She assumed Rukmini had gotten what she wanted out of their coffee date — a selfie, proof of their association (though surprisingly Rukmini never posted it). A few days later, when Neela clicked on the paper airplane icon in the top right-hand corner of her Instagram account, she found two DMs from Rukmini:
so great to meet with you today! excited about our band xoxo
Hey Neela! When are we hanging out again?
416-852-1472
Neela stood up from her desk and bent her knee into a warrior pose while looking at her phone. After a minute, she sat back down and gave in.
Hi Rukmini. Neela here. I’m free on Saturday.
Rukmini texted back instantly. Neela! How about Friday? Shani Mootoo is speaking at Harbourfront. She included a link with more information about the event.
Oh, I would have loved that. Cereus Blooms is one of my favourite books. Unfortunately, I have a big Canada Council grant deadline to meet.
Neela glanced up from her phone to the budget spreadsheet cage on her computer and contemplated the freedom she’d gain by adding several zeros to the numbers she had entered in every cell for her living and recording expenses, and clicking Submit.
Same! I read it in my postcolonial lit class in undergrad. First time I encountered a self-assured brown trans character in a book. A rare combo!
His name was Otoh right? He is definitely memorable. That book is art.
Stepping away from her computer again, Neela walked to her alphabetically organized bookshelf to locate her copy of Shani’s book, phone in hand.
Aren’t all books technically works of art?
Only if the writing is noteworthy.
She set Cereus on her bedside table to reread, Rukmini’s messages reminding her of the pile of books in her bedroom closet she intended to dispose of at the library.
Ha ha! So you don’t think writers are inherently artists?
No. Anyone can write a book these days, Neela texted and then put her phone down on her bed and stacked the books from her closet beside the front door so she wouldn’t forget to get rid of them at last. The weight of the books grew heavier as she thought about their contents — what little she could remember of them. How could so many words, so many sentences, amount to so little impact?
When she picked up her phone again, Rukmini had texted back. True. One of my fave tweets is by @rawiya: “listen it’s ok to not write a book.”
Exactly.
Well, I’m so curious to find out what other books you like. I want to read them :) Good luck with your grant app! Stressed face emoji Why don’t you just come over on Saturday? We can chill!
Chill. What did that involve? That Saturday, she walked slowly to Rukmini’s house, inviting the muscular humidity, her summer companion, to encase her body. She tried to recall the last time she had made a friend. In grade school, her classmates always unravelled to be less interesting than she had imagined they were in her head. She eventually traded being allured by someone’s potential (and feeling the disappointment that ensued) for her own company. This had been the appeal of Twitter — a forum to engage with herself as often and as freely as she wanted and, even better, to document her thoughts. Often, when she began to write a song, she would pull up her Twitter page and pluck from her recent tweets as a lush garden of ideas.
In her twenties, most of her social interactions had felt like she was trapped in a teen drama house party but without the drama (or the teens), repeating the same small talk and catch-ups until her mouth was dried out and blistered. Occasionally these interactions would mature into friendship, but after discussing zodiac signs, favourite TV shows and movies and sharing family and relationship histories, all that was left to talk about was the latest co-worker or roommate fiasco that had collected since last seeing each other. The words “friend” and “dumpster” inevitably became synonymous.
When she approached a row of army-green compost bins on the sidewalk, she paused and reconsidered her visit to Rukmini’s place. What if they ran out of stimulating topics to discuss? How much did they actually have in common? What if Rukmini just wanted to take more selfies together? Neela shuddered and grabbed her phone from her pocket to check the time — was it too late to cancel?
Rukmini had texted her. See you soon!
Persuaded by Rukmini’s excitement, Neela wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm and continued walking while checking her other notifications.
Kasi had also texted her. Rehearsal at 9 tomorrow? Will grab you a tea on the way.
Her relationship with Kasi blurred the line between friend and colleague. Three years ago, Neela had been flipping through Toronto Tops when she had spotted Kasi in a photo with The Turn Arounds, who were then going by MY Turn Arounds. (Kasi later revealed that “MY” was supposed to be a clever reference to Marcus Young’s initials, but no one ever caught it.) Surrounded by three shirtless white men with beards, Kasi commanded the stage in her white tank top and zippered punk pants. Even though she was positioned to the side, she looked like the lead singer, her blue-black shag wailing with sweat. When Neela read the article, it mentioned Kasi only once, identifying her as the keyboardist. At the time, Neela had been brainstorming ways to elevate her live show and as soon as she saw that photo, she was certain that including Kasi was the answer. Never one to be seduced by mere presentation, Neela had emailed Kasi an invitation to her rehearsal space so that she could decide if Kasi had the necessary chops.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” Neela had reached her hand out. When she shook Kasi’s, Neela appreciated their immediate equilibrium — neither one squeezed harder than the other.
“It was actually perfect timing. The MY Turn Arounds schedule is a little up in the air as they sort out their next album, so I’m looking for other work. Can I ask how you heard of me?”
“I saw a photo in Toronto Tops.”
“Ugh. That photo.” Kasi had been removing her hoodie and briefly remained under the black fleece. “I think they’re using it as their official press shot.”
“I thought it was just a live photo?” Neela looked away at the wall, plastered with old gig posters, to give Kasi privacy. She had always maintained that awkwardness was a feeling or behaviour largely invented by attention-seekers (the same kind who loved to share how “nerdy” their tastes were) but now felt unsettled by not knowing how to behave in the presence of another woman in a music space.
“It is, but people have been really responding to it.”
“You mean people have been responding to you.”
“Pretty much. I think they’re still sorting out their brand and what’s better than a Spice Girl in the mix? Can I set up over there?” Kasi pointed to the corner of the room with the fewest stacked gear cases.
“Sure. Let me know if you need any help,” Neela offered while she fidgeted with a tambourine, rattling it. “So you aren’t an official member of the band?”