“Why’d we decide to do this summer program again?” Ezra says.
“For our college applications.”
“I already told you. I’m not going to college.”
“Oh. Then, yeah, I have no idea why you’re doing this.”
He smirks at me. We both know he’s probably just going to live off his trust fund when he graduates. Ezra is part Black, part Bengali, and his parents are filthy rich. So rich that they bought Ezra an apartment just so that he can live in Bed-Stuy for the summer while he’s in the arts program. (And these days, apartments like Ezra’s are just about a million dollars.) The Patels are the stereotypical Manhattan elite: endless champagne, fund-raisers, gala balls, and zero time for their own son, who was raised by three different nannies. It’s fucked-up, but I have to admit that I’m jealous. Ezra’s got his entire life laid out for him on a golden platter, while I’m going to have to claw and scrape and battle for what I want.
My dream has always been to go to Brown University, but my grades aren’t exactly stellar, my test scores are less than average, and their acceptance rate is 9 percent. It isn’t that I haven’t tried. I studied my ass off for the tests, and I write down every word my teachers say in class to stop my mind from wandering. Like my dad’s said, my brain is just wired differently.
The fact that I almost certainly won’t get into Brown sometimes makes me feel like there’s no point in even trying. But people have gotten in despite shitty test scores before, and even if my grades suck, my art doesn’t. I’m talented. I know that I am. The portfolio counts even more for students applying to focus on art, and since the St. Catherine’s summer program offers extra credit, there’s a chance I could raise my grades up from Cs and Bs. I might still have a shot of getting in.
Leah, Marisol, and Declan are already on the Union Square steps for the fashion shoot. St. Cat’s is on a different schedule from most NYC schools, and the summer program officially began a few days ago. St. Catherine’s likes to kick off the summer program with projects so that we can get to know the students from other classes. Ezra and I signed up for a fashion shoot, using some of his designs. Leah, with her bushy red hair and super-pale skin and curves and tank top and slightly revealing booty shorts, has her camera, ready to take photos. And, of course, Marisol is the model. She’s just as tall as Ezra, olive skin and thick brown hair and Cara Delevingne eyebrows. Just seeing her makes my nerves pump through my chest. Her hair’s a giant nest, and she has green feathers glued to her eyelashes to match her lipstick. She wears the fourth dress in the lineup we’d planned: a sequin-portrait of Rihanna.
Declan Keane is running this whole thing as the director, which really just annoys the crap out of me. He doesn’t have any experience as a director whatsoever, but somehow, he always manages to weasel his way into everything. It doesn’t help that Declan acts like it’s his only mission in life to treat me and Ezra like shit. He talks crap about us every chance that he gets. He hates us, and he’s on a crusade to make everyone else hate us, too.
Declan’s busy talking to Marisol when he sees us coming. His eyes flash. He clenches his jaw.
“So nice to see you,” he calls out to us as we walk over, loud enough that a few people lounging on the steps turn their heads. “Ezra, thanks so much for coming.”
Ezra mutters beside me, “Told you he’d be pissed.”
Declan gives a slow clap. “It’s an honor—no, really, it is—to have you come to your own fucking fashion show.”
Ezra holds up a fist, pretends to crank it, and slowly lifts his middle finger. Declan narrows his eyes at Ez when we get closer.
“Are you high?” he demands, and Ezra turns his face away. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve all been waiting here for over an hour, and you’ve been getting high?”
I try to step in. “Jesus, relax.”
He doesn’t even bother looking at me. “Fuck off, Felix, seriously.”
There’s no point in even trying to explain that our train was late.
“You’re right,” Ezra says. He nods at Leah and Marisol, who’re watching us from the stairs. “Sorry. We lost track of time.”
Declan rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fucking ridiculous” under his breath—like he’s never been late for anything in his life. There was a point, before he decided he was too good for me and Ez, when all three of us would walk into class thirty minutes late together, high as fuck—and now, suddenly he’s the Second Coming? God, I can’t stand him.
“We’re already halfway done anyway,” Declan says, smoothing a hand through his curls, as if he doesn’t actually give a shit whether we’re here or not. Declan’s mixed—his mom is Black and Puerto Rican, his dad a white guy from Ireland—so he’s got brown skin, lighter than mine, and loose brown curls with glints of red that fall around his ears, dark brown eyes. He’s a little stockier, with broad shoulders—a jock in Old Navy clothes: pink graphic T-shirt, baggier faded jeans, flip-flops.
He turns his back on us. “Let’s hurry up and finish. I don’t want to be here all day. Felix, go hold that reflector.”
I don’t move. I can’t willingly make myself do whatever Declan Keane tells me to do. Not with that dismissive tone.
Ezra whispers, “Come on, Felix. Let’s just get this done.”
I roll my eyes and walk up the stairs, snatching up the reflector from the stack of supplies. Declan still hasn’t even bothered to grace me with a single glance.
“All right,” he says, “let’s get back to it. Marisol, I don’t think you should smile for this one—the juxtaposition of the Rihanna portrait with a serious expression . . .”
I zone the fuck out. About 99.9 percent of the time, Declan’s speaking to hear the sound of his own voice. The shoot continues, Leah circling Mari with her camera as Marisol twists and turns, staring off at the sky (which is good, because it’s easier to avoid eye contact with her), until it’s time for the next outfit. I have to hold up a sheet around Marisol, staring hard at the ground, as Ezra helps her get changed into another dress he made, this one covered in manga panels from Attack on Titan. When she’s ready, Declan barks his orders.
“Leah, position yourself a little more to the right. Felix, hold the reflector still.”
Marisol shields her face. “And can you get the light out of my eyes, please?”
Mari and I used to go out. For, like, two weeks, so it really isn’t that big of a deal, but still—I can’t help but feel a little riled up around her, I guess, even after all these months. Marisol just acts like absolutely nothing happened between us, sprinkling a dash of salt onto the wound. The way she broke things off doesn’t help, either.
Declan snaps his fingers at me. Literally, hand to God, snaps his fucking fingers at me. “I said to hold the reflector still. Christ, pay attention.”
I hold the reflector up higher. “Fucking bullshit,” I mutter to myself.
“Sorry, what was that?”
I must’ve spoken a little louder than I thought—because when I look up, everyone’s staring at me. Leah bites her lip. Marisol raises an eyebrow. Ezra shakes his head from across the set, mouthing, No, no, please, Felix, no. That kind of pisses me off, too. Why does Declan get to treat us like crap, and we’re just expected to take it, no complaints? I ignore Ezra and look right at Declan. “I said: Fucking. Bullshit.”