Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  “Well, let me ask you a question,” Zelda says. “Why’re you even looking for their approval? Fuck them,” she says. “Who needs to deal with snotty little shits?”

  “I’m not looking for their approval,” Sarah says, obviously pissed by the question. “It hurts. That’s all I’m saying. It hurts to not be included, to be rejected—especially when it’s by people you thought would understand and accept you. You have to admit that it hurts.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to just—I don’t know, only be around people like me,” Wally says. “Not deal with the transphobia, the racism, the anti-queerness. Just surround myself with a hundred other Wallys and be done with it. Create my own world, my own bubble, so I don’t have to be rejected by anyone else.”

  “The only issue with that idea,” Tom says, “is that not everyone has the privilege, or the ability, to create that bubble we all crave.”

  “So what do we do?” Sarah asks. “Force the bastards to see that we deserve their time of day? Make them understand that if it weren’t for women like me, they wouldn’t have any of their damn rights in the first place?”

  Tom gives a nonjudgmental shrug. “Is that really what you want to spend your energy on?” he asks.

  “What should I be spending my energy on instead?”

  “Yourself,” he suggests. “Loving and accepting and celebrating yourself, and loving and celebrating and supporting the young women like you who will come next. Changing this world, yes—we need people who will fight for our rights, fight for justice in the courts so that it will be better for the next generation. But creating our own world, not just for ourselves in our bubble, but one that can spread to those who need it most—one filled with our stories, our history, our love and pride—that’s just as beautiful. That’s just as necessary. Without that, we forget ourselves. Crumple under the pain of feeling isolated, unaccepted by others, without realizing that, above all else, we need to love and accept ourselves first.”

  I came here with the plan of speaking, of joining in the discussion, of asking my questions. I have so many thoughts, and my heart’s almost out of my throat. I force myself to speak. “Excuse me,” I say.

  Everyone’s heads swing toward me.

  My voice cracks. “How—uh—do you even know your gender identity in the first place?”

  Sarah shifts in her seat impatiently—and I don’t know, maybe it’s a stupid question to ask; maybe they’re already leagues ahead of me, and this is a boring point to discuss. I feel like I should apologize for interrupting, for wasting their time, but Bex gives me another smile.

  “It’s just,” I say, clearing my throat. “It feels like there are so many options, so many genders. How do you know which one is right?”

  Zelda speaks. “Too many options,” she says. “Too many labels. There’s such an obsession with putting everything into a box now.”

  “I don’t know,” Wally says with a shrug. “If this was a perfect world, and there wasn’t any transphobia or treating other people like shit for who they are, then maybe there wouldn’t be a need for labels. But the world isn’t perfect, and when I have to deal with ignorant bullshit, it helps me to know there’re other trans guys out there.”

  “Okay, fine,” Zelda says. “But why so many labels? Why not just boy or girl? Transgender men, transgender women?”

  Bex tilts their head. “If I’d been able to, I would have chosen one or the other. It’d be so much easier than having to explain myself every time I walk through a body scanner at the airport, or not knowing which public bathroom to use when there aren’t any gender-neutral options. But one or the other doesn’t feel right for me.”

  “How do you know which one does feel right?” I ask.

  There’re a few smiles, and I wonder if I said something stupid again.

  “It’s different for some,” Bex offers. “For me, it was just that feeling. The feeling that my identity—nonbinary—explains so much of who I am, who I’ve always been, in a way that other labels never did.”

  I grip my hands together. “What if I never get that feeling?”

  “It’s possible that you never will,” Bex says. “There are some who go on questioning forever. That’s okay, too. But when it’s right, you’ll know. There’s a confidence that spreads through you, and you know you’ve found the answer.”

  Zelda shakes her head. “These younger generations,” she says. “Always questioning. Always shaking things up, just for the sake of it.”

