The Subtweet

by Vivek Shraya

  “Being poor isn’t a joke. None of this was supposed to be serious, right?” Rukmini lowered her voice, not wanting the other students walking by to hear them.

  “It’s serious to me. The impact that it’s having. It means something to me. Why doesn’t it mean anything to you?” Water pooling in her eyes, Malika tried to hide behind the curtains of hair fringing her face. Rukmini had never seen Malika cry before and, despite this argument, there was something beautiful about witnessing it. She had always believed that when someone allowed you to see them at their most vulnerable, the friendship was official. Taking a step closer, she gently drew back Malika’s hair.

  “Listen Mali, I love what we made. And I love making music with you.”

  “But? I know there’s a fucking ‘but’ in there,” Malika snapped and shook her mane.

  Rukmini realized she had never seen Malika angry before either. “Mali, come on.”

  “Maybe it’s best you don’t come over.”

  “Really? Just because I don’t want to be a rock star?”

  “No, because you aren’t who I thought you were.” Malika glared an arrow at her.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I’m still down to make music every so often. I just need to focus on getting a job right now, okay?”

  “‘Every so often’? Like this is a hobby? Don’t bother.”

  “Fuck. Fine. You’re upset. I get it. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  Malika marched away. Rukmini raced to catch up with her, fighting against her high heels. Another streetcar chugged by, taunting Rukmini. She had stupidly suggested they walk instead of hopping on public transit. They could have been tipsy and giggling right now.

  “Mali, I am going to call you tomorrow and we are going to sort this out.” She put her arm around Malika’s shoulders as she caught her breath.

  “No. Please don’t. Please just leave me alone.” Malika shrugged Rukmini’s arm off her.

  “You know, I always wondered if you even liked me or if this was always just about the music for you.” As Rukmini’s voice trembled, she turned away from Malika, embarrassed by her own tears forming. Through her wet haze, she could make out the lines of the university buildings, the place where they had met.

  “If that’s what you really want,” she said when Malika refused to respond to her confession. Then she crossed the street alone.

  She kept waiting to feel Malika’s fingers tap her shoulder, hoping that Malika would have chased after her. When she gave up and turned around, Malika was long gone.

  * * *

  “You know that when someone says, ‘Leave me alone,’ they don’t always want to be left alone, right?” Neela said after Rukmini finished telling her about the fight. They were both still huddled on Rukmini’s bedroom floor, but she had finally stopped crying. “Sometimes ‘leave me alone’ just means ‘I’m in pain right now.’”

  “Of course I know that,” Rukmini responded briskly, though she wasn’t sure if she had known that then. “But showing up on her doorstep would have felt like crossing a boundary.”

  “So that was it? You just walked away?”

  “No, I called her for weeks but she never picked up and she never called back.”

  Rukmini had also checked her email every hour, hoping to find a message from Malika. Eventually, the original purpose faded, but the habit persevered well into her late twenties.

  Instead of wishing to hear from Malika, she began to hope for a message that would rip her out of her two washed-out black miniskirts and away from the hours she spent in heels collecting tips at Jack Astor’s. As she earned enough to cover her bills and chip away at her student loan debt, she believed her escape, an invitation to a new possibility, would arrive in an email that she knew was on its way. She was sure that if she refreshed her inbox as a ritual on the five — 7:05, 8:05, 9:05 — even in the midst of taking orders at the restaurant, she could speed up the message’s arrival. No such message ever appeared.

  “You waited tables at Jack Astor’s?”

  “Yup,” Rukmini answered, cringing. “The one on John.”

  “I can’t imagine you working there, but I can imagine you being a great server. You’re very personable,” Neela said. She looked through Rukmini’s bedroom window and stood up abruptly. “It’s late. I should go.”

  “I can imagine you being a terrible server,” Rukmini joked and was relieved when Neela’s lips finally curved upwards. It had been a long night, but they were back in their familiar groove.

  “Why? Because I hate everyone?”

  “Pretty much. You would never master the FTT.”

  “FTT?” Neela whispered, careful not to wake up Puna as they drifted through the living room.

