Felix Ever After(87)
When I think about it, not much about my life has actually changed. I still hang out with Ezra every day, just with more—you know—kissing, which was insanely embarrassing to think about at first, but isn’t that embarrassing now. I mean, what’s actually embarrassing about kissing? Is it because it’s an act of loving someone so much that there aren’t even any words, so the only thing you can do to express that love is to kiss instead? Maybe it’s not the kissing that’s embarrassing, but the fact that you love someone so fucking much, which really shouldn’t be embarrassing at all. What’s so wrong with loving someone, right?
Two weeks before summer classes end, there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker reminding students that the end-of-summer gallery submission application deadline is coming up in a few days. There’s a fear in my gut that someone might use the gallery to try and hurt me again, but Ezra tells me that there’s no way in hell that would happen—not after we’ve all seen Austin get kicked out of St. Cat’s, and especially not when everyone knows Ezra is my boyfriend, and that he’ll beat the crap out of anyone who tries to fuck with me again.
“You can’t beat the crap out of anyone, Ez.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? You sure about that?”
So, now, I’m basically just praying that no one fucks with me so that Ezra doesn’t get kicked out of St. Cat’s. I’d already decided that I would go ahead and apply to the gallery—the idea of not getting chosen is scary, and I know it’d hurt—but I’m also finally realizing that, even if I’m not picked, the gallery isn’t a measure of my worth.
A lot of people have straight up stopped coming to class so close to the end of the summer program, but I’ve been coming in early and staying late, working on my self-portraits for the gallery, adding a dash of color here, smoothing out the background texture there. Working on the paintings reminds me of who I am: the strength inside me, the beauty and determination and power. I’m surprised when Jill walks up to me after the class bell rings. I’m trying to add in a few more strokes of yellow to a background when she smiles at me.
“These are really fantastic, Felix,” she tells me.
My face gets warm. “Thanks.”
She keeps watching me work, which makes me self-conscious, but I’m just glad she’s not hurrying me out of the room and to lunch. Ezra’s packed up and waiting for me by one of the tables as he talks to Leah.
“Have you decided to apply for the end-of-summer gallery?” Jill asks me.
I nod. “Yeah, I think I’m going to do it.” The thought alone scares the crap out of me. The gallery itself is pretty competitive, and to be judged on my artwork by a panel of Brown professors is one thing . . . to be judged by my peers, who I have to see on a daily basis, is another.
“Good,” she says. “St. Catherine’s would be lucky to have your work on display.”
As the deadline looms closer, it’s all I can think about: the possibility of having my artwork in a gallery. To reclaim the lobby and its space with me, the real me—reflections of who I am, and how I see myself, and how the world should see me, too. The last word against people like Marisol and Austin. The chance to put up one giant middle finger to anyone else in the world who doesn’t think I deserve to be here—to exist—right alongside them.
The day before the deadline, I go to the school’s website and gallery application, snap a few photos of my self-portraits with my phone and write a 250-word summary on the project, and why I think my artwork should mark the end of the summer program. I click submit before I can second-guess myself. I don’t tell anyone about it, not my dad or Leah or even Ezra. I don’t want to deal with the awkwardness if my art isn’t accepted. They’d have to console me and tell me I’m a good artist and all that, and the thing is, I know that I am. I know that I’m talented. I don’t need anyone else, or even this gallery, to tell me if I am or not. But if I could have the chance to fill the lobby with images of me—the real me—then I sure as hell will.
I’m surprised when, a few days later, I get an email from Dean Fletcher congratulating me on the fact that my artwork has been chosen for the end-of-summer gallery. There’s going to be an opening where the entire school will be invited, and I’ll be asked to give a speech based on the 250-word summary I’d submitted. The idea of standing in front of the entire school and explaining my work is, you know, completely fucking terrifying—but there’s a reason that I submitted my artwork. I can’t stop now.
I grab my best pieces and bring them to the dean, who accepts the canvases as though they’re treasures, smiling and appreciating each one. The artwork is hanging on the lobby walls by the end of the day. I walk into the lobby, Ezra beside me, and we stand there and stare at each of the pieces, hanging exactly where my old photos had been hanging months before. Each painting’s title has my real name. Emotion builds in me, remembering the day I’d walked into this lobby and seen my old pictures and my deadname, knowing that the entire school had seen, too. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger. Ezra takes my hand and squeezes it.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says.
The opening will be during lunch, when all the students usually head off campus—that’s what I tell myself, anyway, so I won’t be too nervous . . . but today, just as the opening is about to begin, it feels like the entire student population stays and packs the lobby. In the past I might’ve hid if it was an option, gone to Ezra’s place and pretended that my artwork wasn’t up in the gallery. But I wanted a chance to speak my truth in front of everyone, even if I feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare where I walk onto a stage and suddenly realize that I’m naked.