The St. Catherine’s building is old-school red brick with giant modern black-glass windows. Ezra and I get to the parking lot where a bunch of other students are hanging out in the shade of the trees. We automatically walk up to Marisol, who’s leaning up against the building’s brick wall as she talks to Leah, smoking next to the No Smoking within 25 Feet sign. I hate that I still can’t meet Marisol’s eye. She always has a steely gaze, hair and makeup and nails perfect, haughty smirk tugging on the edge of her lips. There’re some people who’re careful to only show the part of themselves they want others to see. I know that there are other sides to Marisol. She just never shows them to me.
“God, I need about another five hours of sleep,” Marisol says, offering her cigarette to Ezra. “Why the hell is this program so early?”
Ezra taps ash off the end of the cigarette. “That’s what I want to know.”
“I saw a study,” Leah says, “that says it’s really unhealthy to force teenagers to wake up at, like, seven in the morning. Something about our biological internal clocks.”
“Think we should make an official complaint to the dean?” Ezra says. “We could start a protest.”
“A sit-in,” Leah offers, “until classes begin at noon.”
Marisol snorts, playing with the ends of her thick, curled hair. “Tell me how it goes.”
They keep talking, but I can feel myself getting too wrapped up in my head to pay attention. When I first met Marisol in class, I’d been impressed by her—and intimidated. There was something . . . I don’t know, intoxicating about her confidence. Marisol knows that she’s beautiful and talented and intelligent. She doesn’t question if she’s worthy of respect and love. When I asked her out last summer, just a couple of months after my top surgery, I was still getting used to my new body, feeling a little insecure with all the stares I would get, people clearly confused about my gender . . . and I guess I hoped some of Marisol’s confidence would rub off on me.
Marisol had shrugged. “Sure,” she said, like it was no big deal—and maybe it wasn’t to her. She’d gone on dates before, but this was my first time. The three dates we attempted were awkward as fuck. We just couldn’t figure out what to talk about without Ezra there as a middleman, and I could tell Marisol was bored with me, staring off into space as I talked to her about my acrylic techniques. I can’t blame her for being bored—I was nervous, babbling, desperate to fill the silence. Finally, on the third date as we sat at Starbucks, Marisol suddenly said, “You know, I haven’t been able to put my finger on why I’m not interested in you, but I think I understand now. In the end, I just don’t think I can date a misogynist.”
I’d startled, fear clutching my heart. I was worried I’d done or said something sexist without realizing it. “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Then, “Why am I a misogynist?”
“Well,” she said, “you deciding to be a guy instead of a girl feels inherently misogynistic.” She told me, “You can’t be a feminist and decide you don’t want to be a woman anymore.”
Fear turned to shock, then anger, then shame. “Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. We told each other goodbye, and we haven’t spoken about that day since. I kept what she said to myself. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone else. And a part of me—a splinter in my chest—was, and still is, worried that she might be right. It’s ironic, I guess. I wanted to date her so that I could prove I’m worthy of love. Instead, she managed to solidify this slowly growing theory that I’m not.
“I’ll be in the classroom,” I say, but Ezra doesn’t hear me, still wrapped up in the conversation with Marisol, which has now rapidly switched to whether Hazel and James are hooking up in the supply closet (Leah is positive that they are). Ezra can never pass up a good piece of drama, and since he doesn’t know what Marisol said to me, the two still hang out all the time.
I walk in through the sliding glass doors and into the blast of AC (seriously, why is the AC always on level infinity in the summer?) and make it about three steps across the white tile before I look up.
There’s a gallery on the lobby walls. There are always student art installations in the lobby during the school year, so I’m not really surprised. What does surprise me are the images. Photos blown up to about 16 x 16.
Photos from my Instagram.
Photos of who I used to be.
Long hair. Dresses. Pictures of me with these forced smiles. Expressions showing just how uncomfortable I always felt. The physical pain is strained across my face in those photos.
That discomfort is nothing compared to now.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I walk up to one slowly, blinking to clear my eyesight, like I’m not sure if this is even real. A placard underneath has a title with my deadname and the photo’s year. What the fuck? What the actual, holy fuck? These were pictures that I’d hidden on my Instagram. Who the hell did this? How the fuck did they get into my account?
I reach up, trying to unhook the framed photo in front of me. I can’t even look at it without my stomach twisting, and it’s embarrassing, but I can feel hot tears coming—I’m too short, can’t reach it, and there are seven others that need to be taken down, too—
The door opens, and over my shoulder I can see a few students walking in, stopping for a second to stare, confused, before—thank God—they keep moving—
“Felix?”
I turn, and Ezra comes in after me. He mouths the words what the hell as he stares around. “Is—is that you?” he asks.
“No, it’s not fucking me,” I say, louder than I mean to.
He locks eyes with me, realizing his mistake. “Shit—sorry, no, I know it’s not you.”
Without another word he marches over and reaches above me, grabbing the frame and pulling it off the hook to take it down. He hurries to the next one, and I sink to the floor, sitting with my back against the wall, watching him. A few students—I think they’re in sculpture—walk in, glancing at the photos and then at me.
“Keep it fucking moving,” Ezra barks, and they jump before hurrying down the hall. He moves faster and faster so that he’s flat-out running from one frame to the next, until all the images are down. He picks the frames up together at once, looking around for a place to trash them, then hides the photos behind the empty security desk. The guard doesn’t come during the summertime. Whoever put up the gallery must’ve been waiting for this moment.
I shut my eyes and pull my knees up to my chest. I can feel Ezra sitting down beside me, the rustle of his T-shirt against my arm—his hand, unsure, on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I shake my head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You need me to take you to the bathroom?”
I shake my head again. “No. Just—don’t talk for a second. Let me . . .”
We sit there. I don’t know for how long. More sounds of sliding glass doors, voices and footsteps. Someone calls out, asking Ezra if I’m all right, and he doesn’t say anything, but from his body shifting beside me, I think he might be waving them on.