Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  “Uh—”

  “Why any of this?” he asks a little too aggressively. “Seriously, Felix. Why not science, or business, or—literally anything else?”

  “I think you’re a little young to be having a midlife crisis, Ez.”

  “What if this is my midlife crisis?” he demands. “What if I’m going to die in exactly seventeen years and I’ve wasted my life on this, on art and painting and fashion and all this creative bullshit, because I thought it was my passion, when really, I’m meant to be doing something else?”

  There’s a spark of frustration in my chest. Ezra gets to have a midlife crisis at the age of seventeen because of his privilege and his family’s wealth. Me? I have to figure out what I want to do and work my ass off for it if I want to have a chance of any sort of future. I’m never going to have anything handed to me, the way that things are just handed to Ezra. But I try to push those feelings aside—and maybe it’s the weed, but Ezra’s paranoia sinks into me, too. I mean, who’s to say that I shouldn’t be an astrophysicist? Or that I’m not actually the next Bach?

  “You know those people who get into car accidents?” I ask Ezra. “Or who get hit by lightning? And then they’re in a coma or something, but when they wake up, they’ve become this genius in something they’d never even tried before?”

  Ezra stares at the sky. “No.”

  I frown at him. “Really? Well—I mean, I guess I’m just saying the same thing as you.”

  “Okay.” He turns his head to me. “Want me to run you over with a car?”

  “Fuck off, Ezra.”

  “No, really, I can do that. I mean, if you want me to.”

  I try not to laugh. “You don’t even have a car.”

  “I will absolutely steal a car so that I can run you over with it.”

  I shove his arm, and he flashes a grin at me. “Maybe you should. Then I could have a chance at being talented at something.”

  He groans and leans on me. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re talented.”

  “I’m—I don’t know, someone with a smidgen of talent, who decided that this is what I wanted to do when I was a kid, and then decided to practice my ass off for ten years, just to get to where I am now. Which is nowhere in comparison to some people.”

  “To what people?”

  “To you,” I say—and I mean it. Ezra’s artwork is always great. He’s instantly a genius in anything he decides to try. First, it was watercolor; the next year, sculpture. Right now, he’s focusing on fashion and taught himself how to stitch and make patterns in a single summer. Ezra’s so good that he didn’t even bother to sign up for the summer sewing workshop; he decided to just follow me into acrylics so that we could hang out during class.

  “Moi?” Ezra says, pretending to be flattered.

  I hesitate. “And people like Declan Keane.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “Are we really going to talk about him right now?”

  “No,” I say. “But I mean—both of you have this natural talent, and it’s like . . . I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if talent comes from experience, you know?”

  “I really, really don’t,” Ezra says, passing me the weed. “You need to relax, Felix. You’re always second-guessing yourself. Your shit is good.”

  “You have to say that because you’re my friend.”

  “No, not really. As your friend, it’s my job to be honest. For example, that particular Beatles tank top,” he says, waving a hand at my shirt, which has portraits of the four members. “Do you even like the Beatles?”

  I elbow him. “Sometimes.”

  He takes the weed back, sucking in one long draw, staring down at the street below.

  “I haven’t—” I hesitate, because it’s a little embarrassing to say, but I say it anyway. “I’ve never been in love. Which is ironic, because, you know—my last name and everything.”

  Ezra snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

  “I want to be in love. I’ve never, you know—felt the kind of passion great artists talk about. I want that. I want to feel that level of intensity. Not everyone wants love. I get that, you know? But me—I want to fall in love and be broken up with and get pissed and grieve and fall in love all over again. I’ve never felt any of that. I’ve just been doing the same shit. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.”

  Ezra doesn’t say anything for a long time, until he nudges me with his head and looks at me with puppy-dog eyes. “I’m not exciting?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I’m too boring for you? Really?”

  “Shit, Ez, I’m trying to be serious.”

  “Yeah. I am, too.” He sits up, stares straight ahead. “You’ll get to do all of that at some point,” he says, “but in the meantime, you’re forgetting that you’re right here, with me—and that I’m pretty fucking awesome.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come Together” starts playing on the Spotify station. “See? I listen to the Beatles.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  He grins at me for a split second, then leans his head on my shoulder. I’m a lot shorter than him, so it must strain his neck, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Did the Keanester respond?”

  I check my phone and scroll through my notifications. “Nope.”

  “Told you.”

  I shrug. I’m patient when it comes to destroying my enemies. I’ll just have to keep trying.

  It’s only as we’re cleaning up and getting ready for bed that my phone buzzes. I grab it and swipe open Instagram, holding my breath, thinking that it might actually be Declan—but the notification is for my real account. I frown and click on the Message Requests link. An anonymous account, grandequeen69, sent a single line:

  Did you like the gallery?

  Five

  Hey Mom,

  Here’s something I haven’t told you yet: even though I came out to you as a trans guy in an email—yeah, exactly, that one you never responded to—I’m not sure if I’m actually a guy. It’s a hard feeling to describe. It’s like . . . just this sense, this feeling, in my gut that something isn’t totally right. I know that I’m definitely not a girl. But that’s all I know.

