Felix Ever After(43)

Ezra’s eyebrows shoot up, and he glances at me like he’s impressed.

Leah grins. “I’d accept a White Castle slider for lunch, though.”

“Sold,” Ez says.

They continue toward the door, already talking possible suspects—Ezra catches Leah up on how we’d suspected Declan, but we now know it wasn’t him, and he wonders if we should check out James and Marc, since they’re his best friends, and since James can be such an ignorant jackass—but I pause. The two seem excited, but I know it’s a long shot, and the chances of figuring out who was behind the gallery are pretty low. Ezra must see the hopelessness on my face, because he walks back to me and slings an arm over my shoulder, messing with my hair. “We’ll find out who did it. I promise.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but he also doesn’t know the whole story—doesn’t even know what’s really bugging me.

When we get outside and into the parking lot, I see Declan hanging out on one of the benches with James and Marc. And I can’t stop looking at him. Not through lunch while we sit across the parking lot from each other, not in the hallway and back to class, not through our entire thesis session. Declan checked his phone maybe a million times that morning, but after lunch, he must’ve given up, because he keeps his bleary gaze on the work in front of him, a pinch in between his eyebrows.

He said that he thinks he might be falling for Lucky. And while I’m confused, and even a little incredulous, I have to admit that there’s a spark of excitement in me, too. No one’s ever fallen for me before, even if they’re actually only falling for some fake online version of me. It’s scary, this excitement—like if I let myself be happy for even one moment, Declan’s going to send a message to Lucky, saying that he’s changed his mind, he’s realized that he doesn’t have feelings for Lucky after all.

I should be trying to focus on my artwork also, but the blank canvas in front of me is as empty as it’s always been. I have my phone out, staring at the message Declan sent me.

Should I respond?

What would I even say?

I’m staring at the text from Declan when a new Instagram alert pops up at the top of my screen. I stop breathing. It’s a new message from grandequeen69.

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.

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

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?

It feels good to tell you the truth.

My heart is in my throat. I stare at the words, trying to dissect them, to see if I can figure out who might’ve written them. I look around the room. The piece of shit could be here, right now, messaging me this crap.

I stand up and tell Ezra I’m going to take a walk. I wander the halls, not really paying attention to where I’m going or where I’m walking—just lost in my thoughts, in the numbness that’s starting to crawl over me. When I look up, I’m back in the deserted acrylics classroom, as if my feet automatically took me down the familiar path and in through the doors. The room feels odd with no one else around: empty tables, empty stools, empty pink corduroy couch. I head for the supply closet. I need to relax, and I know it’s strange, but I’ve always found prepping canvases calming. I push my phone into my back pocket and get to work, grabbing a roll of canvas and cutting off a piece, finding boards a couple of feet long for the backing and hammering them together, stapling and stretching the canvas across the wood. I do that, over and over again, canvas after canvas. I take up the center of the room, pushing and scraping stools out of my way, steady in my work, until I have seven canvases prepped and spread across the floor.

There’s the squeak of a shoe behind me. I leap to my feet, spinning around, guilt thrumming through me. Jill stands there with a to-go coffee cup in her hand.

“Felix,” she says, surprised.

“Sorry,” I say fast, though I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for.

“I forgot my keys,” Jill says slowly, ignoring my apology as she begins to inspect the canvases that take up about half of her classroom floor. She raises her eyebrows as she looks my way again. “Plan on actually using those supplies?” she asks.

I hesitate. I hadn’t even thought of the enormous waste these canvases would be if I don’t actually paint anything on them. “Uh,” I say, then nod. “Yeah.”

She smiles like she’s in on the joke that, no, I hadn’t really been planning on it, but I sure as hell am now. She heads to her desk beside the pink sofa, opens up drawers, and clunks through whatever’s in there as she rummages for her keys. “You know, Felix,” she says, “you’re clearly talented, but your paintings are always . . . Well, they’re fine.”

I wince. The critique is like a stab to the chest. No artist wants their work to be thought of as just fine. From the jingle in her hand, I guess Jill’s found the keys. She closes her drawer.