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‘What did Zayan say about it?’ she asks, and a smile touches her lips in a way that makes my face heat up. The teasing about Zayan has not let up in my friend group. Just saying his name elicits grins and elbows to my side, like we’re all in high school again.
‘He told me not to worry about it,’ I say, leaning back in my desk chair, keeping my feet propped on the bed.
‘See, if the professional actor says the LSDCATS aren’t a concern,’ Amal offers lightly, ‘then they’re not a concern.’
I paste a smile on to my face, not wanting Amal to know that my worry hasn’t evaporated just yet. I would tell her the truth, but it would mean recounting my every experience with the LSDCATS, and I’m not ready to do that.
‘I’m going to be baking chocolate-chip cookies tonight. Owais has a huge quiz on Friday, and I want to give him a box to snack on,’ Amal says, while sliding off my bed. ‘Then I’m going to go back to writing. If you want, we can watch trashy reality TV until your mind is distracted enough.’
Affection flickers in my heart. See, best friends like Amal are like lighthouses; they know exactly how to pull you out of the darkness that threatens to swallow you whole.
‘Thanks,’ I say, a more genuine smile climbing over my face. ‘But I think I’m going to work on my essay first.’
‘OK, well, you know where to find me.’
Once Amal leaves, I force myself to spend a couple of hours finishing up my essay and submitting it on Turnitin. I then do my entire night-time skincare routine and I climb into bed with the intention of sleeping.
But, of course, that doesn’t happen.
I find myself staring up at the ceiling, uneasy and unable to sleep. Eventually, after more time passes, I sit up in my bed and pull out the script for Heer Ranjha to read over one of the more intense scenes of the play. I hear Zayan’s voice saying the lines in my head, and I find myself whispering the responding lines under my breath because the rest of the flat is now asleep – as they should be, because it’s 3 a.m.
But even reading the script can’t lull my mind. I get through one scene before I abandon the script to look at my phone. I stare at the LSDCATS’ cast list again. My eyes have surpassed feeling heavy with sleep and have gone straight to sleep-deprivation alertness, a unique kind of awake that only happens when you’re pulling an all-nighter. Except mine is an unintentional all-nighter, because I don’t want to be reading the LSDCATS’ cast list again.
But I can’t stop staring at the name.
Kamran Milwala: Tybalt.
Of course the LSDCATS would cast a person of colour after the backlash they got. It’s disgustingly performative, and it makes me want to write another essay directed solely at them. But I’m on strict instruction not to by Zayan, who said we should wait to see the public response before making our next move.
The thought of him stopping me from unleashing my wrath at the LSDCATS makes me wonder if he’ll have some advice for dealing with the waiting, for having patience. When Zayan offered his guidance at rehearsal, he made it clear he’d be willing to give it if I was willing to take it.
It’s that final thought of Zayan as a mentor with the answer to my worries that has me dialling his number at this crazy hour.
‘Hello?’ Zayan’s rough, sleepy tone makes a shiver run down my spine.
I sit up in the bed, putting a pillow behind my back. ‘Hi,’ I reply, hoping he can’t hear how his voice has affected me.
‘Farah?’ An alertness enters his tone. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yeah – yeah, I’m fine. Were you sleeping?’ I ask guiltily. ‘Sorry, of course you’re sleeping. I shouldn’t have called. It’s not serious, don’t worry.’
I hear rustling on the other end, and I try not to imagine what Zayan looks like in bed – whether his hair is all messed up and rumpled, or if he looks princely and perfect. I bet he has expensive pyjamas on, ones that are tailored to his exact measurements, with a monogrammed Z. A. on the pocket.
‘Well, I’m up now, and I’ve made myself comfortable,’ he says, sounding not exactly accusatory. I envision him sitting up in his giant king-sized bed, head resting against his headboard. ‘Why’d you call?’
‘I …’ I let out a breath of frustration, unable to articulate what’s bothering me about the LSDCATS exactly.
‘You’re thinking about the cast list, aren’t you?’ Zayan guesses correctly.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘But I’m not sure why it’s bugging me so much.’
‘Because it’s blatant racism, and waiting to see what the public will say is terrible, because their response should be automatic,’ he replies, and then offers a question. ‘Want me to tell you exactly what you’re feeling right now?’
I laugh a little. ‘Sounds like you already are.’
He takes that as a confirmation and launches into a monologue. ‘When you first saw the cast list, you were angry. Rageful. Beyond furious. That’s an easy first emotion to fall into, and it’s not a wrong emotion. You’re right to be mad. What the LSDCATS have done, using another person of colour to cover their tracks, is despicable. But once the anger settles, you accept that you can’t change the cast list, and that’s when your doubt and worry kicks in. Your fear that the LSDCATS have done enough by using a person of colour as their token. That their years and years of prestige will trump your play, and every opportunity you saw for your team will disappear.’ Zayan pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Did I get it right?’
‘Yeah,’ I swallow tightly, entirely stunned. This is the second time he’s understood me so viscerally. ‘Yeah, you got it right.’
