Felix Ever After(70)

“Okay, fine,” Zelda says. “But why so many labels? Why not just boy or girl? Transgender men, transgender women?”

Bex tilts their head. “If I’d been able to, I would have chosen one or the other. It’d be so much easier than having to explain myself every time I walk through a body scanner at the airport, or not knowing which public bathroom to use when there aren’t any gender-neutral options. But one or the other doesn’t feel right for me.”

“How do you know which one does feel right?” I ask.

There’re a few smiles, and I wonder if I said something stupid again.

“It’s different for some,” Bex offers. “For me, it was just that feeling. The feeling that my identity—nonbinary—explains so much of who I am, who I’ve always been, in a way that other labels never did.”

I grip my hands together. “What if I never get that feeling?”

“It’s possible that you never will,” Bex says. “There are some who go on questioning forever. That’s okay, too. But when it’s right, you’ll know. There’s a confidence that spreads through you, and you know you’ve found the answer.”

Zelda shakes her head. “These younger generations,” she says. “Always questioning. Always shaking things up, just for the sake of it.”

“These younger generations,” Tom echoes. “I envy them. There’s so much more space to explore who they are now. To explore and celebrate themselves. I could never have imagined seeing a transgender man on TV or in the movies when I was younger. And now?” He looks at me. “I look at you and wish I could be a teenager again. I know that things aren’t perfect,” he says, nodding, “and there are still hardships, but don’t forget to enjoy these years. Live. Live them for the people who didn’t get to enjoy being a teenager. For the people who never lived past being a teenager.”

The conversation continues. What it was like to be a teenager back in the days of everyone here—what they wish had been different, what’s different now. I’m too shy to say anything else, but Tom’s words echo through me.

In my bedroom, time flashing 12:06 a.m., I have my laptop open and on a Tumblr post that lists the hundreds of different transgender identities. Nonbinary. Agender. Bigender. Transmasculine. Transfeminine. Genderqueer. Gender nonconforming. So many terms, so many identities, and I start to feel myself getting overwhelmed again. None of these definitions feel right.

I keep reading, scrolling, eyes becoming glazed, when one word catches my eye. Demiboy. A person who identifies as mostly or partly male—I sit up, moving my computer to my lap—but may also identify as nonbinary some of the time, or even as a girl. The niggling in me spreads from the back of my head, down my neck, and into my chest. Most of the time, there’s no question—I’m a guy, I have no doubt about that. But other times . . . being called a boy doesn’t feel right, almost in the same way that being called a girl feels so completely wrong.

I try saying it out loud. “Demiboy.” Demiboy, demiboy, demiboy.

I smile a little. I smile, and then outright laugh, and I might even begin to cry a little, because I know what Bex was talking about now. The confidence that spreads through me. I know that this is right. It’s kind of amazing, that there’s a word that explains exactly how I feel, that takes away all of my confusion and questioning and hesitation—a word that lets me know there are others out there who feel exactly the same way that I do.

It feels a little anticlimactic, getting the answer to a question I’ve been struggling with for months now. I feel the need to scream it and—I think with a flinch—to text Ezra, to tell him everything, to tell him about the meeting I went to earlier and the research I did and how perfect demiboy feels, and that I miss him, too. There’s another question I’ve been avoiding, ever since the night Ezra tried to tell me that he’s in love with me. How do I feel about Ezra? Am I in love with him also? Just the thought of Ezra sends a spark through me, the memory of the kiss setting me on fire.

I grab my phone and open up Instagram. I sit up with a grin and snap a selfie. Caption: Guess who’s a demiboy?

I add a bunch of hashtags and smile as I post it. It sucks that Ezra and I aren’t talking, but maybe he’ll see it anyway. Maybe he’ll be curious and text me, and we can get over whatever the hell is happening between us. I start scrolling through other posts. The images look odd, though, not who I usually follow. . . .

I look up at the corner of my account, and my heart starts to thunder, same way it does if I’ve just woken up from a nightmare. I’m still logged in as luckyliquid95.

I leap out of bed, almost tripping over my sheets. “Shit, shit, oh fucking shit—”

My fingers are suddenly too big, too clumsy, to get back to the post. I delete it with trembling hands.

I stand there, staring at my phone. How possible is it that Declan was awake and on Instagram at that exact moment? How possible is it that he saw my selfie?

I don’t get a phone call or any text messages about it. I sit back down on my bed, staring at the screen. Please, please, please don’t let him have seen the post. . . .

That’s my mantra. All through my sleepless night and into the next morning, as I travel down from Harlem and walk the few blocks to St. Cat’s, I think it over and over again. Please don’t let Declan have seen the post. Please don’t let Declan have seen the post.