Felix Ever After: Chapters 1–3

The smell of smoke and burning meat wafts over, along with the laughter and screams of kids.

It’s June 1—the first day of Pride month in the city—so there are No Bigotry Allowed rainbow-colored signs plastered on the tiled walls.

We walk through the crowds of people who idle in front of the farmers’ market stalls selling jars of jam and freshly baked bread and flowers with bursts of color, men in business suits shoving past, dogs on leashes and toddlers on three-wheeled scooters threatening to trip us.

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.

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.

I can’t willingly make myself do whatever Declan Keane tells me to do. Not with that dismissive tone.

“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...”

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.

I hate that he’s right—I am mad that I can’t describe being the director on my application while Declan gets to use this, along with his perfect grades and almost-perfect test scores and family pedigree.

But the insinuation is there—implication made.

But the insinuation is there—implication made.

I’ve won, and in any other circumstance, I’d be happy to stay here and bask in the glory—but Marisol and Leah are staring anywhere but at me, and Ezra has these worried-filled eyes, and I know he'll whisper, “Are you okay?” every five minutes if I stay.

I pass the Starbucks—the ultimate sign of gentrification in any neighborhood—and the Dollar Tree, the gym, and the fruit stand on the sidewalk.

The walls are beige, the light brown hardwood floors scuffed and worn down, an AC unit stuck into the living room’s only window.

The wooden floor squeaks on my way into the kitchen, where I see a container from Jacob’s, the cheapest and most delicious takeout around: beef stew, peas and rice, plantains, and baked macaroni and cheese.

I get comfortable in the living room, toeing off my sneakers and grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, sprawling out on the comfy couch.

The bedroom door opens, and my dad walks out, bleary- eyed.

Ez comes bounding down the stairs and out the front door, shades also on.

No matter how much he pisses me off sometimes, I wouldn’t have been able to start my physical transition without my dad.

We sat next to each other in class and gravitated to each other’s sarcastic comments, until we found ourselves spending practically every second of every day together.

Eventually, the apartments become smaller until there’s a series of bodegas and bars with rainbow Pride flags hanging on their doors, and the fenced-off campus with its hedges and
 trees appears.

St. Catherine’s is affiliated with an arts college that takes up four blocks on its own, but we get a private building in the corner of the campus near the parking lot.

She always has a steely gaze, hair and makeup and nails perfect, haughty smirk tugging on the edge of her lips.

There was something...I don’t know, intoxicating about her confidence.

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.”

A placard underneath has a title with my deadname and the photo’s year.

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.

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.

They get to waltz in whenever they want, and there are no repercussions? What about everyone else who makes a point to get into class on time?

Jill lets us get started on our projects for the day. Ezra and I choose spots next to each other at a wall, canvas already stretched and prepped.