Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  This is a good thing, right? This means Declan’s opening up to me. Starting to trust me.

  I press the number and hold before hitting the send message button that pops up. My heart’s going a little too crazy. I type out a short text:

  Hey. It’s Lucky, from Instagram.

  Declan responds almost immediately.

  Thanks for texting. Didn’t know if you would. Not that I would blame you. Texting with a stranger is a little weird, right?

  I don’t know. Maybe?

  I wouldn’t normally do it, but there’s something about your comments, I guess.

  What do you mean?

  Your comments are open. Vulnerable. Honest. No one’s ever like that. Makes me want to be the same way.

  You’re not normally open?

  Nope.

  Why not?

  I don’t know. It isn’t easy to make yourself vulnerable like that. Makes it easier for people to hurt you.

  I frown at that one. Do people hurt you a lot?

  Maybe not more than anyone else. Don’t you ever get hurt?

  I’m not actually very open and vulnerable in real life.

  Really? That’s surprising. Maybe it’s because we’re strangers that you open up more. . . .

  Yeah. Maybe.

  Declan doesn’t answer for a while. My father’s making popcorn. It’s sizzling and burning in the microwave. When my phone buzzes, my eyes scan the screen.

  I have to start getting ready for bed, but is it okay if I text you again in a little while?

  I don’t know why I’m excited. I really, really shouldn’t be this excited.

  Yeah. Sure. I’d be okay with that.

  I keep texting with Declan. While I’m brushing my teeth, under the sheets in bed with the lights off, I’m glued to the screen that buzzes in my hands every few seconds. At first we only talk about art and his new collage pieces, but the texts eventually spiral. I lie on my back in my bed, Captain curled up at my feet—it’s three a.m., and my dad thinks I’m asleep.

  Are you kidding me? First best show is Boruto, THEN FMA: Brotherhood, then Death Note.

  You’re out of your mind, I tell him. Out of your freaking mind. How can you put BORUTO before FMA?

  Boruto’s hilarious.

  FMA is funny!

  Yeah, but Boruto also made me cry.

  And you didn’t cry during FMA??? What are you, a monster?

  Declan sends some laughing emojis. After a pause, another message comes in.

  That’s one of the things you’re thinking of doing after college, right? Declan asks. Working in animation?

  I hesitate. It was a random tidbit I’d slipped into our conversation earlier. I’d told him that I liked illustrating other people—could see myself working in comics or animation as a character designer, though I’m not really positive that’s what I want to do. I told him that getting into college was the be-all, end-all right now, so it was hard to think about what would come after. I regret telling him any of that now, though. Would it be easier for him to figure out who I am?

  Yeah. I like Disney/Pixar. A part of me wants to run away to California and start interning for them.

  Not a bad dream. What’s stopping you?

  It’s not exactly easy to just pick up and go. I’m only seventeen.

  Right. Sometimes I just want to say fuck it all. Leave school, not go to college, just travel the world or something.

  That’s effing news to me. Why?

  I don’t know. All this pressure, I guess.

  I have split emotions. One half of me wants to tell him to leave, then. Get the hell out of here. There are people who could use the spot he’ll inevitably get when he applies for school. Why go to college if he doesn’t even really want to? It pisses me the hell off, thinking that after all this, he doesn’t even want the spot at Brown, or the scholarship—and he might still get it over me.

  The other half, though, completely understands what he means. All this pressure fills me up so much that it’s hard to think, hard to move, hard to even breathe. How nice would it be, to not care? To just take a gap year? Travel and dream and learn more about who I am? Maybe all the answers to the questions I have about myself would materialize out of thin air.

  Is your name really Lucky? he asks me.

  Why do you ask?

  I don’t know. I’m curious about you, I guess. I like talking to you.

  I sit up, my chest getting warm. This is Declan Keane, I try to remind myself. This is Declan fucking Keane. The guy behind the gallery, who’s been sending messages on Instagram. But right here, right now . . . it’s hard to believe that it was really him. Maybe I’m just telling myself that, because I’ve actually been enjoying our conversation, which seems impossible. Wrong, even.

  Sorry if that’s weird, he says.

  It’s not weird. I take a deep breath, even though it’s absolutely, completely weird. I like talking to you, too.

  Maybe we can meet up someday. We’re both in New York.

  Yeah. Maybe.

  Declan doesn’t respond immediately. Things have escalated so quickly. It isn’t too late to stop all of this. Just not reply to any of his messages. Then, finally:

  I’m kind of scared you go to my school or something.

  I wince. Shit.

  Why would you be scared of that?

  People kind of hate me at my school.

  It’s my turn to pause. What the fuck is Declan talking about? Everyone’s constantly flocking to him. He’s the effing golden boy of St. Cat’s. He’s literally on the front cover of the school’s brochure.

  Why do you think that?

  Well, not everyone, I guess. I just don’t actually feel like I have friends I can talk to. I’m surrounded by acquaintances.

  I raise an eyebrow. That’s surprising to hear. So his dumbass friends James and Marc aren’t even really that close to Declan? I remember Ezra’s words—that we might not be getting the full story.