  “These younger generations,” Tom echoes. “I envy them. There’s so much more space to explore who they are now. To explore and celebrate themselves. I could never have imagined seeing a transgender man on TV or in the movies when I was younger. And now?” He looks at me. “I look at you and wish I could be a teenager again. I know that things aren’t perfect,” he says, nodding, “and there are still hardships, but don’t forget to enjoy these years. Live. Live them for the people who didn’t get to enjoy being a teenager. For the people who never lived past being a teenager.”

  The conversation continues. What it was like to be a teenager back in the days of everyone here—what they wish had been different, what’s different now. I’m too shy to say anything else, but Tom’s words echo through me.

  In my bedroom, time flashing 12:06 a.m., I have my laptop open and on a Tumblr post that lists the hundreds of different transgender identities. Nonbinary. Agender. Bigender. Transmasculine. Transfeminine. Genderqueer. Gender nonconforming. So many terms, so many identities, and I start to feel myself getting overwhelmed again. None of these definitions feel right.

  I keep reading, scrolling, eyes becoming glazed, when one word catches my eye. Demiboy. A person who identifies as mostly or partly male—I sit up, moving my computer to my lap—but may also identify as nonbinary some of the time, or even as a girl. The niggling in me spreads from the back of my head, down my neck, and into my chest. Most of the time, there’s no question—I’m a guy, I have no doubt about that. But other times . . . being called a boy doesn’t feel right, almost in the same way that being called a girl feels so completely wrong.

  I try saying it out loud. “Demiboy.” Demiboy, demiboy, demiboy.

  I smile a little. I smile, and then outright laugh, and I might even begin to cry a little, because I know what Bex was talking about now. The confidence that spreads through me. I know that this is right. It’s kind of amazing, that there’s a word that explains exactly how I feel, that takes away all of my confusion and questioning and hesitation—a word that lets me know there are others out there who feel exactly the same way that I do.

  It feels a little anticlimactic, getting the answer to a question I’ve been struggling with for months now. I feel the need to scream it and—I think with a flinch—to text Ezra, to tell him everything, to tell him about the meeting I went to earlier and the research I did and how perfect demiboy feels, and that I miss him, too. There’s another question I’ve been avoiding, ever since the night Ezra tried to tell me that he’s in love with me. How do I feel about Ezra? Am I in love with him also? Just the thought of Ezra sends a spark through me, the memory of the kiss setting me on fire.

  I grab my phone and open up Instagram. I sit up with a grin and snap a selfie. Caption: Guess who’s a demiboy?

  I add a bunch of hashtags and smile as I post it. It sucks that Ezra and I aren’t talking, but maybe he’ll see it anyway. Maybe he’ll be curious and text me, and we can get over whatever the hell is happening between us. I start scrolling through other posts. The images look odd, though, not who I usually follow. . . .

  I look up at the corner of my account, and my heart starts to thunder, same way it does if I’ve just woken up from a nightmare. I’m still logged in as luckyliquid95.

  I leap out of bed, almost tripping over my sheets. “Shit, shit, oh fucking shit—”

  My fingers are suddenly too big, too clumsy, to get back to the post. I delete it with trembling hands.

  I stand there, stari
ng at my phone. How possible is it that Declan was awake and on Instagram at that exact moment? How possible is it that he saw my selfie?

  I don’t get a phone call or any text messages about it. I sit back down on my bed, staring at the screen. Please, please, please don’t let him have seen the post. . . .

  That’s my mantra. All through my sleepless night and into the next morning, as I travel down from Harlem and walk the few blocks to St. Cat’s, I think it over and over again. Please don’t let Declan have seen the post. Please don’t let Declan have seen the post.

  I get into the classroom and scroll through Instagram on my phone, as if I somehow have the power to rewind time if I stare at Insta posts long enough. It’s still early enough that Jill isn’t here yet, but Tyler’s sitting up front, Hazel chatting with Leah. The door opens and closes, and before I’ve even had a chance to look up, Declan’s in front of me.

  He’s staring at me, red-eyed. My heart sinks. He saw the post.

