Felix Ever After(58)
That’s good.
I turn back to the canvas. Fuck. My heart’s going crazy. I try to take deep breaths, air swelling in my chest. I shouldn’t be this excited to see Declan, but I am. I have to remind myself: He thinks he’s in love with Lucky. Not me.
The second bell rings, and I can hear Jill calling for us to quiet down and take our seats. I leave my station and my canvas. Declan sits with James and Marc and Hazel, at the table beside Marisol and Leah. Ezra isn’t here yet. There’s no way I want to sit beside Marisol now, not after the Great Dumpster Fire of Coney Island, but the two last stools are on either side of her.
Marisol ignores me as I walk up to the table and grab my stool, pulling it as far away from her as possible, scooching closer to Declan’s table. Declan barely glances my way.
“I’m surprised he’s willing to be anywhere near me,” Marisol tells Leah. “I mean, I’m such an ignorant bigot, right?”
Leah shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Jill begins her daily checkin. “Before we get started, I’d like to remind everyone that we’ll be having the end-of-summer gallery again. The administration, myself included, will be choosing one student from all of the applicants. It’s a wonderful honor,” she tells us with a brilliant smile.
I stare at the table. Just the mention of the gallery makes me feel self-conscious, like everyone’s looking at me, thinking of the old pictures they’d seen of me, remembering my deadname. Jill starts a speech on inspiration and its origins, but I zone out—between Marisol sitting to my right and Declan sitting to my left, there’s absolutely no way I can pay attention.
I try not to look at Declan—I really do—but I can’t stop myself. He went out of his way to tell me he thinks my painting is good, but he won’t spare me a single glance—or even a glare—now. And why would he? To him, I’m just Felix, the prick who hates him.
“If I’m ignorant,” Marisol whispers to Leah, “would he really want to be anywhere near me? I find that a little hard to believe, I guess.”
“Okay, all right,” Leah says beneath her breath, flailing her hands around, like she’s trying to wave away the bullshit. “Let’s just chill, all right?”
Declan stares straight ahead, listening to Jill. I’m almost too afraid to answer Marisol. If I speak and he hears me, will he suddenly recognize my voice—realize that I’m Lucky?
Marisol rolls her eyes and turns back to the front of the class. James turns his head and mutters something to Declan, and I’m almost jealous. I want to speak to Declan, too—talk to him with the same casual ease. I want to ask him how he is, tell him about what happened at Coney Island and hear what he thinks, ask for his advice on Marisol, if I should just tell her to go fuck herself.
Christ. He said he’s in love with me.
I can’t look away. Declan has a pinch in between his eyebrows as he listens to Jill. He has this habit, I never really noticed it before, of leaning his head a little to the side as if he can hear better out of one ear. His eyelashes are redder than his brown hair in the yellow sunlight that floods the classroom—but even in the light, his eyes are a dark, deep brown. His nose is almost too fine for his face, and his sturdy jaw is all sharp angles. His mouth . . . his lips are parted, just a little. I’m embarrassed just noticing. Even the word lips feels so . . .
He looks up at me, through his eyelashes, and I realize I’ve been staring. He gives me a look. Like, what? He even says it. A low rumble, impatient. “What?”
Breath catches in my throat. I’m still afraid to speak, but even if I wasn’t, I don’t think I could anyway. I shake my head, sit up straight, and keep my eyes on Jill for the rest of her lecture, pretending to listen but unable to think about anything else but the heat that seems to be radiating from Declan.
What if I did it? Just turned to him, right now, and told him that I’m Lucky?
Well, he’d probably hate me for all fucking eternity.
But he says he has feelings for me. That means he has feelings for who I am, no matter what he thinks my name is, or if we only speak on the phone or in person. Right?
Maybe there’s a way I could talk to him alone—get him to realize that he likes me, maybe even loves me, without ever having to tell him the truth. Without him ever knowing that I was Lucky.
By the time lunch rolls around, Ezra’s texted me back to let me know he has a cold, and he’s skipping today. I ask if I can bring him anything, and he says no.
Stay away. I don’t want you to get sick, too.
I don’t usually find myself at St. Cat’s without Ezra. It’s in these moments that I realize Ez is really my only friend here. I’m embarrassed, almost, without anyone to hang out with, anyone to speak to.
When my phone buzzes, I hope that it might be Ezra, and that he’s changed his mind—has asked me to bring him some chicken wings and French fries or something—but the notification is for a message from Instagram. My heart starts to pound.
Alone without your friend to follow around?
There’s a reason no one else wants to talk to you.
You’re pathetic, pretending to be a boy.
What the fuck?
My hands shake. I fight the desire to chuck my phone. Why can’t this piece of shit just leave me the hell alone? And—what the hell, are they watching me, right here and now?