Ezra stares at the sky. “No.”
I frown at him. “Really? Well—I mean, I guess I’m just saying the same thing as you.”
“Okay.” He turns his head to me. “Want me to run you over with a car?”
“Fuck off, Ezra.”
“No, really, I can do that. I mean, if you want me to.”
I try not to laugh. “You don’t even have a car.”
“I will absolutely steal a car so that I can run you over with it.”
I shove his arm, and he flashes a grin at me. “Maybe you should. Then I could have a chance at being talented at something.”
He groans and leans on me. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re talented.”
“I’m—I don’t know, someone with a smidgen of talent, who decided that this is what I wanted to do when I was a kid, and then decided to practice my ass off for ten years, just to get to where I am now. Which is nowhere in comparison to some people.”
“To what people?”
“To you,” I say—and I mean it. Ezra’s artwork is always great. He’s instantly a genius in anything he decides to try. First, it was watercolor; the next year, sculpture. Right now, he’s focusing on fashion and taught himself how to stitch and make patterns in a single summer. Ezra’s so good that he didn’t even bother to sign up for the summer sewing workshop; he decided to just follow me into acrylics so that we could hang out during class.
“Moi?” Ezra says, pretending to be flattered.
I hesitate. “And people like Declan Keane.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Are we really going to talk about him right now?”
“No,” I say. “But I mean—both of you have this natural talent, and it’s like . . . I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if talent comes from experience, you know?”
“I really, really don’t,” Ezra says, passing me the weed. “You need to relax, Felix. You’re always second-guessing yourself. Your shit is good.”
“You have to say that because you’re my friend.”
“No, not really. As your friend, it’s my job to be honest. For example, that particular Beatles tank top,” he says, waving a hand at my shirt, which has portraits of the four members. “Do you even like the Beatles?”
I elbow him. “Sometimes.”
He takes the weed back, sucking in one long draw, staring down at the street below.
“I haven’t—” I hesitate, because it’s a little embarrassing to say, but I say it anyway. “I’ve never been in love. Which is ironic, because, you know—my last name and everything.”
Ezra snorts, but doesn’t say anything.
“I want to be in love. I’ve never, you know—felt the kind of passion great artists talk about. I want that. I want to feel that level of intensity. Not everyone wants love. I get that, you know? But me—I want to fall in love and be broken up with and get pissed and grieve and fall in love all over again. I’ve never felt any of that. I’ve just been doing the same shit. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.”
Ezra doesn’t say anything for a long time, until he nudges me with his head and looks at me with puppy-dog eyes. “I’m not exciting?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m too boring for you? Really?”
“Shit, Ez, I’m trying to be serious.”
“Yeah. I am, too.” He sits up, stares straight ahead. “You’ll get to do all of that at some point,” he says, “but in the meantime, you’re forgetting that you’re right here, with me—and that I’m pretty fucking awesome.”
I roll my eyes. “Come Together” starts playing on the Spotify station. “See? I listen to the Beatles.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
He grins at me for a split second, then leans his head on my shoulder. I’m a lot shorter than him, so it must strain his neck, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Did the Keanester respond?”
I check my phone and scroll through my notifications. “Nope.”
“Told you.”
I shrug. I’m patient when it comes to destroying my enemies. I’ll just have to keep trying.
It’s only as we’re cleaning up and getting ready for bed that my phone buzzes. I grab it and swipe open Instagram, holding my breath, thinking that it might actually be Declan—but the notification is for my real account. I frown and click on the Message Requests link. An anonymous account, grandequeen69, sent a single line:
Did you like the gallery?
Five
Hey Mom,
Here’s something I haven’t told you yet: even though I came out to you as a trans guy in an email—yeah, exactly, that one you never responded to—I’m not sure if I’m actually a guy. It’s a hard feeling to describe. It’s like . . . just this sense, this feeling, in my gut that something isn’t totally right. I know that I’m definitely not a girl. But that’s all I know.
I’ve been doing research. Trying to look up different definitions and labels and terms. Some people say we shouldn’t need labels. That we’re trying to box ourselves in too much. But I don’t know. It feels good to me, to know I’m not alone. That someone else has felt the same way I’ve felt, experienced the same things I’ve experienced. It’s validating.
But it’s embarrassing, too. I made this big deal about being a guy. And now I’m, what, changing my mind? Or is it that my identity is evolving? I don’t know. Something pretty bad happened to me. There was a gallery at school of my old pictures, telling everyone my deadname—and right after, I got this Instagram message taunting me. I’m hurt that anyone would go out of their way to attack me, but at this point, the hurt is very quickly turning into anger. Rage. I’m pissed off. Like, to the point where I kind of want to beat the crap out of the person who’s doing this to me. And I’m pretty sure it’s all Declan Keane.
I didn’t even tell Ezra about the Instagram message. I didn’t want him to freak out about it. And if Declan’s the one behind all of this, then it doesn’t matter—I’m taking him down pretty soon anyway.
It’s kind of ironic, I guess, that I’m writing to you about all of this, when you’re the one who’s hurt me most of all—yes, even more than the gallery and even more than that Instagram message and even more than the daily bullshit I have to see in the news, about trans people like me fighting for the right to live. Kind of hard to believe at this point, but it’s true. It’s like I’m constantly trying to prove that I deserve love—but how can I, when even my own mom doesn’t love me?
Your son . . . ?
Felix
This is the sort of revenge plot that will require biding my time, so I don’t continue commenting on Declan’s posts. Two unanswered comments are enough for now—I don’t want to creep him out . . . but I do start building my profile more. Over the next couple of days, I snap a close-up shot of Ezra’s brick wall for my first image, and another photo of the weed, basil, and mint side by side. I start liking and commenting on other posts, so that it doesn’t look like I’m fixated on Declan. Ezra makes me like every single one of his posts, and I hop onto Marisol’s Instagram also, trying to ignore the photos of her making out with different people from St. Cat’s. I probably should’ve told Marisol to go fuck herself the second she told me I was a misogynist for being trans, but she’s always hung around the same crowds as me and Ezra, and it was kind of impossible to just rip her out of my life. There’s that . . . and this urge to convince her that she is wrong.