  I’ve been doing research. Trying to look up different definitions and labels and terms. Some people say we shouldn’t need labels. That we’re trying to box ourselves in too much. But I don’t know. It feels good to me, to know I’m not alone. That someone else has felt the same way I’ve felt, experienced the same things I’ve experienced. It’s validating.

  But it’s embarrassing, too. I made this big deal about being a guy. And now I’m, what, changing my mind? Or is it that my identity is evolving? I don’t know. Something pretty bad happened to me. There was a gallery at school of my old pictures, telling everyone my deadname—and right after, I got this Instagram message taunting me. I’m hurt that anyone would go out of their way to attack me, but at this point, the hurt is very quickly turning into anger. Rage. I’m pissed off. Like, to the point where I kind of want to beat the crap out of the person who’s doing this to me. And I’m pretty sure it’s all Declan Keane.

  I didn’t even tell Ezra about the Instagram message. I didn’t want him to freak out about it. And if Declan’s the one behind all of this, then it doesn’t matter—I’m taking him down pretty soon anyway.

  It’s kind of ironic, I guess, that I’m writing to you about all of this, when you’re the one who’s hurt me most of all—yes, even more than the gallery and even more than that Instagram message and even more than the daily bullshit I have to see in the news, about trans people like me fighting for the right to live. Kind of hard to believe at this point, but it’s true. It’s like I’m constantly trying to prove that I deserve love—but how can I, when even my own mom doesn’t love me?

  Your son . . . ?

  Felix

  This is the sort of revenge plot that will require biding my time, so I don’t continue commenting on Declan’s posts. Two unanswered comments are en
ough for now—I don’t want to creep him out . . . but I do start building my profile more. Over the next couple of days, I snap a close-up shot of Ezra’s brick wall for my first image, and another photo of the weed, basil, and mint side by side. I start liking and commenting on other posts, so that it doesn’t look like I’m fixated on Declan. Ezra makes me like every single one of his posts, and I hop onto Marisol’s Instagram also, trying to ignore the photos of her making out with different people from St. Cat’s. I probably should’ve told Marisol to go fuck herself the second she told me I was a misogynist for being trans, but she’s always hung around the same crowds as me and Ezra, and it was kind of impossible to just rip her out of my life. There’s that . . . and this urge to convince her that she is wrong.

  When it’s been a full weekend of nothing but Instagram, chicken wings, and chardonnay, I get a text message from my dad while I’m in class on Monday: U OK?

  I text him back: Yeah, I’ve just been busy with Ezra.

  He responds: K. See U 2nite.

  I figure this is a sign that he’s not happy I haven’t been staying in touch, even though we agreed that I’d split my time between home and Ezra’s apartment. My dad’s always been pretty easygoing, in comparison to my mom, before she abandoned us for her newer and better family. I have memories of her being strict. I had to wear everything she told me to: those stupid lace dresses and shiny shoes and pearl earrings, bows and barrettes in my hair. My dad was always the one that left the discipline to her, and even after she left us, he’s never been great at setting rules or curfews or anything.

  I jump back into my project. Our thesis class takes up the second half of the day, after lunch, before classes let out at two o’clock. The thesis class is our chance to work on whatever we want to, and for most rising seniors like me and Declan, we’re focusing on the portfolio we’ll end up using for our college applications. Declan’s taken up a corner of the room with his collage work spread across two tables (the narcissism is impressive, truly), but I end up in front of a prepped and stretched canvas, acrylic paints waiting in a neat stack beside me.

  I’m sitting at one long white table with Ezra, Marisol, Leah, Austin, Hazel, and Tyler. Well, it’s more like I’m sitting with Ezra, and everyone else is sitting with him. Leah’s focused on her laptop, editing photos for her portfolio—I’ve heard her say that she wants to work in photojournalism, so she takes her photography super seriously. She was really pissed when she was told she had too many photography credits for the summer program, forcing her into acrylics instead. She’s the only one in the room who’s completely silent. Everyone else is whispering while they work.

  “Astrology isn’t real,” Hazel says. Hazel has dark skin and hair that’s dyed purple, piercings and tattoos. “It’s like Hogwarts houses.”

  “Excuse me,” Ezra says. “Hogwarts houses are real.”

  “I still haven’t read the books,” Marisol says, leaning back in her chair.

  “What? Really?” Austin doesn’t glance up from his landscape. Austin has blond hair, blue eyes, a dimpled smile, and gives the vibes of someone who might wear a sweater tied around his shoulders unironically. “They’re, like—a cultural phenomenon.”

  “I kind of hate reading,” Marisol says.

  “That explains a lot,” Hazel mumbles. Marisol gives her an icy look. I guess the breakup isn’t going very well.

  “Astrology is real,” Tyler insists. “Listen. The moon controls the tides, right? The human body is mostly water. It’d make sense if the moon controls us, too.”

  “Tyler,” Hazel says, “no one knows what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Marisol snorts. Tyler looks frustrated. His cheeks go pink.

  “I kind of think astrology is real, too,” Austin says, earning a smile from Tyler. “I mean, it can’t be a coincidence that so many people relate to their signs, right? And the way signs interact with each other. I’m a Libra, and I’m always attracted to Leos, without fail.”

