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‘I-I’m fine!’ I reply, quickly and unconvincingly. I can practically see the sceptical look painted on Amal’s face outside my door. So, for good measure, I throw in an excuse. ‘I stayed up late last night and ended up in a YouTube wormhole about penguins. I guess I overslept, but I’ll be out in a minute.’
I pause, waiting to see if she’ll buy it. When Amal laughs, I feel my tense shoulders relax just a little.
‘Of course you did,’ Amal replies, her tone amused now. ‘All right, well, I’ve got online lectures today, so I’m in the living room.’
When the sound of Amal’s retreating footsteps begins to fade, I look at my phone again – it’s still going wild with notifications. So many people are showering the post with support. I scroll through and notice that some of the responses are repeatedly asking, ‘Who are you?’
That’s when it hits me: no one knows I wrote the post. They only know that someone with the social media handle @ConstantlyVictimizedBySociety wrote it. Not me, Farah Sheikh.
But The Tragedies can be found. Internet detectives, who should probably be hired by the FBI, and potential trolls will have no problem working out who The Tragedies are – especially if any of them ever tweeted out about their auditions, like I did, from their personal accounts.
I acted on total impulse last night and I didn’t stop to think about what would happen to Ben, David, Anushka and even Nur – who I have yet to meet.
Guilt gnaws at me as I run through all my options. I could delete the tweet before The Tragedies see it, but that feels deceptive – I’m already in the wrong for writing out their stories in the post; I can’t hide the truth from them as well. But the longer I leave the tweet and the post up, the more traction it’ll get. It’s inevitable that they’re going to see the post and realize it’s their stories that I’m talking about.
In the end, there’s only one right choice: I have to tell them myself and ask them what they’d like me to do: delete it, keep it up, or erase my entire digital footprint – if that’s even possible.
While trying to work out the right wording for my message to The Tragedies, I decide to delete my Twitter and Tumblr apps to give me and my phone a break from the notifications. I write and rewrite the message in my Notes app while doing my daily post-shower skincare routine, which lacks its usual calming effect. I then slip on whatever is clean from my closet – yellow kameez, dark-blue jeans and a matching banana-yellow dupatta, which I drape round my throat and shoulders as if getting dressed will give me the confidence needed to deal with today.
When I’m finally done with my routine, I re-download Twitter and go straight to the group chat. I paste in the message, all the words I’ve been poring over for the last twenty minutes, and stare at it.
All I have to do is click ‘send’ and wait. Wait for The Tragedies to explode in anger. Wait for them to kick me out of the group. Wait for them to give me exactly what I deserve.
‘Breakfast first,’ I say to myself, feeling slightly winded. I know I’m avoiding the inevitable, but I like The Tragedies. I only got a taste of their friendship, and I’m not ready to lose it just yet. I’m especially not ready to lose it on an empty stomach.
When I finally leave my room, I find Amal sitting on the flower-print sofa in our living room with a bowl of what looks like chocolate-fudge ice cream in her hands.
‘We’re doing ice cream for lunch?’ I ask, and Amal whips her head round to look at me.
‘I’ve got three assignments due in two weeks,’ she retorts, ‘and everyone knows ice cream makes life’s problems easier.’
‘Sage advice,’ I say, walking straight to the kitchen. I’m going to pick something quick to eat, like cereal, and then send the message. ‘Does Owais approve of this method of stress relief?’
‘Nope,’ Amal replies, dangling her spoon in front of her like it’s a wand. ‘He makes me do responsible and healthy things, like talk about my worries.’
I smile and pour the cereal, remembering the time Amal wouldn’t talk about anything that made her anxious – especially not to Owais, her academic-rival-turned-something-more. But now they’re each other’s rock.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Amal asks, her eyes narrowed on my outfit.
‘No,’ I say, holding the bowl of cereal between my palms. ‘I’m going back into my room in a minute, actually.’
‘Huh,’ Amal says, her lips curling into a smile. My stomach clenches.
Oh no. She knows. She knows I wrote the Tumblr post. All rational thought flees my body. I’m going to have to tell her about my audition. I’m going to have to tell her that the LSDCATS don’t think I’m good enough for the stage, and the humiliation is going to burn my insides alive.
‘I was thinking you’d be more interested in Zayan Amin than studying,’ Amal adds.
‘What?’ I blurt out, completely confused now.
‘You know his new TV series?’
‘Yeah?’ I reply, my interest slightly piqued.
‘Turns out, Zayan’s big post-Fairbanks debut hasn’t done so well,’ she says, a lilt in her voice. ‘The reviews came in, and I’ve never seen a show get cancelled that fast. The studio issued a statement about it.’
‘But why?’ I ask, attention fully captured now.
‘Honestly, I think he’s really messed up. Listen to this review.’ Amal clears her throat and begins reading from her phone. “Zayan Amin, commonly known as ‘Zay’, has failed the desi community by playing the lead in a new comedy show where his character is the butt of coded tropes such as ‘brown people smell like curry’ and ‘every brown kid hates their parents’. I had high hopes for Zay. The Fairbanks was one of my favourite sitcoms growing up, and watching him progress from the plucky toddler to the dashing young main character was a delight for viewers. But now it’s clear he’s just another social climber who will insult his roots for success.”