  Another text comes in right away. And, okay. There are at least two people who really fucking hate me.

  My heart seizes. I clutch the phone.

  Really? Who?

  There are these two guys. I used to go out with one of them, and it didn’t end well.

  I can’t help myself. What happened? I know what happened, I know what the hell happened—Declan decided he wasn’t interested and brushed us the fuck off—but I want to hear that from Declan himself.

  That’s a story for another time.

  Disappointing. I hesitate—but then, fuck it, I’m already pretty deep in this anyway. Okay. What about the other guy?

  The other guy. God, I can’t figure it out, actually.

  What do you mean?

  I mean he really can’t stand me, and I have no idea why.

  I stare at the screen. I want to laugh. I want to chuck the phone against the wall. I want to scream. What the hell do you mean, you have no idea why? Is Declan really that oblivious? Does he really have no fucking clue that he’s treated me like total and complete shit for the past two years?

  I mean, okay, we both want this spot at Brown, and we’re both pretty competitive, but he REALLY hates me for it, and I only hate him a little bit.

  Haha, that’s funny. I’m clutching my phone so tightly my hands are starting to shake.

  Yeah. I actually feel kind of bad for him.

  I sit up so fast Captain hisses and leaps from the sheets. Why?

  It’s a long story. Basically, the guy is trans, and someone outed him, I guess?

  My heart’s hammering. I can feel my vein throbbing in my neck.

  They put up this gallery of photos of him from a few years back before he transitioned, and had his old name up and everything. I didn’t see it, but I heard he had a breakdown.

  I wipe my eyes. I don’t even know why I’m crying.

  And no one knows who did it?

  Nope. It’s wild, right? I feel like the person has to be straight-up evil to do something like that. What’s k
ind of creepy is that whoever did it is just chilling in any one of the classes I’m in.

  I don’t know what to say. I sit there, unmoving. Captain starts to tear at the rug on my floor. A minute passes. Five minutes. Declan texts, asking if I fell asleep. Shit. Fucking shit.

  So you’d never do something like that? Not even to someone you hate?

  Declan doesn’t respond right away. I think he might’ve fallen asleep himself, but then my phone buzzes.

  I’d never do something like that, not even to my worst enemy. That’s like—I don’t know, someone being racist or homophobic or any sort of ignorant shit. That’s unforgivable.

  I put my phone down on my nightstand. Another buzz, and another, and another, but I ignore the messages.

  It wasn’t Declan.

  It wasn’t fucking Declan.

  Ezra was right. I knew there was a possibility he was right. I’m not surprised. Even I was starting to question if it was really Declan or not. I’d wanted it to be him—hoped it was him, because it was easier to make sense of it all. Easier to put my anger and hate on a target that I was already angry at, already hated.

  Now? It could be anyone. Literally anyone at St. Cat’s could’ve put that gallery up. Could’ve gone out of their way to hurt me.

  Who the hell was it?

  Another buzz. I sigh and snatch up the phone, ready to tell Declan to shut the fuck up, I’m going to bed—when I see the messages.

  Lucky, I hope this isn’t weird . . . but you go to my school, don’t you? You go to St. Catherine’s.

  Okay, sorry, that was weird.

  But I really think you do. I feel like I know you.

  I hope you tell me who you are.

  Because this is what’s weirdest of all. Sorry in advance.

  But I think I might be falling for you.

  Eleven

  I HAVE TO GET MY T-SHOT BEFORE I GO TO CLASS THE NEXT morning. I get one every two weeks, have been for the last couple of years. There’re a few different options to get my hormones, but this is the one that works the best for me. My dad offers to go with me to the clinic, just like he always does, and I don’t know . . . I guess that’s another weird thing about all of this. The way he’s supportive as fuck on paper, in all the right ways, but still won’t accept me as his son. I tell him I’m all right and head to the train on my own.

  I open up my Instagram once I have a seat. When I’d woken up, I saw that I’d gotten a new Instagram message from grandequeen69, one that I’ve been too afraid to read. I tap on the message.

  Why’re you pretending to be a boy?

  Who are you? Why’re you trolling me?

  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.

  And the new message:

  I’m not trolling you. I’m just telling you the truth. You were born a girl. You’ll always be a girl.

  Pain sparks and fury burns through me. It’s no one else’s right to say who I am, or what I identify as—but not everyone believes that. I know grandequeen69 isn’t the only person in the world who would think my identity is based on the gender I was assigned at birth—to force me into a box, to control me for their own comfort, because they’re afraid of what they don’t understand. Because they’re afraid of me.

  To know that there are people out there who hate me, want to hurt me, want to erase my identity, without ever even seeing me or knowing me, just like there are people out there who hate me for the color of my skin—it’s enraging, infuriating, but it also hurts. The old hollow pain that burrowed its way into my chest the moment I saw that gallery of the old me is still there, and it feels like it’s growing every second, like a black hole in the middle of my body. And what’s worse is that I know I’ve been questioning my identity. My guilt and shame swell.

  Something tells me that I should just delete the messages and block grandequeen69, but the urge to argue, to make them understand, to make them see grows.

  I’m not a girl. You don’t get to tell me who I am. You don’t have that power. What do you get out of messaging me like this?

