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I watch Zayan take a large sip of his own, and it doesn’t go well when the slush of his mangonada gets stuck in the straw. The sight of him, cheeks hollowed, angrily staring down at his cup, has me laughing so hard that the tapioca ball I was meant to be swallowing gets half stuck in my throat. The combination of laughter and choking leaves me wheezing breathlessly, clutching Zayan’s arm for stability.
‘We look like idiots,’ Zayan hisses in my direction, not shaking off my arm, eyeing the cameras trained on him. ‘Stop choking, I am begging you.’
My eyes are watering, laughter still bubbling in my chest as I recover.
‘Thanks for the help,’ I gasp sarcastically.
Before Zayan can say anything in return, the Bubble-Me-Mine lady offers him some advice. ‘You need to suck less aggressively,’ she says, gesturing to his drink.
Zayan catches my eyes. ‘If you laugh again, Farah –’
I shake my head, stifling my laughter, face warming as he takes a gentler sip.
‘It’s good,’ he announces, and I roll my eyes.
We finally take our leave then. I help him by taking half the drinks, balancing the paper cup-holder in my hands, my laughter replaced with the silence from our earlier conversation. But before we exit the store, he hesitates.
‘What?’ I ask softly, trying not to attract any unwanted attention.
His jaw works, as if he wants to say something but isn’t sure about it.
‘We have a job to do,’ I remind him, and his gaze snaps to mine.
He gives me the barest of nods, squares his shoulders and swallows whatever he was trying to articulate from before. As we step out of the store, our harsh exchange turns into October mist, and our expressions transform from armour to the gooey softness of two people in the beginnings of love.
We slip seamlessly into our roles, fake smiles and all.
My cheeks hurt from how hard I fake-smiled all the way to the Limelight. We’re let in by a disgruntled Marvin, who I’m starting to believe really does live here. The minute we step through the stage door – marked by a comedy-and-tragedy mask-shaped knocker – I let my smile drop and pull my drink out of the cup holder.
‘Well done, Farah,’ Zayan comments, but I don’t reply. I don’t trust myself not to snap at him.
I find The Tragedies all huddled in the middle of the stage, staring down at Nur’s phone. Dread balls up in the pit of my stomach, turning the sweetness of the bubble tea into a sharp taste against the roof of my mouth.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask urgently, making my way to the stage, Zayan hot on my heels.
Anushka shoves the phone under my nose, taking the drinks from my hands. I stare down at her screen, the brightness stinging my eyes.
‘Uff, your screen is so bright,’ Zayan mumbles, and I realize he’s standing right behind me, reading over my shoulder. I create some distance between the two of us and the warmth he exudes, still holding on to my irritation as I focus on the Instagram post in front of me.
TheatreSpiller: Well, well, well! Do we have news for you! Turns out the special co-star for The Tragedies’ play is none other than Zayan Amin. Need proof? Look at these photos of him and his co-star posing as their characters. And if you want to be even more surprised, the play they’re doing is Heer Ranjha – a story reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet. Now, if you ask us, it sounds like The Tragedies are just a little obsessed with the LSDCATS, but then again, that might be their whole MO.
‘H-how did they get this information?’ I ask, and for one wild, incomprehensible moment, I think the account posting is the LSDCATS. But then I remember their deafening social-media silence, and how sure Lacey was that Zayan’s presence would mean their defeat – not a retaliation. ‘It’s impossible. We haven’t even told our picks for the cast that they’ve been chosen yet.’
Today we were going to be finalizing the cast list, and then we were going to have our first rehearsal tomorrow. If that went as smoothly as we hoped, we’d then announce Zayan’s involvement. But now? Now our plans have been completely upended.
‘I think it’s pretty obvious.’ Zayan’s scoff steals our collective attention. I whirl round to find his arms crossed over his chest, a hard look in his tea-brown eyes. His glare isn’t directed at me, for once, but behind me.
At The Tragedies.
‘Zayan,’ I warn, already knowing where this conversation is about to go.
But he ignores me, clearly incensed. ‘I told you telling them would be a bad idea.’
‘You think one of us leaked the information?’ Nur asks, her tone so offended that it squeaks towards the end.
‘Think?’ Zayan argues. ‘I’d bet every penny earned from every movie I’ve done on it.’
‘Not your TV series?’ David asks, provoking him.
