Felix Ever After(9)

I open my eyes with a breath and let the back of my head rest against the wall. Ezra watches me, worry and concern all over his face, eyebrows pinched together. He swallows, hard.

When I feel like I can talk again, I tell him, “I just want to know who the hell it was.”

He shakes his head. “I mean—who would’ve even known?”

A lot of people, I think. I’m not exactly stealth. I don’t hide my scars from my top surgery, and it’s come up in conversation enough times that I’m pretty sure everyone is fully aware. . . . But that’s also never been a problem before. I thought no one gave a shit.

“I think everyone knows I’m trans,” I tell Ezra.

“No, I mean—” He hesitates. “Who would’ve known your . . . old name?” he asks. “Or even where to get these photos?”

I have no idea. Not even Ezra knew my birthname. The realization that he does now sends another stab of pain through me. I start hunching forward again, but he turns to face me, both hands on my shoulders.

“Hey,” he said. “Look at me. I’ve got you, all right? We’ll figure out who this piece of shit is and get them kicked the fuck out of St. Catherine’s. All right?”

I’m nodding, trying not to cry. Ezra pulls me into a hug, bone-crushingly tight, and he doesn’t let go, not for a solid ten seconds. When he pulls away, I’m wiping my eyes.

“What do you want to do?” he asks. “Should we tell a teacher or something?”

I roll my eyes. “They won’t do shit.”

“Do you want to go back to my place?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t want whoever did this to know they got to me.” They’re probably in class right now, sitting on the edge of their seat, waiting to hear that I ran out of the building sobbing.

Ezra nods. He stands and pulls me to my feet. We stop off at the bathroom so that I can splash water on my face and wait until my eyes aren’t so red.

“It could’ve been literally anyone,” I tell him as we walk out the doors and down the hall to our first class in acrylics.

“God, how did they even—I don’t know, get that gallery approved?”

“I don’t think it was. No security guard. No teachers around. They must’ve snuck the picture frames up early this morning when no one was here.”

“Who the fuck would go through all of that trouble?”

“I don’t fucking know, Ezra.”

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s just—it’s hard to believe anyone would go out of their way to hurt you like that. Why? Why the hell would they do that?”

“Anyone could be secretly transphobic—or maybe they just straight up don’t like me.”

I try to say it flippantly, like I couldn’t care less either way, but my voice cracks, and I’m on the edge of tears all over again. I know I haven’t been alive long, and that for these seventeen years, I’ve had a pretty privileged life. I get pissed at my dad for his shitty mistakes, sure, and I still feel pretty fucked-up over the fact that my mom left me and my dad to start a new family—but I have a place to live and food to eat. I attend a private arts school, and I might be able to go to college. I’ve never known a pain like this before.

I’m definitely feeling it now.

I feel like I’ve been physically attacked. Like someone took control of who I am. Took that control away from me.

Maybe Ezra’s right. Maybe I should just go back to his apartment.

We walk into the acrylics class. It’s a maze of corkboard walls that lets us spread out to work, but first there’s always our daily check-in. The professor—she tells us all call her by her first name, Jill, to prove she’s cool and down-with-the-kids—spreads herself out on a pink, paint-splattered corduroy couch, while everyone else sits on their stools at the high metal tables that’re cramped together. Marisol sits in the back with Hazel and Leah, where Ezra and I always sit with them. Declan and his dumbass friends sit at the next table over.

Ezra and I walk in while Jill’s in midsentence.

“It’s about pushing yourself creatively, but knowing the craft, and using that craft as a tool,” she says, glancing at us, waving us inside. “Thanks for joining us.”

“You’re welcome,” Ezra says, holding my hand as we walk through the room. A few heads turn, and there’re some whispers. Three guesses about what. We sit at our usual table. Leah leans over.

“I heard what happened,” she says. “In the lobby.”

“Stop,” Ezra says.

“I just wanted to say I’m so, so sorry,” she tells me.

“I said stop, Leah.”

She sits back in her seat, staring forward.

Jill gives us a brilliant smile. She’s a talented artist, but she’s kind of small and mousy and young for a teacher, maybe only twenty-five or something—I’m pretty sure this is her first job—and she always feels the need to prove her dominance as the professor. “Would you like to offer an explanation for your tardiness?” she asks.

Declan, of course, decides to insert himself into the conversation. “Oh,” he says, leaning back in his stool, hands folded behind his head, “those two never have an explanation. You’re lucky they decided to show up at all.”