Felix Ever After(4)
On top of that, Brown University has had a tradition of giving one St. Catherine’s student a full scholarship. I can’t afford college. My dad won’t be able to pay the tuition. I’ll have to take out a shit ton of loans and probably be in debt for the rest of my life, just to pursue illustration—while I can’t think of anyone who would need, or deserve, that scholarship less than Declan fucking Keane. Just the thought of him getting that scholarship makes me want to stab pencils into my eyeballs.
Declan smirks at me. “What? Nothing else to say?”
“Leave it alone,” Ezra tells me.
But I can’t leave it alone. People like Declan are so used to getting their way. Acting like he’s so much better and more important than everyone else. That’s what he does to me—to Ezra. Ez acts like it doesn’t bother him, but I get pissed off all over again every time I see Declan and remember the way he’s treated us—the way he betrayed us.
“You know what?” I tell him. “Fuck you. You act like you’re better than everyone else, but you’re nothing but a fucking fraud.”
Ezra’s shaking his head, like he’s annoyed with me, as if he thinks I’m overreacting even though he knows that Declan is being an asshole. Leah and Marisol awkwardly stand to the side, glancing at Declan to see what he’ll do or say next.
Declan clenches his jaw. “I’m the fraud? Really?”
Ezra points at Declan. “No. Don’t go there.”
Declan rolls his eyes. “Christ. That’s not even what I meant.”
But the insinuation is there—implication made. It sours the air. Declan lets out this heavy sigh, not bothering to look at me, and out of the countless fights I’ve had with Declan Keane, I know I’ve won this particular battle. Even if his last words are still twisting through my gut. 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 drop the reflector. “Forget it.”
I’m halfway down the stairs when Declan says that he isn’t surprised. That’s the kind of crap I always pull. I just flip him off and keep going.
Two
THE TRIP FROM UNION SQUARE ISN’T AS BAD AS FROM BED-STUY, but it’s still about an hour before I get off at the 145th stop in Harlem. I’ve only been living here half a year. My dad and I used to live pretty close to where Ezra is now, on Tompkins. I miss the hell out of Brooklyn, but our landlord raised the rent, and my dad just couldn’t afford it. He works most weeknights as a doorman for a luxury condominium in Lower Manhattan, and some days he’ll try to take up extra jobs, like making deliveries and walking dogs. I’m on a talent-based scholarship, and even then, all his money goes into me and St. Catherine’s—just so that I can pursue my passion for art. The pressure to get better grades, to pull off an amazing portfolio and college application, to make all the sacrifices worth it and actually get into Brown . . . it can fill me up sometimes, to the point where it’s hard to even breathe.
Dad tells me not to worry. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to live in Harlem.” I don’t know if he’s just lying to cheer me up, but there’s definitely something exciting about this neighborhood. Langston Hughes and Claude McKay and all the other Black queer poets of the Renaissance made their art way up here. Maybe being in Harlem will snap me out of whatever the hell this creative block is and inspire me to put together an amazing Brown University application and portfolio—strong enough not only to get in but to get that full-ride scholarship, too. God, how incredible would that be? Getting into Brown would be like giving a giant middle finger to the Declan Keanes of the world—the people who take one look at me and decide I’m just not good enough.
I put in my earbuds and pop Fleetwood Mac into my Spotify station as I head down the steep hill, passing the park I avoid at all costs, ever since a rat tried to climb up my leg as I cut through the grass one night. 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. There are lemons, grapes, strawberries, and the brightest mangoes I’ve ever seen. They look like miniature suns. I pull out my phone and snap a photo for Instagram, even though I wouldn’t really classify myself as a #foodporn kind of guy.
The seller glares at me. “You buying anything?”
I shrug. “No?”
“Then get the fuck out of here.”
I walk up the block, by the Chinese restaurant and the KFC, kids on bikes popping up onto their back wheel and whooping down the street, fire truck sirens blaring a few blocks off, a shirtless man walking his Shih Tzu without a leash. The building my dad managed to get us into is all red brick with a courtyard where a few guys are sitting around on the ramp’s railings. I pass by into the lobby with brown tiles and potted plants in the corners, a girl chatting on her cell phone by the stairs. The elevator takes me up to the fifth floor, and after walking down the hallway that reminds me of The Shining, I unlock the door and let myself in.
“I’m home!” I call out, not sure if my dad’s even here. Captain, who must’ve heard me coming down the hall, is waiting by the door. She immediately rubs against my leg, back arching and purring, tail flicking back and forth. I’d found her as a kitten in Brooklyn one winter day when I was walking to my Bed-Stuy apartment with Ezra, and I was afraid that she’d die if I didn’t help her, so I brought her home. My dad was pissed, but he let me warm her up and feed her milk, and one day turned into a few days, which turned into a few weeks, and after a few months, my dad had to admit that he liked her, too. I bend over to pick Captain up, but she’s gone in a flash, bolting away from me and toward the kitchen.