Felix Ever After(5)

The apartment is smaller than what we had in Bed-Stuy. The walls are beige, the light brown hardwood floors scuffed and worn down, an AC unit stuck into the living room’s only window. This is a one-bedroom apartment, technically, but there’s a tiny, windowless den that’s supposed to be an office space and has now become my room. It’s just big enough for my twin-sized mattress, one side table, and a dresser pressed up against the wall. I told my dad that I felt like Harry Potter, sleeping in the cupboard under the staircase. I was just joking, but I felt bad the second I said it. My dad’s really effing trying, I know that he is—and complaining about my new room, when he’s been working his ass off for me and my school, wasn’t exactly my shining moment.

The wooden floor squeaks on my way into the kitchen, where I see a container from Jacob’s, the cheapest and most delicious takeout around: beef stew, peas and rice, plantains, and baked macaroni and cheese. Dad’s home, then—not surprising, since he’ll have to leave for work in a few hours. My dad’s always been the kind of person to have odd jobs. He told me once that his passion isn’t work—it’s his family. He would’ve been totally happy as a stay-at-home dad. Mom worked as a nurse at the hospital, bringing home the bacon, I guess—but when she left, everything fell apart. Now my dad’s fighting to send me to a private school filled with rich kids, just so that I can live my dream and have a chance to go to an Ivy League school, all while pretending we aren’t struggling to stay afloat. Declan Keane’s voice echoes in my head. I’m the real fraud. What sucks is that he’s kind of right.

I get comfortable in the living room, toeing off my sneakers and grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, sprawling out on the comfy couch. I end up where I always do: my email drafts folder.

I’ve got 472 emails drafted. All of them are to the same person: Lorraine Anders. Her last name, after she went and divorced my dad and changed it from Love.

I click on compose to write a new message and type hi again into the subject line.

Hey Mom,

This is the 473rd email I have drafted to you.

That’s . . . a lot.

Is this kind of weird? Would you think I’m a freak, writing you all these unsent messages for years and hoarding them in my drafts folder?

I’m not going to send this one to you either. I already know that I won’t. But maybe, one day, I can get the courage to actually write you an email that I hope you’ll read and wait by my laptop, constantly refreshing my Gmail to see if you’ll respond. I don’t even know what that email would say. How’re you? How’s Florida? How’s my stepsister and my stepdad? Do you ever think about me? Do you still love me?

Anyway, you know I just started the summer program and I had a group project. Long story short, Declan Keane was there. I’ve told you about him before. He pissed me off, like he always does. But—get this—Ezra was angry at me for fighting with Declan. I mean, what the hell? Marisol was also there. I’m so awkward whenever she’s around, and I wish I could figure out a way to . . . I don’t know, make her see that she was wrong about me. I know that I can’t make anyone do anything, but it still really sucks whenever she just ignores me or acts like she doesn’t give a shit about me and my existence. It makes me feel . . . well, I guess a little like how you make me feel. Except you’re 10,000x worse. Because you’re, well, my mom.

Okay, enough self-pity for the day. Maybe one day I’ll actually go through and click send on every single one of these messages just to flood your inbox. But until then . . .

Your son,

Felix

The bedroom door opens, and my dad walks out, bleary-eyed. I snap my laptop shut. I realize this makes me look like I was watching porn or something, but my dad doesn’t notice. He’s got on his white collared shirt and tie, jacket hung over his arm. His gray hair is balding, and his frame seems to get thinner every year.

“Hey, kid,” he says, since he still has a hard time saying my name.

My dad and I haven’t seen each other in three days. The program is basically an away summer camp, but set in the city instead of in the woods. Most of the other students stay on campus in the dorms “for an immersive creative experience,” as St. Catherine’s likes to say, and since classes are right down the street from Ezra’s apartment, I try to stay with him as much as possible. My dad, however, said that he wants me here, with him. I argued that it’s important for me to gain life skills before college and get used to the idea of living on my own, which was only half bullshit, so we agreed on a compromise: I’d spend some days with Ezra, and some days at home. Basically, I’ve been living the dream. Not many teens get a chance to actually live without adults before college.

“You grabbed any food yet?” my dad asks me as he walks over to the plastic takeout container.

“Nope,” I say, opening my laptop again and jumping onto Instagram to see how many likes my #foodporn post of the mangoes got. Two so far: one from Ezra, the other from Ezra’s fake account.

“How’re things?” my dad asks, mouth full of macaroni and cheese. “How’s Ezra? You’ve been eating well and going to bed at a reasonable time and doing your work and everything?” I hesitate. I don’t think he’d want to know that we’ve been staying up until three every morning, smoking weed, or that I’m still struggling to get my shit together. He keeps going. “I’m trusting you to be responsible. You know that, right?” Then—“Ah, shit—God damnit, the cat pissed everywhere again.”