  He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t look at me as he presses a few buttons. From his screen, upside down, I can see he’s in his contacts. Then on his contact for me—for Lucky. He takes a breath, presses dial.

  I close my eyes. My phone starts buzzing in my hand.

  I don’t open them, even after I’ve heard the footsteps walking away and the door slamming shut. I take a shaky breath and try to let it out slowly. When I open my eyes again, everyone else is looking from me to the door Declan just went through, eyebrows raised.

  I jump from the stool and rush across the room, open the door—look down the hall one way, then see Declan disappearing around the corner of the other. I run after him. “Declan!”

  He’s racing down the stairs. I try to jump a few at a time to catch up. “Declan, please—”

  Declan suddenly stops so unexpectedly I almost run right into him. He spins around. His eyes are wet. He’s fucking crying.

  I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth, shaking my head, waiting for the right words to come out.

  “Why?” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but my voice is so soft I’m not sure he’s heard.

  “Tell me why.”

  I realize I’m gripping my hands together so hard they’re shaking. I wipe them off on my jeans.

  “Tell my fucking why!” he yells. His voice echoes in the staircase.

  I can barely look at him. “It was supposed to be a prank at first.”

  “A prank?” All emotion’s gone from his voice now.

  “For revenge. I thought you were the one who put up that gallery of me, and—”

  “I didn’t do the fucking gallery.”

  “I know. I know that now, since you told me you’d never . . .”

  He closes his eyes like it hurts, this reminder that the person he’d been speaking to all along, the person he said he was in love with, was me.

  “But even when I realized it wasn’t you, I couldn’t stop talking to you,” I tell him, words coming out fast, desperate to make him understand. “I loved our conversations. It was like you were a different person, and—”

  “I’m not a different person.”

  “You said you were falling for me,” I say, lowering my voice. “You said you’re in love with me.”

  He watches me, not looking away, his brown eyes burning.

  “I think I might love you, too,” I tell him.

  He swallows, breathing harder. I think he’s trying to stop himself from crying. Trying to get enough of a breath to speak. “Don’t talk to me,” he says. “Don’t even look at me. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  He brushes past me, and I hear his footsteps echoing on the staircase before the door out into the lobby slams.

  Twenty-One

  Dear Mom,

  It’s been a while since we’ve spoken, but I wanted to let you know that my life is shit right now. I’ve lost two people I really care about. They both hate me now. There’s a troll that won’t stop messaging me—no idea who the piece of shit is, but they want me to know that my life is worthless, using you and the fact that you’ve abandoned me as proof. I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. I have 477 emails drafted to you. In every email, I act like we’re having some kind of fun conversation, where I’ve forgiven you and moved on . . . but the truth is, you really fucked me up. You know that, right? You fucked me up by deciding you don’t love me anymore, by leaving me and my dad behind while you went off to start your new life. There’re so many things I’ve wanted the courage to ask you all these years. Why’d you leave? Do you miss me? Do you still love me? I have 477 emails drafted—and this time, I’m going to send this one to you. I don’t know if you’ll answer, but I hope you do.

  Your demiboy son,

  Felix

  I stare at the email for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes—reading and rereading, stopping myself from deleting the whole thing—until, finally, I hit send. My heart tightens in my chest, and I stare at the screen. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I just fucking did that. She’s had to see the email by now. Everyone’s always glued to their phones, their laptops. She’s had to see the name Felix Love pop up in her in-box, has made the decision to read my email or send it straight into the trash folder. It’s killing me, not knowing which she’s chosen to do.

  When half a day has passed, I think it’s pretty obvious that my mom isn’t going to answer my email. I don’t want to leave my apartment. I don’t even want to leave my room. I curl up in a ball with Captain, lights off and leaving me in the dark, laptop on and playing some reality TV show—but I’m barely paying attention. I have Instagram up and open, shine of the phone’s screen reflecting in Captain’s eyes, looking through both Ezra’s and Declan’s pages to see if they’ve updated, but neither of them has. I gave up on texting Ezra a few days ago now, and when I try calling Declan, I’m immediately sent to voice mail. I get a text a few seconds later.

