Instagram messages. “God, if I’d fucking known it was him—shit, looking back on it, it’s so obvious. He’d ask me these questions about you, get me to tell him stuff about you, but I thought he was just being curious about my friends.”
“It’s okay. You can’t blame yourself for not knowing. Even Leah didn’t know, and she’s his cousin.”
“I didn’t even like him that much,” he said. “I knew I was in love with you, but I was—I don’t know, I guess a little lonely, so I decided to try being with him. I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”
“I thought it couldn’t hurt to try with Declan, but I knew that it was never going to work, and—yeah, I like him, and I hope that we can be friends someday . . . But he isn’t you, Ez.”
He smiles a little. “Damn right he isn’t me.”
I roll my eyes with a laugh.
“I love you,” he says below his breath, almost like he’s just talking to himself. “I’ve loved you for a while now.”
I remember, suddenly, what Declan had said—that he realized Ezra was falling for me. This would’ve been in our first year at St. Catherine’s. “How long have you felt this way?” I ask him.
Ezra looks up at me, and I’m surprised by how comfortable I feel, looking right back at him. “Since the day you found the kitten in a box and decided to take it home.”
“When I found Captain?” I say, surprised. “Really?” That was within weeks that we’d met.
“I always liked you. You’re freaking hilarious in this dry, sarcastic way, but you’re really caring, too, in a way that I don’t think a lot of people get to see. I’m lucky that you let me in. That you let me see that.”
“I don’t know when I fell in love with you,” I admit. “I think I must’ve fallen for you slowly. I realized I loved you when I thought I’d lost you.”
“I was afraid I’d lost you, too,” he murmurs. “I’m really sorry, Felix. I shouldn’t have reacted that way. I should’ve respected your feelings. If you didn’t love me, then that was your choice.”
“But I do love you,” I say. “I was just too afraid of—I don’t know, letting myself feel this way. This kind of happiness. It can be scary, right? There’s this fear that I don’t really deserve it, this fear that it might not even last. . . .”
He sits up, resting his forehead against mine. “You deserve to be loved,” he tells me, then kisses me. “You deserve all of my love.” He kisses me again. When I kiss him back, we lie down on the couch, kissing slowly and softly, as if time is at a standstill, and we’ll get to do this for the rest of our lives.
A month can go by pretty quickly. Like, blink and it’s already over, and July has come and gone. It’s a few days into August. Summer program classes are winding down so that we can have a couple of weeks off before the new semester begins in September. I’m almost finished with my portfolio. I have over a dozen self-portraits now, a few that I scrap and some that I continue to work on details for, starting new paintings when the inspiration strikes. I’ve been working on my college applications, too—Brown, of course, but a few other schools also, in case I don’t get in. The thought of not being accepted to Brown doesn’t feel as devastating as it used to. Yeah, I still want to go to Brown and RISD, but no, my life won’t be over if it doesn’t happen. Declan meets my eye from across the classroom sometimes and nods with a twitch of a smile, but he still isn’t talking to me. I accept that. I really fucked up. I know I did. But I also know that everyone makes mistakes. All I can do is try to learn and grow.
When I think about it, not much about my life has actually changed. I still hang out with Ezra every day, just with more—you know—kissing, which was insanely embarrassing to think about at first, but isn’t that embarrassing now. I mean, what’s actually embarrassing about kissing? Is it because it’s an act of loving someone so much that there aren’t even any words, so the only thing you can do to express that love is to kiss instead? Maybe it’s not the kissing that’s embarrassing, but the fact that you love someone so fucking much, which really shouldn’t be embarrassing at all. What’s so wrong with loving someone, right?
Two weeks before summer classes end, there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker reminding students that the end-of-summer gallery submission application deadline is coming up in a few days. There’s a fear in my gut that someone might use the gallery to try and hurt me again, but Ezra tells me that there’s no way in hell that would happen—not after we’ve all seen Austin get kicked out of St. Cat’s, and especially not when everyone knows Ezra is my boyfriend, and that he’ll beat the crap out of anyone who tries to fuck with me again.