  Ezra perks up at that. “I’m a Leo.”

  Austin blushes a little. Leah says, without looking up, “He knows.”

  I blink and glance at Ezra, who gives a small, surprised smile. Okay. Weird moment.

  Hazel’s bored with whatever micro-flirtation is happening. “You probably believe in destiny and soul mates and all that crap.”

  Austin hesitates. “Well,” he says, “yeah, I do.”

  “I definitely do,” Tyler tells us.

  “Oh, come on,” Hazel says. “How can you live in the twenty-first century and believe in bullshit like that?”

  “Okay, all right,” Ezra says. “Calm down. It’s just a conversation.”

  “Yeah,” Marisol says. “Why’re you getting so riled up?” She says this, clearly for the sole purpose of riling Hazel up. From the expression on Hazel’s face, it’s working.

  “I don’t know,” Austin says. “It just feels like so much is connected, you know? Don’t you ever feel like you were put on this planet for a purpose? Like you’re meant to do something important? I think about that all the time. What’s my destiny? What if I’m missing out on what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “What if it’s your destiny to miss out on your destiny?” Marisol says.

  “That’s . . . slightly terrifying,” he says.

  I can’t blame Austin. It’s something I’ve thought about before—the question of if I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing in this lifetime. The thought sends a spike of fear through me. I was having a hard time concentrating before, but I’m having an even harder time focusing now. I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. Portraits have always been my specialty, but the portfolio can’t be a random collection of paintings. Should I choose one subject? Should there be a running color theme? What am I trying to say with these portraits? What’s the story I’m trying to portray?

  What the hell am I supposed to make, to convince Brown that I’m good enough?

  The questions make me freeze. I could do anything, but it somehow feels like I don’t have any options. I can already feel the years of hard work, resulting in nothing but my average grades and less-than-average test scores, going down the drain. My dad’s going to be disappointed. He’ll smile and say that he’s proud of me, but how could he not be disappointed? He’s given up everything for me, for this education, so that I could do something great with my life—and instead, I’m sitting here with nothing but a blank, white canvas.

  I start gathering the acrylics to put them away in the supply closet.

  “Where’re you going?” Ezra whispers, barely glancing up from his sketches of dresses sprawled out in front of him. A few of the others glance up, too.

  “Home. Nothing’s coming to me.”

  “Home? You mean my place?”

  “No,” I tell him, “my dad wants me back tonight.”

  “Oh, good,” he says. “Now I can finally invite my special friend over.”

  “See you later, Ez.”

  “All right,” he says, and actually looks a little sad to say goodbye. “See you later.”

  I walk to the door, ignoring Declan, who rolls his eyes and shakes his head, muttering something across his two tables to James as I leave. Things have calmed down at school. I don’t know if Ezra made it a personal mission or what, but somehow, everyone figured out that I did not want to talk about the gallery. I just want to pretend it never happened. And so that’s what everyone’s doing. This has made being back in class bearable, even though my throat still closes up every time I walk through the lobby, or whenever I open my Instagram app, afraid that there’ll be another message waiting for me. To be honest, the only thing that makes any of this better is thinking about how I’m going to destroy Declan Keane’s life. I can’t help it. I’m a little obsessed.

  The trains are running pretty smoothly for once, and I’m back up to my dad’s apartment in less than two hours. He’s in the kitchen, cooking stir fry from the smell of it. Smoke fills the tiny apartment and instantly bu
rns my eyes. The TV is on, playing The Real Housewives of New York. My dad’s love of reality TV is immeasurable.

  I cross over into the living room and make myself comfortable on the plush chair. Captain sits in front of the screen on the TV stand, staring right at me, purring deeply. “The prodigal son returns,” my dad says, only slightly passive-aggressively.

  I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t know why he’s suddenly annoyed that I’m staying at Ezra’s. I get that I’m the kid in this situation, but this is still supposed to be a chance for me to break free and get used to the idea that in a year, I’ll be living on my own as an almost-adult. We agreed that I’d split my time between home and Ezra’s, so it’s pretty frustrating that he’s acting like this.

  I tell him that I need to grab clean clothes. I bring my backpack into my bedroom to pull out my dirty laundry, tossing them into my basket. I’m a little bit of a neat freak, and there isn’t much space to be messy anyway, so the floor is spotless, bed made, Akira on my nightstand. I pull open my drawer and grab a few tanks and T-shirts, jean cutoffs, and boxers, before I stuff them into my backpack and head into the living room again, switching off the light. My dad puts plates on the dining table that’s pushed up against the wall.

  “Hey, kid,” my dad says as I sit down with my food, “maybe you should give Ezra’s apartment a break.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’d be nice if you stayed home a little longer than one night every few days.”

  I frown as I pick out the green beans, pushing them to the side. “I thought you said it was okay to stay with Ezra.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “every once in a while. I was thinking every few weeks.”

  “The program is over in two months. It wouldn’t make any sense for me to just stay down there once every few weeks.”

  “So it makes sense for you to not live here, at home, with your father?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve never stayed over at Ezra’s before.”