  There’s no immediate response. A part of me is relieved, but there’s dread there, too, at having to wait for the next time this evil piece of shit messages me again.

  I get off at Fourteenth Street. It’s a little chilly this morning, gray clouds covering the sky, strong gusts of wind almost blowing me off my feet. Callen-Lorde is in one of the more expensive neighborhoods of Manhattan. The block is lined by brownstones with vines and lace-curtained windows. Queer folk are everywhere. Two women openly hold hands, and another guy zooms by on a skateboard wearing a rainbow Pride shirt.

  I get to the tinted glass doors of Callen-Lorde and push into the lobby of stained tile and walls plastered with flyers for Pride month events. I go around to the back to grab my prescription. The waiting room is full, and the line wraps around. There’s always a line at Callen-Lorde. It’s one of the few clinics and pharmacies specifically for LGBTQIA+ folk in NYC, and there are so many people desperate for good health care that Callen-Lorde even reached capacity and had to close its doors to new patients. I was one of the lucky last few who managed to get an appointment two years back.

  As I get into line, I try not to stare at the people around me. There’s a man with white hair in a blue business suit, a couple of women speaking in Spanish, a tall college-aged girl with purple hair—she catches me looking and smiles—an older man with a cane. I never get tired of seeing the patients who come here. So many different sorts of people, all of us connected by this one thing, our one queer identity. I’m a little bit in awe, I guess. But I’m also a little jealous. I’m the youngest person here. Everyone else has had years to figure themselves out already. They probably don’t question anything about themselves anymore. No annoying niggling thoughts about their identity. How did they know, finally, if they were a gay man, or a trans woman? How did they figure out their answers?

  I grab my prescription and head to the elevator, getting off at the second floor to sign in with the youth center’s receptionist. I’m called into the back, prescription bag crinkling in my hand, palms a little sweaty. I’m always nervous before my shot, even though it’s been two years now.

  My nurse Sophia is waiting for me in the hall. “How’re you today, Felix?” she asks as she leads me into one of the rooms. She has pale skin, dark brown hair pulled into a loose bun. I hand her the prescription bag.

  “All right,” I mumble. I’m also still a little shy to get my shot, even after all this time. I unbutton, unzip, and pull down my jean cutoffs before taking a seat, knee jiggling as Sophia rips open the bag and does her thing, grabbing the needle and wiping my thigh with a disinfecting cloth.

  “So cold today, right?” she says brightly. “Ready?”

  I hold my breath and nod.

  She jabs the needle into my thigh, so smoothly I barely feel a thing—Sophia’s always the best at giving me my shot—and she injects the testosterone. I stare at it as it drains into my leg. It’s strange, to feel so grateful to some yellow fluid, but I kind of feel like it’s my elixir. I know it’s going to give me the changes I want to see—the changes I need others to see, too. Back when my dad was arguing with me over whether or not I should take testosterone or get the surgery, he’d asked me if I would still want to do any of this if I were on a deserted island.

  “What if it were just you, with no one else around to say what your gender is?” he’d asked.

  “But that’s the point,” I answered. “I’m not on a deserted island. I don’t want people to look at me and decide what my gender is, based on how I look now.”

  The testosterone helps with that. I’m at a low enough dose that I’m basically going through the same changes other guys my age are going through, too. Hair growth. Lower voice. And . . . other things that were insanely embarr
assing for Dr. Rodriguez to tell me about with my dad in the room. That day, when I met with my doctor for the first time, I was sent off with the assignment to do more research—to see if this is what I really wanted—and I ended up on a bunch of Tumblr posts, following a shit ton of trans people on Instagram, sifting through Twitter . . .

  But no one ever mentioned that, even after my surgery and T-shots—after years of being positive that I’m a guy—I’d still have so many questions.

  Sophia pulls out the needle and holds the disinfecting wipe in place as I massage my thigh, working the testosterone into the muscle like I was taught, the ache already starting. She grabs a Band-Aid, sticking it on smoothly.

  “You’re such a pro,” she tells me with a smile.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say as I button and zip and jump to my feet.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Do you ever,” I say, and it’s embarrassing to continue—scary, even. What if she tells me that I’m only pretending to be trans, and I’m not allowed to be a patient at Callen-Lorde anymore? But I swallow and force myself to keep going. “Do you ever have any patients who know that they’re trans, but are—I don’t know, still questioning their identity?”

  Sophia doesn’t seem surprised by the question, but she’s probably trained not to react. “I don’t usually speak with patients about their identity,” she admits, “but if you have any questions, or want to talk to anyone, I can have someone sign you up for an appointment with our youth counselor. There’s also a group that speaks about identity—”

  “No,” I say, probably a little too quickly. “No, thanks. I’m all right.”

  She seems concerned. “Are you sure?”

  I nod, heading for the door.

  “You know, Felix,” she says before I can grab the handle, “I think that it’s fine to keep questioning your identity. You don’t owe anyone any answers. And,” she adds, “I’m sure you’re not the only person who’s ever questioned after they started transitioning. Maybe it’s worth doing some research online. See what comes up.”