“You can’t beat the crap out of anyone, Ez.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? You sure about that?”
So, now, I’m basically just praying that no one fucks with me so that Ezra doesn’t get kicked out of St. Cat’s. I’d already decided that I would go ahead and apply to the gallery—the idea of not getting chosen is scary, and I know it’d hurt—but I’m also finally realizing that, even if I’m not picked, the gallery isn’t a measure of my worth.
A lot of people have straight up stopped coming to class so close to the end of the summer program, but I’ve been coming in early and staying late, working on my self-portraits for the gallery, adding a dash of color here, smoothing out the background texture there. Working on the paintings reminds me of who I am: the strength inside me, the beauty and determination and power. I’m surprised when Jill walks up to me after the class bell rings. I’m trying to add in a few more strokes of yellow to a background when she smiles at me.
“These are really fantastic, Felix,” she tells me.
My face gets warm. “Thanks.”
She keeps watching me work, which makes me self-conscious, but I’m just glad she’s not hurrying me out of the room and to lunch. Ezra’s packed up and waiting for me by one of the tables as he talks to Leah.
“Have you decided to apply for the end-of-summer gallery?” Jill asks me.
I nod. “Yeah, I think I’m going to do it.” The thought alone scares the crap out of me. The gallery itself is pretty competitive, and to be judged on my artwork by a panel of Brown professors is one thing . . . to be judged by my peers, who I have to see on a daily basis, is another.
“Good,” she says. “St. Catherine’s would be lucky to have your work on display.”
As the deadline looms closer, it’s all I can think about: the possibility of having my artwork in a gallery. To reclaim the lobby and its space with me, the real me—reflections of who I am, and how I see myself, and how the world should see me, too. The last word against people like Marisol and Austin. The chance to put up one giant middle finger to anyone else in the world who doesn’t think I deserve to be here—to exist—right alongside them.
The day before the deadline, I go to the school’s website and gallery application, snap a few photos of my self-portraits with my phone and write a 250-word summary on the project, and why I think my artwork should mark the end of the summer program. I click submit before I can second-guess myself. I don’t tell anyone about it, not my dad or Leah or even Ezra. I don’t want to deal with the awkwardness if my art isn’t accepted. They’d have to console me and tell me I’m a good artist and all that, and the thing is, I know that I am. I know that I’m talented. I don’t need anyone else, or even this gallery, to tell me if I am or not. But if I could have the chance to fill the lobby with images of me—the real me—then I sure as hell will.
I’m surprised when, a few days later, I get an email from Dean Fletcher congratulating me on the fact that my artwork has been chosen for the end-of-summer gallery. There’s going to be an opening where the entire schoo
l will be invited, and I’ll be asked to give a speech based on the 250-word summary I’d submitted. The idea of standing in front of the entire school and explaining my work is, you know, completely fucking terrifying—but there’s a reason that I submitted my artwork. I can’t stop now.
I grab my best pieces and bring them to the dean, who accepts the canvases as though they’re treasures, smiling and appreciating each one. The artwork is hanging on the lobby walls by the end of the day. I walk into the lobby, Ezra beside me, and we stand there and stare at each of the pieces, hanging exactly where my old photos had been hanging months before. Each painting’s title has my real name. Emotion builds in me, remembering the day I’d walked into this lobby and seen my old pictures and my deadname, knowing that the entire school had seen, too. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger. Ezra takes my hand and squeezes it.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says.
The opening will be during lunch, when all the students usually head off campus—that’s what I tell myself, anyway, so I won’t be too nervous . . . but today, just as the opening is about to begin, it feels like the entire student population stays and packs the lobby. In the past I might’ve hid if it was an option, gone to Ezra’s place and pretended that my artwork wasn’t up in the gallery. But I wanted a chance to speak my truth in front of everyone, even if I feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare where I walk onto a stage and suddenly realize that I’m naked.
