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On the stage, David is talking to a group of the crew, while Zayan and Ben stand off to one side. Ben’s showing Zayan something on his phone, something that makes Zayan’s eyes light up in excitement. I stop myself from walking over there and trying to see what it is that can make his mood lift like that.
I was nervous for today, our first rehearsal. I was a little afraid that Zayan couldn’t act in a play about his culture – that his internal biases would literally ruin his ability. But I’ve been proven wrong. He’s absorbed the script, become the character; the Urdu phrases peppered in the text are rolling off his tongue in an accent that used to lurk quietly in the background of his voice.
Whether he likes it or not, his culture still lies dormant in him. It’s clearly not so easy to simply sacrifice that. I bet he unconsciously knows he’s held on to bits of his history, his first home, but isn’t willing to see it.
But why did he take that TV role if he knew it mocked his culture?
I have to look away from him, the question begging to escape, my resolve to not ask it weakening. I asked him too many intrusive questions at Bubble-Me-Mine. I can’t overstep again.
‘No,’ Anushka says, and the shortness of her tone draws my attention back to her.
‘What?’ I question, realizing I’ve spaced out.
‘No, I haven’t talked to David about the crew,’ Anushka replies, answering my earlier question.
The Tragedies and I talk every day on our original group chat – moaning about how terrible the life of a university student is, and our own inside jokes – but we haven’t delved beyond the surface. I don’t know their innermost desires, their secrets, their fears. We aren’t there yet in our friendship, but I want to be.
Anushka sighs, deflating like a balloon losing air. She presses her palms to her eyes and, for a moment, I’m afraid she’s about to start crying. Then she inhales deeply, reins herself in and turns to me. ‘We had this stupid fight before coming here today. I wanted to meet his parents, who are coming by this weekend, but he didn’t want me to.’
‘Oh,’ I reply simply.
She gives me a small shrug. ‘It probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, right?’
I shake my head before tentatively broaching the subject. ‘Well, it depends how serious you guys are.’ I pick Maha’s eloquent words. ‘If you’re in a situationship, and this relationship is going nowhere, then I get why he wouldn’t want to introduce you. But if you’re both thinking this is for the long term – friendship or more – I can see why you’re upset.’
Anushka nods, her mouth morphed into a frown. I reach over to squeeze her forearm. I want to say something cajoling, like ‘Forget David; he’s awful,’ but we both know that’s not true.
Instead, I take another avenue. ‘You two will work it out,’ I say eagerly. But Anushka’s melancholy doesn’t disappear, and my words fall flat. That ache in my chest heightens, but I persist anyway, wishing that I knew what to say to make it better. A worthy friend would. ‘I mean it. You’re both friends before anything else, and that can build some of the greatest long-term relationships.’
As if summoned by the words ‘long-term relationships’, the scent of patchouli – a fragrance I’ve begun to associate with only one person – invades my senses. I turn to face Zayan, who has the script rolled up in his hands. Most of the other cast members have had their scripts signed by him, an event that’s taken up a sizable amount of our rehearsal time today. We probably should’ve seen it as the first sign of how quickly everything was going to go downhill.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Hollywood?’ I ask, a brow raised. ‘Not enough cast members fawning over you?’
His smile turns rakish, showing off both dimples. ‘Well, Dove, it wasn’t you showering me with attention, so it’s never going to be enough.’ I scrunch my nose at the nickname, and Zayan laughs a little. ‘No “Dove”, then?’
‘I hate birds.’
‘Duly noted. How do you feel about food items? “Cupcake”?’
‘Do I look like a des—’
‘Don’t finish that sentence,’ Anushka interrupts, placing a hand over my mouth. ‘You’re practically setting yourself up for a cheesy compliment.’
Zayan makes a mock-groaning noise. ‘Really? Did you have to cut in?’
She drops her hand from my face, turning her glare on to him. ‘Seriously, what do you want?’
He straightens under her look, replacing the teasing boy with the professional actor in seconds. If I had the time, I’d study Zayan for hours. He can change one thing about himself – so minutely, like the rise of his lips into the barest of smiles, or the narrowing of his eyes – and suddenly he is transformed.
‘I wanted to discuss how you planned on getting this show back on track, because from the looks of it we’re not getting very far,’ he says, and because I’ve seen it before I can hear the anxiety thrumming under his voice. I’m not sure Anushka can, but it’s as loud as a siren to me now. ‘And that begs the question of what I’m doing here if the cast can’t work together. If this play isn’t performed well, that doesn’t help me either. Doesn’t help us beat the LSDCATS.’
In unison, my gaze and Anushka’s drift back to the cast. The group that isn’t being lectured by David about blocking and self-awareness on stage is huddled in the middle of it, giggling and throwing unsubtle glances Zayan’s way. There’s the costumes team arguing with Nur about their vision, and the tech crew is hunkered over a laptop trying to work out something about sound and lighting.
This cast is decidedly separate – a constellation of unbound stars, floating in the galaxy with no force to bring them together.
‘I think I have a way of fixing the atmosphere here,’ Anushka suddenly announces, her previous anger dissipating. ‘Would you mind helping me with an exercise?’
‘How?’ Zayan asks.