  Don’t call me ever again.

  God, how did things get so fucked?

  My dad knocks on my door, and he peeks his head in as he creaks it open. “You okay, kid?” he says.

  I’d told him I wasn’t feeling well so that he’d let me come home early—the idea of sitting anywhere near Declan felt impossible—but now it’s six in the evening and I haven’t eaten anything all day except for a bowl of soup my dad brought me around noon.

  I mumble something, even I don’t know exactly what.

  He flips on the bulb. I feel like a vampire, blinded by the light. I groan and throw my sheets up over my head. Captain must get tangled, because she squirms for a split second before leaping down to the floor.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “For a sick kid, I’m not hearing a whole lot of sneezing.”

  I give a fake cough. He laughs. From beneath the bedsheets, I can hear him crossing over and feel the edge of the bed sink as he takes a seat. He puts a hand on my back and rubs.

  “Did something happen?”

  I sigh and uncover my head. “Ezra and I are fighting.”

  Realization spreads across his face. “Ah. Okay.”

  “And,” I say, but pause—how do I even begin to explain any of this mess? “The person I like is pissed at me, too.”

  “So the person you like isn’t Ezra?”

  A few days ago, I would’ve yelled at my dad for continuing to suggest I have a crush on Ezra, but now? “Well,” I say slowly, “it’s not like I don’t like Ezra.”

  He gives me a smug I knew it look. I roll my eyes and grab my pillow, putting it over my face. “Everything’s wrong,” I say, muffling my voice. “Neither of them will speak to me now. I really messed up.”

  I feel a gentle tug on the pillow, and my dad pulls it off, placing it to the side. “Well,” he says. “I know it might feel like nothing’s right at the moment, but things have a way of working themselves out.”

  I hesitate. “Is that what you thought when Mom left?”


  The question takes him by surprise. He inhales a sharp breath. “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking much of anything when she left. I was pretty numb. Just trying to keep it together for you.”

  I frown at him. “Really?” I mean, I knew things were messed up, but I didn’t realize he’d struggled that much. When he doesn’t say anything else, I tell him I sent an email to her.

  His eyebrows pull together. “Okay. Do you want to talk about why you did that?”

  “I mean—she’s my mom,” I say. “It’s normal to want to reach out to her and talk to her. Right?”

  He’s nodding, slowly, but I’m not so sure he agrees. “After Lorraine left, I called her at least once a day, begging her to come back. She said she’d fallen out of love with me and needed some space away. I couldn’t understand how she could so easily dismiss everything that we had. It hurt—more than anything else I’ve ever experienced, I’ll tell you that much. I loved her. Still do. Probably always will. But it took me a little longer to figure out that just because I love her, doesn’t mean it’s a good kind of love. It can be easier, sometimes, to choose to love someone you know won’t return your feelings. At least you know how that will end. It’s easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance. It’s the real, loving relationships that can be the scariest.”

  Is he trying to tell me that it’s wrong for me to love my mom? I can’t help that I love her, and that I want her to love me, too. I nod anyway, staring at my hands as I play with the bedsheet. He runs a hand over my curls. “Maybe this is just a good chance to focus on other things,” my dad tells me. “Nothing wrong with focusing on yourself every once in a while.”

  That’s what I tell myself as I walk into St. Cat’s the next morning (I tried to skip another day, but my dad wasn’t having it). When I see Ezra talking to Leah, and he refuses to look my way? Focus on myself. When Declan sits beside me in class, but acts as if I don’t exist? Focus on myself. That’s what I tell myself when I get an Instagram notification, too. I’m not surprised to see that it’s another message from grandequeen69. I automatically hit the notification to read the message—but I pause. Why do I keep reading these messages, knowing that grandequeen69 is only going to hurt me? I remember what my dad had said—that it’s easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance. I delete the app from my phone. No more notifications. No more grandequeen69. Focus on my fucking self.