The lobby is crowded with echoing voices and laughter. I stand right outside in a dark hallway with Ezra, who seems to always know exactly what I need. He doesn’t fill the silence with “You’ll do great” and “Everything will be fine.” He smiles whenever I nervously meet his eye, and when I pull him in for a hug, he wraps his arms around me tightly, holding me close so I can breathe into his chest. It blows my mind to think that I could’ve been hugging Ezra like this all along.
Jill opens the door and pops her head out into the hallway. “It’s time. Are you ready?”
I let out a shaky, nervous breath and nod. Ezra kisses my cheek, and I take his hand so that he’ll follow me out into the lobby. It’s so packed that I can barely see the paintings on the walls, but I catch glimpses of them. The strength in my eyes, even when it looks like I’m lost under water. The power in my stare as I watch the viewer, my skin on fire. The crown of flowers on my head as I smile, knowing for a fact that I’m worthy of love and respect.
Dean Fletcher calls for everyone’s attention. “Quiet down,” she says, clapping her hands together, and the students fall to whispers until there’s silence. “At the end of every summer program, we hold a gallery featuring a chosen student’s work. This gallery is particularly special. For the first time in St. Catherine’s history, the judges decided unanimously that this was the project they would move forward with. I’m proud of the growth of this young artist, and I know that he has a bright future.
“Felix?” she says.
Ezra squeezes my hand, and I step forward with a deep breath.
“Uh,” I say, my voice cracking. Everyone, maybe all one hundred of the St. Cat’s students, stares at me blankly.
Leah is in the front, camera in her hands and clicking away as she snaps a picture of me every other second. Marisol stands in the back, arms crossed, muttering something to Hazel. Once upon a time, seeing her might’ve made me anxious—but now, I only wonder why I’d been so desperate for her attention, for her approval.
I had a speech practiced and ready to go, but for a moment my mind blanks—but when I look at Ezra, he gives me a smile and nods, and the words come back.
“So, a lot of you know that at the beginning of the summer, there was a—uh—gallery of me. It wasn’t with my permission. It showed a bunch of my old photos. Pictures I didn’t want anyone seeing. It really hurt, and for a while, I was kind of obsessed with figuring out who it was, and . . . I don’t know, making them pay for hurting me so much. I wanted to make them pay for what they’d done.”
I look across the crowd, and I lose my breath when I see Declan, standing against the far wall and watching. I keep going. “But then I started these paintings. I wasn’t really expecting to do them, to be honest. Someone suggested that I try, which I’m really thankful for . . .” Jill nods her head with a small smile. “And it was more helpful than I expected. More . . . empowering, to put up these paintings I created, of who I know I am, instead of what someone else sees me as. I am Felix. No one else gets to define who I am. Only me.
“I was hurt this summer, hurt more than I thought I ever could be. It could’ve been easy to say I was hurt because I’m trans, because someone singled me out for my identity, but there’s something weird about that—something off, about suggesting that my identity is the thing that brought me any sort of pain. It’s the opposite. Being trans brings me love. It brings me happiness. It gives me power.” Ezra’s biting his lip as he grins at me. I shrug a little. “It makes me feel like I’m a god. I wouldn’t change myself for anything.”
Everyone’s still staring. I think Jill might have some tears in her eyes, but I’m not totally sure. I hesitate, awkward in the silence. “That’s it, I guess.”
Claps explode, a lot louder than I was expecting. I try to walk back to Ezra as calmly as I can, even though my legs are shaking. Before I even reach him, people start rushing up to me, saying I’m brave and that my paintings are amazing and all that, which does feel good, I’m not going to lie—but I didn’t do this for anyone but myself. When I finally reach Ezra, he wraps his arms around me and buries his head in my neck.
“You’re so fucking cool,” he says, laughing a little. And I’m honestly not sure things could ever get any better than this.
Leah joins me and Ezra in the park to have a picnic. Pot brownies may or may not be involved. She snaps photos of us as we lie back in the grass, laughing as we get drunk on Pabst in the heat, reggaeton blasting from a nearby party, smoke from the grill stinging my eyes.
