Felix Ever After(2)
I don’t really care, to be honest. Declan’s a dick. “Not like we can do anything about it, right?”
By the time the train arrives, everyone’s fighting to get on, and we’re all packed together, me crushed against Ezra, the smell of beer and BO slicking the air. The subway rattles and shakes, almost throwing us off our feet—until, finally, we make it to Union Square.
It’s a typical crowded afternoon in the city. The sheer amount of people—that’s what I hate most about Lower Manhattan. At least in Brooklyn, you can walk down the street without being bumped into by twenty different shoulders and handbags. At least in Brooklyn, you don’t have to worry if you’re literally invisible because of your brown skin. Sometimes I try to find a white person to walk behind, just so that when everyone jumps out of that person’s way, they won’t knock into me.
Ezra and I inch our way through the crowd and past the farmers’ market, the smell of fish following us. We’re dressed pretty much the way we always are: even though it’s summer, Ezra wears a black T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders to show off his Klimt tattoo of Judith I and the Head of Holofernes. He has on tight black jeans that’re cut off a few inches too high above his ankles, stained white Converses, and long socks with portraits of Andy Warhol. He has a gold septum piercing, and his thick, curly black hair is tied up in a bun, sides shaved.
Whenever I’m around Ezra, eyes usually skip right over me to stare at him. I have curly hair, a loose gray tank that shows my dark scars on my chest, darker than the rest of my golden-brown skin, a pair of denim shorts, smaller random tattoos that I’d gotten for twenty dollars down at Astor Place—my dad flipped out the first time, but he’s gotten used to them now—and worn-out sneakers that I’ve written and drawn all over with a Sharpie. Ezra thinks I’ve ruined them. He has a thing for keeping the purity of the designer’s intent.
We walk through the crowds of people who idle in front of the farmers’ market stalls selling jars of jam and freshly baked bread and flowers with bursts of color, men in business suits shoving past, dogs on leashes and toddlers on three-wheeled scooters threatening to trip us. We make it out of the farmers’ market and up the path that cuts through the green lawn where a few couples laid out on blankets. Some kids show off on their skateboards. Girls in summer dresses and shades lounge on benches with books that they aren’t really reading.
“Why’d we decide to do this summer program again?” Ezra says.
“For our college applications.”
“I already told you. I’m not going to college.”
“Oh. Then, yeah, I have no idea why you’re doing this.”
He smirks at me. We both know he’s probably just going to live off his trust fund when he graduates. Ezra is part Black, part Bengali, and his parents are filthy rich. So rich that they bought Ezra an apartment just so that he can live in Bed-Stuy for the summer while he’s in the arts program. (And these days, apartments like Ezra’s are just about a million dollars.) The Patels are the stereotypical Manhattan elite: endless champagne, fund-raisers, gala balls, and zero time for their own son, who was raised by three different nannies. It’s fucked-up, but I have to admit that I’m jealous. Ezra’s got his entire life laid out for him on a golden platter, while I’m going to have to claw and scrape and battle for what I want.
My dream has always been to go to Brown University, but my grades aren’t exactly stellar, my test scores are less than average, and their acceptance rate is 9 percent. It isn’t that I haven’t tried. I studied my ass off for the tests, and I write down every word my teachers say in class to stop my mind from wandering. Like my dad’s said, my brain is just wired differently.
The fact that I almost certainly won’t get into Brown sometimes makes me feel like there’s no point in even trying. But people have gotten in despite shitty test scores before, and even if my grades suck, my art doesn’t. I’m talented. I know that I am. The portfolio counts even more for students applying to focus on art, and since the St. Catherine’s summer program offers extra credit, there’s a chance I could raise my grades up from Cs and Bs. I might still have a shot of getting in.
Leah, Marisol, and Declan are already on the Union Square steps for the fashion shoot. St. Cat’s is on a different schedule from most NYC schools, and the summer program officially began a few days ago. St. Catherine’s likes to kick off the summer program with projects so that we can get to know the students from other classes. Ezra and I signed up for a fashion shoot, using some of his designs. Leah, with her bushy red hair and super-pale skin and curves and tank top and slightly revealing booty shorts, has her camera, ready to take photos. And, of course, Marisol is the model. She’s just as tall as Ezra, olive skin and thick brown hair and Cara Delevingne eyebrows. Just seeing her makes my nerves pump through my chest. Her hair’s a giant nest, and she has green feathers glued to her eyelashes to match her lipstick. She wears the fourth dress in the lineup we’d planned: a sequin-portrait of Rihanna.
Declan Keane is running this whole thing as the director, which really just annoys the crap out of me. He doesn’t have any experience as a director whatsoever, but somehow, he always manages to weasel his way into everything. It doesn’t help that Declan acts like it’s his only mission in life to treat me and Ezra like shit. He talks crap about us every chance that he gets. He hates us, and he’s on a crusade to make everyone else hate us, too.