Ezra drops the wine and food next to the mattress and flops onto it, kicking off his shoes. “Think we’ll get in trouble for ditching half the day?”
I sit down next to him, pulling the chicken to me. “Uh, no, probably not.” Literally the only teacher who’s ever cared about schedules and tardiness has been Jill.
“Okay, look, I hate the guy,” Ezra says, “but do you think Declan had a point?”
“About being late?” I say, mouth full of fries. “Fuck no.”
“What if we get in trouble? Or we end up—I don’t know, getting kicked out or something?”
“Everyone’s always late to everything, Ez. Declan’s just singling us out because he’s a dick.” I try to ignore the tingle of fear in the back of my mind—not that we’d get kicked out, but that Declan was right about one thing, at least: I’m fucking around, procrastinating on my portfolio because I’m too afraid to actually get started—too afraid to try, only to fail. Terrified that I won’t get into Brown. I’ve worked hard these past three years so that all my dad’s sacrifices wouldn’t go to waste . . . but what if none of that matters in the end?
Ezra grabs the wine and twists off the screw cap. “Cups or no cups?”
“No cups.”
I’m a little annoyed at Ezra for even saying Declan’s name. After all, he’s the one I can thank for that fucking gallery. The pain isn’t as sharp as it was earlier, but it’s still there, echoing through me.
Ezra snuggles his head into my lap, like a dog trying to get comfortable. As if he’s read my mind—I don’t know, maybe he really is an empath or something—he says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him up.”
“S’okay.”
“Should we not say his name anymore?” he says. “I wouldn’t argue with calling him something else. Asshole Motherfucker. Shitty McShitterson.” He sits up to take a gulp from the wine, then lies back down. “Commander Dickwad.”
I lean my back against the wall. “No, I don’t mind saying his name,” I say. “As long as I get to fuck up his world.”
“Fucking ruin him.”
“Destroy his life as he knows it.”
“He won’t see it coming.”
“No, he fucking won’t.” What might’ve started as a joke feels a little more serious to me now. “He won’t even recognize himself when I’m done with him.”
“You’re such a Slytherin.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing the second bottle of chardonnay, “but you love it.”
“I do love it,” Ezra says, sitting up to grab a piece of chicken, then hisses and pulls his hand back, saying it’s too hot. “Thought more about what you’re going to do yet?” he asks.
“What did Jill say earlier?” I ask. “That thing about craft.”
“Use craft as a tool,” he says, “to find your creativity.”
“I guess the craft is Instagram. Declan figured out how to hack into my account and find my pictures. He must’ve looked at the photo’s tags, figured out my old name.” The photos were taken and uploaded before I’d even begun to think about transitioning, back when I still had to lie about my age to join any sort of social media.
“Okay,” Ezra says slowly. “So what’re you suggesting?”
I shake my head. “Not sure. If there was a way to—I don’t know, do the same thing that Declan did to me . . .”
It wouldn’t be the same as posting my photos and deadnaming me. Not even close. But if I could learn a secret of Declan’s and use that against him—post his secret, and hurt him like he hurt me . . . That’d definitely be a start.
“Maybe I can find a way to talk to him. Get a secret out of him, something he doesn’t want anyone else to know.” I begin to think of the possibilities. What dark shit might Declan Keane be hiding? Maybe there’s even something I can use against him. Something so bad, he’ll have to give up on his Brown application. Without Declan in the running, I’d pretty much be guaranteed the spot. My grades and my test scores aren’t the best, but I’m pretty fucking talented, and there isn’t anyone else on our level that’s applying for that scholarship.
I hear Ezra’s earlier question—What if it isn’t him?—but I push that shit to the side. I’m pretty positive that it’s Declan . . . and if it isn’t, Declan Keane still 100 percent deserves whatever’s coming to him.
“Get a secret out of him,” Ezra repeats. “Like—what? Catfish him?”
I snap my fingers. “Yes. I can make a fake account on Instagram. Declan’s always posting stupid shit. I’ll start commenting and messaging him. Try to start up a friendship. Get him to trust me.”
Ezra squints at me. “Uh—I mean, it sounds like a good idea. In theory. But I can’t think of anyone who’s less trusting than Declan Keane.” He bites his lip. “He didn’t mind—you know, the physical stuff. Making out and all that. But whenever I tried to get him to talk about his life, his feelings? You remember. He’s like a brick wall.”
I always try to forget that Ezra and Declan used to go out. For an entire seven months during our first year at St. Catherine’s, it was the Ezra Patel and Declan Keane show. It took exactly one day of hardcore flirtation on Ezra’s part before they were all over each other. Inseparable. Hand-holding, cheek-kissing, the works. I accepted my role as the third wheel—and to be honest, I didn’t even mind. Not really. I’d considered Declan my friend, too. All three of us would hang out. Talk about our future, our plans. They were the first two people at St. Catherine’s I came out to as trans. That pretty much says it all, when it comes to how much I trusted Declan Keane.
Then, suddenly—seriously, out of fucking nowhere—Declan broke up with Ezra and became the mightiest of all assholes. One day, he was hanging out with us, like he always did—and the next, he broke up with Ez via text. Ezra didn’t cry or anything, but I could practically feel the confusion and hurt coming off him in waves. To this day, he has no idea why Declan suddenly ended things like that. But, I mean, we’re mature enough to hang out with our exes, right? That’s what Ezra and I thought when we walked up to Declan the next morning. He was sitting with James and Marc, who were already the two most popular bro-jocks at the school . . . and when we tried to say hello, Declan just stared at us blankly, as if he didn’t even know who we were.
Ezra had wanted to ask if he’d done something wrong—to see if they still had a chance to make things work. “Can we talk?” he’d asked.
I still remember the disgust on Declan’s face. “I’d rather not.”
James and Marc were sneering at us. I could feel Ezra’s embarrassment, but he only nodded. “Okay. I guess I’ll just . . . leave you alone, then.”
You’d think Ezra leaving Declan alone would be enough, but no. Declan would roll his eyes whenever Ezra and I had something to say in class, would complain to the teacher whenever we were late, would talk shit about me and Ez to anyone who would listen. He made it clear that he thought he was better than us—that he wanted nothing to do with us. He never said why. No explanation. Nothing.