“You guys are so great,” Leah says. She’s a loving drunk. “I’m so lucky that you’re my friends. I really love you guys.”
“I love you, too,” Ezra says, grabbing her in a tight hug.
I think that this mushy lovefest would’ve made me want to die with discomfort a few months ago, but now, happiness seeps through me. There isn’t anything wrong with love. There isn’t anything embarrassing about love. “You’re freaking amazing, Leah,” I tell her. I think of the day she stood up to Austin, of how she helped me and Ezra during Pride. Ez and I begin an attack, tickling her and wrestling her and me lying on top of her stomach while she screams and laughs. An older couple who sits on a bench close by smiles at us.
I could stay like this for hours, for days, just doing nothing but enjoying the time that I get to have with two really freaking amazing human beings. But then I see the time on my phone.
“Shit, Ez, we’re late.” My dad’s expecting us for dinner tonight. Ezra’s started to look forward to coming over to hang out with me and my dad and has even stayed with us some nights—sleeping on the couch, of course; even though I sleep over at Ezra’s all of the time, my dad doesn’t even let him look at my bedroom.
We hug Leah goodbye, grabbing trash to toss on our way out of the park, and hurry down the sidewalk, running for a train just as it pulls up to the station. Ezra and I sit down with heavy sighs on the orange seats, sweaty and hot, but I can tell that he’s happy to be here with me, just as happy as I am to be with him. I glance at the window, then do a double take. R + J = 4EVA.
What’re the chances that this is the exact same train, and that we’ve taken the exact same seats? I think it’s more likely that R and J have written graffiti on as many trains as they could. But while I would’ve rolled my eyes once upon a time, shoving down the jealousy, I smile a little now.
“How likely do you think it is that R and J are still in love, on an anniversary somewhere like Fiji or Bermuda?”
When I nod at the graffiti, Ezra grins. “I’m pretty s
ure R and J are two government spies and on the run and living secret lives in Cuba.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah,” he says with a firm nod. “But it’s not fair they get to write this everywhere. They’re not the only ones who’re in love.”
I hesitate. This is stupid, I know it is—but, suddenly, I understand where R and J were coming from, publicly declaring their love with a black Sharpie. I reach into my backpack and grab one of the pens I use to sketch, and I make bubble letters on the wall before filling them in.
F + E = 4EVA
Ezra smirks at me, then kisses the corner of my mouth. “That’s so fucking corny.”
“I know.”
“I love it.”
“Me too.”
He leans back in his seat. “You know, I was messing around online last night, and I ended up down a rabbit hole, looking up a bunch of random shit . . . and I remember you told me that Felix means ‘lucky’ in Latin—but apparently, it also means ‘happy.’”
“Wait—what?”
“Yeah. There was a site that said Felix means both ‘lucky’ and ‘happy.’” He shrugs. “Not huge news, I guess. I just thought it was cool.”
For years I’d thought Felix had only meant ‘lucky,’ so now there’s a whole other definition to my name to wrap my brain around . . . but I can’t say that I mind it. These days, I’m pretty freaking happy, too. I glance at Ezra, and the corner of his lips twitches into a smile, before he leans forward and kisses me. He takes my hand, fingers brushing together, like he never wants to let go, and I don’t want him to, either.
Author’s Note
It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I discovered my trans identity, but when I look back on my life, the hints and clues were always there. I’d been assigned female at birth, but I often had dreams of being in a different body, similar to the one I have now. I remember being jealous of the boys in my grade at school, desperately wanting to be their friends, though I didn’t really know why I was jealous or why I wanted to be accepted by them. I even remember outright telling my mom, once, that I thought I might be a boy. (This was probably the most obvious clue of all.) But the thing is, at that time, I didn’t know that being a boy was an option. I thought I was trapped in the body of a girl for the rest of my life—thought that, because of my body, I had no choice but to be a girl, too. I hoped, and prayed, that if reincarnation was real, I would be born as a boy in my next life.
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