Felix Ever After(6)

I help him grab paper towels to sop up the mess while he mutters something about needing to take Captain to the vet, and I say Captain’s probably just anxious. She’s never liked this new space—we can’t open the only window, and there’s no balcony, no fire escape, nowhere to sit outside. I understand. I feel pretty trapped in this apartment, too.

My dad points at the roll of paper towels in my hands and says my name to get my attention—but not my real name. He says my old name. The one I was born with, the one he and my mom gave me. The name itself I don’t mind that much, I guess—but hearing it said out loud, directed at me, always sends a stabbing pain through my chest, this sinking feeling in my gut. I pretend I didn’t hear him, until my dad realizes his mistake. There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds, before he mumbles a quick apology.

We never talk about it. How he doesn’t like saying the name Felix out loud. How he’ll always slip up and use the wrong pronouns, and not bother to correct himself. How some nights, when he’s had a little too much whiskey or beer, he’ll tell me that I’ll always be his daughter, his little girl.

I put the paper towel down and take the ten steps into my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

“Kid,” I hear my dad call, but I ignore him as I lie down on my bed, staring up at the flickering lightbulb. Captain appears out of nowhere, hopping into my lap and brushing her head against my hand, and I try not to cry, because no matter how pissed I am at him, I don’t want my dad to hear me.

I wait outside of Ezra’s gray, steel, and glass apartment building, sunglasses on to save my eyes from the bright summer light. It’s seven, and the air still has that early-morning chill. Ez comes bounding down the stairs and out the front door, shades also on. I kind of hate how predictable we are right now.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ezra immediately says. His hair is down, but it doesn’t look like he bothered putting a comb through it, so tangled curls flop into his eyes. Ezra can always tell when I’m pissed or upset. He says that he’s an empath. I think he’s full of shit.

“Nothing.” He keeps staring at me as we walk, waiting, so I say, “It’s just my dad. He deadnamed me again.”

“Shit,” Ez mutters. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, because while I want to say it’s okay, it really isn’t. Some trans folks have always known exactly who they are, declaring their correct gender and pronouns as toddlers and insisting that they be given different clothes and toys. But it took me a while to figure out my identity. I’d always hated being forced into dresses and being given dolls. The dresses and dolls weren’t even the real issue. The real issue was me realizing that these were things society had assigned to girls, and while I didn’t even know what trans was, something about being forced into the role of girl has always upset the hell out of me. I’d always tried to line up with the other boys whenever teachers split us up. I followed those boys around the playgrounds, upset that they’d ignore me and push me away. I had dreams, sometimes—dreams where I’d be in a different body, the kind of body society says belongs to men. I’d be so effing happy, but then I would wake up and see that nothing had changed. I remember thinking to myself, Hopefully, if I’m reincarnated, I’ll be born a boy.

It wasn’t until I was twelve, almost five years ago now, that I read this book that had a trans character in it: I Am J by Cris Beam. Reading about J, it was like . . . I don’t know, not only did a lightbulb go off in me, but the sun itself came out from behind these eternal clouds, and everything inside me blazed with the realization: I’m a guy.

I’m a freaking guy.

It took me a few months of flipping out and going back and forth over whether I was really trans or not. Another few months to figure out how to tell my parents. I sat my dad down in the living room of our old Bed-Stuy apartment. I felt like I was going to throw up the entire time, and I was so nervous that the only words I could get out were, “Dad, I have something to tell you,” and, “I’m trans.” He was quiet. He had this expression, like he was confused. And then he said, “Okay.” But I could tell it wasn’t okay, not to him—could tell the whole coming out thing wasn’t going so well. He said he was tired and went to bed, and that was the end of the conversation. I emailed my mom the next day, since she’s lived in Florida with my stepdad and my stepsister since I’ve been ten years old. She never responded. It was the first and last time I actually hit send on an email I wrote her.

It was almost an entire year of begging before my dad agreed to let me see a doctor for hormones. It isn’t always easy to start hormones, so I’m lucky that I could. That was around the time I started to show I was really talented in art and he decided to send me to St. Catherine’s, which was great, because I didn’t have to be around people who knew the old me. I didn’t have any friends at my former school anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal. It took a lot of convincing, and my doctor’s help, but almost a year ago now, my dad even helped me get top surgery. I know how lucky I am for that. Not everyone who wants surgery can afford it. My dad had to do a lot of paperwork with letters and providers and everything, and he had to figure out my health insurance to make it happen. Even then, he still had to pay some money out of pocket. No matter how much he pisses me off sometimes, I wouldn’t have been able to start my physical transition without my dad. Maybe that’s what’s most confusing of all: Why would he pay for my hormones, my surgery, my doctor’s visits, everything—but refuse to say my real name?