Felix Ever After(3)

Declan’s busy talking to Marisol when he sees us coming. His eyes flash. He clenches his jaw.

“So nice to see you,” he calls out to us as we walk over, loud enough that a few people lounging on the steps turn their heads. “Ezra, thanks so much for coming.”

Ezra mutters beside me, “Told you he’d be pissed.”

Declan gives a slow clap. “It’s an honor—no, really, it is—to have you come to your own fucking fashion show.”

Ezra holds up a fist, pretends to crank it, and slowly lifts his middle finger. Declan narrows his eyes at Ez when we get closer.

“Are you high?” he demands, and Ezra turns his face away. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve all been waiting here for over an hour, and you’ve been getting high?”

I try to step in. “Jesus, relax.”

He doesn’t even bother looking at me. “Fuck off, Felix, seriously.”

There’s no point in even trying to explain that our train was late.

“You’re right,” Ezra says. He nods at Leah and Marisol, who’re watching us from the stairs. “Sorry. We lost track of time.”

Declan rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fucking ridiculous” under his breath—like he’s never been late for anything in his life. There was a point, before he decided he was too good for me and Ez, when all three of us would walk into class thirty minutes late together, high as fuck—and now, suddenly he’s the Second Coming? God, I can’t stand him.

“We’re already halfway done anyway,” Declan says, smoothing a hand through his curls, as if he doesn’t actually give a shit whether we’re here or not. Declan’s mixed—his mom is Black and Puerto Rican, his dad a white guy from Ireland—so he’s got brown skin, lighter than mine, and loose brown curls with glints of red that fall around his ears, dark brown eyes. He’s a little stockier, with broad shoulders—a jock in Old Navy clothes: pink graphic T-shirt, baggier faded jeans, flip-flops.

He turns his back on us. “Let’s hurry up and finish. I don’t want to be here all day. Felix, go hold that reflector.”

I don’t move. I can’t willingly make myself do whatever Declan Keane tells me to do. Not with that dismissive tone.

Ezra whispers, “Come on, Felix. Let’s just get this done.”

I roll my eyes and walk up the stairs, snatching up the reflector from the stack of supplies. Declan still hasn’t even bothered to grace me with a single glance.

“All right,” he says, “let’s get back to it. Marisol, I don’t think you should smile for this one—the juxtaposition of the Rihanna portrait with a serious expression . . .”

I zone the fuck out. About 99.9 percent of the time, Declan’s speaking to hear the sound of his own voice. The shoot continues, Leah circling Mari with her camera as Marisol twists and turns, staring off at the sky (which is good, because it’s easier to avoid eye contact with her), until it’s time for the next outfit. I have to hold up a sheet around Marisol, staring hard at the ground, as Ezra helps her get changed into another dress he made, this one covered in manga panels from Attack on Titan. When she’s ready, Declan barks his orders.

“Leah, position yourself a little more to the right. Felix, hold the reflector still.”

Marisol shields her face. “And can you get the light out of my eyes, please?”

Mari and I used to go out. For, like, two weeks, so it really isn’t that big of a deal, but still—I can’t help but feel a little riled up around her, I guess, even after all these months. Marisol just acts like absolutely nothing happened between us, sprinkling a dash of salt onto the wound. The way she broke things off doesn’t help, either.

Declan snaps his fingers at me. Literally, hand to God, snaps his fucking fingers at me. “I said to hold the reflector still. Christ, pay attention.”

I hold the reflector up higher. “Fucking bullshit,” I mutter to myself.

“Sorry, what was that?”

I must’ve spoken a little louder than I thought—because when I look up, everyone’s staring at me. Leah bites her lip. Marisol raises an eyebrow. Ezra shakes his head from across the set, mouthing, No, no, please, Felix, no. That kind of pisses me off, too. Why does Declan get to treat us like crap, and we’re just expected to take it, no complaints? I ignore Ezra and look right at Declan. “I said: Fucking. Bullshit.”

Declan tilts his head to the side, crossing his arms with the smallest smile. “What’s bullshit?”

I shrug. “This.” I wave the reflector at him. “You.”

His smile becomes a laugh of disbelief. “I’m bullshit?”

“You don’t know anything about directing a fashion shoot,” I tell him. “You’re just here because you’re rich and your dad donates a shit ton of money to the school. It’s not like you earned this.”

I can see Ezra’s eyes flicker to the ground, and I feel a pinch of guilt.

Declan hasn’t noticed. He grins at me, like he knows it’ll piss me off more. “You’re just mad because you’re not the director,” he says, “and you don’t get to add it to your Brown application. Reflector boy isn’t exactly as impressive, is it?”

I hate that he’s right—I am mad that I can’t describe being the director on my application while Declan gets to use this, along with his perfect grades and almost-perfect test scores and family pedigree . . . I know he’s applying to Brown, too. I know it’s his first choice, because back when we used to hang out, we’d both planned on going to Brown and getting our dual degree with RISD. Ezra would chime in and say he’d move to Rhode Island with us, and it’d be the three of us, like always. That plan didn’t exactly last long.