Felix Ever After(68)
“Space?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He stares at the wall, swallowing, his throat moving up and down.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll give you space.”
He leaves before I even finish my sentence, walking down the hallway. By the time I get to the acrylics classroom, he’s moved to an entirely different table altogether, sitting where Tyler usually sits, and Tyler is fast asleep in the stool beside mine.
For the first time in days, I find it hard to focus on my project. As much as I want to sink into my self-portraits, to just let my mind go, I can’t think of anything else but that kiss. Ezra. Over and over again, even when I tell myself I won’t think about him anymore. Ezra. Even when I close my eyes and take a breath and clear my thoughts. Ezra. My mind immediately jumps to him, again and again. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra.
He doesn’t love me anymore. He couldn’t, the way that he looked at me downstairs. It took only one argument for him to fall out of love with me and to decide that he hates me instead. In a way, grandequeen69 is right. I don’t matter—not to Ezra, not anymore, and Declan thinks that he’s in love with Lucky, not me. My self-portrait smirks up at me. I’d gotten a little full of myself, thinking that anyone could fall in love with someone like me.
I’m not thinking when the paintbrush in my hand dips into purple and begins to swathe strokes across my painting’s smile, my eyes, my entire face. I push so hard against the canvas that a hole tears, right in the center.
“Felix?”
I look behind me. Jill is watching, concerned. When I glance around, I see that half of the class is looking at me, too. Ezra moved to the opposite corner of the room, his back to me. He’s standing still, not moving, like his focus is across the room and on me, though he still refuses to look my way.
“Are you all right?” Jill asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I just got too into it.”
She nods slowly, eyeing my destroyed painting. She walks closer, lowering her voice, as the rest of class returns to their art. “Decided this one wasn’t working?”
“It was too—I don’t know, arrogant.”
She puts a hand to her chin. “I thought that it had merit, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter what I think.” She looks like she’s about to move on, before she pauses again. “You know, Felix—there’s been a call for the end-of-summer gallery.”
“Yeah, I heard the announcement.”
“You should consider applying,” she says. “Your self-portraits—if you can finish enough in time—well, they’re powerful, Felix. Maybe more than you even realize.”
She must be just saying that because I’m obviously struggling with something. I know it doesn’t make any sense to apply for the end-of-summer gallery. The gallery is pretty competitive. Basically everyone in the summer program applies, and if accepted, their art gets featured in the school’s newsletter, which goes out to alumni, which can mean a lot of great opportunities. Several people have gotten internships for winning the gallery selection—and I know it isn’t going to be me. What’s the point of applying, just to fail?
I tell her that I’ll think about it, and she gives me a satisfied smile.
Twenty
WHEN CLASSES ARE DONE FOR THE DAY, I FEEL STRANGE, disoriented. Normally, I would walk back with Ezra to his apartment, but he ignores me as he leaves the parking lot. I could go home and talk to Declan as Lucky, but I’m not feeling like myself, and—I don’t know, I guess I’m a little afraid that he’ll realize he doesn’t love me anymore, either. It’s only as I’m walking out of the parking lot that I realize it’s Wednesday. The LGBT Center will have its gender-identity discussion group in a few hours at eight. I should be too terrified to show my face there again, but I remember Bex and their reassuring smile, their suggestion that I come back whenever I like.
It doesn’t take too long for me to get to the LGBT Center, only about thirty minutes. I’m early for the discussion group, so I sit at the café of white walls and sleek tables and chairs, the smell of caramel and croissants filling the air, a sketch pad out as I draw the people around me. I realize, suddenly, that since Bex is nonbinary, any of the people in this café could be, too. Maybe I shouldn’t assume anyone’s gender as I draw them. There’s someone with wrinkles, a blazer, an infectious laugh; someone closer to my age with green hair and a nose ring, showing their braces when they give their friend a wide smile. The longer I sit here and sketch, the better my art becomes—and it helps to look at the people around me, really look at them, instead of seeing who I assume them to be.
I almost wish I could just stay in the café and sketch for hours, but I came here for a reason. A few minutes before eight, I pack away my sketch pad and head up the stairs, so focused on my feet that I feel like I’m about to trip. My heart hammers in my chest with nerves, as though I’m about to get up onto a stage in front of one hundred people. This time, I think to myself. This time, I’ll be brave enough to speak—to ask my questions and find the answers I’ve been looking for.
Bex waits at the door, just like last time, and they seem genuinely happy to see me when I walk up to the table to sign in. “Felix!” they say. “I’m really glad you could make it.”