Felix Ever After(38)

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 embarrassing 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.”

I thank her, tell her to have a good day, and pass through the halls. I’ve already done research—that’s what helped me realize that I’m trans in the first place . . . but, I don’t know, maybe Sophia is right. Maybe it’d be worth continuing to look around online. There’s got to be an answer somewhere, right?

It’s a quick ride on the train into Brooklyn. I keep rubbing my thigh, imagining the testosterone sinking into me like a magical drug. It’s kind of stupid, I guess, but sometimes I feel like trans folk are superheroes. It’s a little like I’m Peter Parker, bitten by the T-shot, magically going through all these changes—or like Captain America, getting that experimental drug. When I first started doing my research, a Tumblr post I saw said that trans people used to be considered gods in a bunch of different cultures and religions. Dionysus was the god of transgender people, and Loki could change genders at will, too. We’re still considered spiritual guides in some places around the world. That’s pretty cool to think about.

The train rumbles to a stop—doors open, doors close—and it continues on. I see a couple of other kids in my classes. Leah and Tyler stand by the doors as Tyler holds on to his bike, laughing, Leah fiddling with the camera around her neck. Leah catches my eye and waves. Hazel sits a few seats from me with her earbuds in and swipes through images on her phone. Elliott is fast asleep in the corner.

Who is the person behind the gallery and the messages? It could be anyone. Any of the other one hundred students at St. Catherine’s.

Somehow, knowing for a fact that it isn’t Declan makes all of this so much worse.

I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. It wasn’t Declan Keane.

A big part of me knew it wasn’t him. I just didn’t care. I wanted it to be him, so at the time, that’s all that mattered. But now, I can’t hide from the fact that he didn’t put up the photos—that there’s a transphobic asshole I go to school with, sending me anonymous messages. All the feelings from the gallery that I’d initially pushed down and suppressed are starting to rise to the surface.

I sit back up, letting out a deep sigh, the back of my head leaning against the subway window.

Leah makes a face at me across the train. “I know, right? It’s so freaking early.”

I hold out my phone and swipe through my messages.

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.

I squint at the message. I did the same thing last night. I just squinted and stared at the message for a solid thirty minutes.

I mean, what the fuck?

My heart feels like it’s bouncing around in my rib cage. I read and reread the text.

But I think I might be falling for you.

I mean, seriously—what the actual, holy fuck?

Okay, so first question is: How could Declan Keane ever fall for someone? After he dumped Ezra, that was it—he chose his popular jock friends and made it clear that the only person he really cares about is himself. So, that Declan would ever say he has a crush on someone is absolutely, 100 percent effing shocking.