  “The Female Tone Trinity. To woo the biggest tips you have to sound earnest, eager and coy.” Rukmini emphasized the trinity by counting them out with her fingers.

  “I’m guessing they didn’t teach you that in Women’s Studies?” Both of them cupped their mouths to muffle their giggles.

  Neela opened the front door, letting the night air creep inside. Rukmini accompanied Neela to the honey lit road, and they hugged before Neela parted. “It’s going to be okay,” Neela said.

  Rukmini leaned on the cast iron lamppost, watching Neela walk away. She promised to herself that this time she wouldn’t fuck things up.

  * * *

  Dear Ms. RUK-MINI

  I am writing to cordially extend you an offer for the opening slot in Hayley Trace’s upcoming world tour. If you are interested, please respond as soon as possible with your availability for a phone meeting to discuss the details.

  Sincerely,

  Bart Gold

  President, Gold & Platinum Entertainment

  * * *

  “Read it to me,” Puna ordered when Rukmini showed her the invitation. Was this the email she had been waiting for since graduation?

  “But you just read it yourself.”

  “I know, I know, but I want to hear the words out loud!” Puna leaped on Rukmini’s bed and shrieked, “Hay-ley-Trace! Hay-ley-Fuck-ing-Trace!” Never snobby about her own or anyone else’s music tastes, Puna had even fangirled when Rukmini had chosen a Justin Bieber song for her second YouTube cover.

  Rukmini knew that she should have been jumping with Puna, but instead she was pacing. “Do you think Hayley would be okay with just me and not Subaltern Speaks? She does have a thing for alliteration,” she noted, scrolling through Hayley’s Spotify page, featuring “Daytime Drama,” “Selfie Stick” and her biggest hit, “Hey! Hey! Hayley!”

  “Of course! Bart emailed YOU! They want you.”

  “But I’ve never performed before,” she said, still thinking about Malika nodding in her periphery during their one performance together.

  “Isn’t Neela a great performer? Just ask her to coach you,” Puna suggested and then wrapped Rukmini in her arms. “I have to go to work, but I am so fucking proud of you.”

  After Puna left, Rukmini headed downstairs to the basement. It was hard to believe that a year ago, this makeshift studio, and everything that had followed since she had set it up, hadn’t existed. Was this actually happening? Tired of scrutinizing the message on her phone, she clicked a screenshot and texted it to Sumi.

  Maybe it’s a mistake? Sumi responded five minutes later.

  Given that skepticism was Sumi’s default state, Rukmini shouldn’t have been surprised by her reaction. And ever since the Swet Shop Boys show, she’d felt a chill between them.

  Idk! Rukmini replied, spinning her office chair around.

  don’t respond. her music is kinda barf. it’s not like ur going to do it. it’s not a good look. for either of us lol.

  Why was Sumi making this about her? How could she posture all the time when she liked Justin Timberlake?

  does anyone say no to bart gold tho?

&n
bsp; While Rukmini wasn’t familiar with Hayley’s music, it was ubiquitous enough that she wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with it either. Someone had once commented on one of her YouTube covers: pls cover Hayley that would be amazing! But when she had looked up Hayley’s music, she couldn’t tell any of the songs apart. Even within a song, the verses and choruses seemed to blend together into four-minute raves. Rukmini didn’t consider herself an authority on songwriting, but she found it hard to imagine a Hayley Trace w/ RUK-MINI show. And yet it hadn’t occurred to her to decline.

  Gold & Platinum Entertainment was the one of the largest artist management firms in the country, maybe the continent. Bart Gold worked with artists as big as Hayley and as indie cool as The Turn Arounds. He had a reputation in the industry for being a tastemaker, a younger Clive Davis–type, and musicians dreamed of being on his radar.

  Sumi’s response made her momentarily consider not telling Neela about Bart’s message. Neela probably hated Hayley Trace too. But Rukmini didn’t want Neela to think she was keeping another secret from her, so she texted her the screenshot and turned off the lights in her studio in wait.

  Neela’s text was polite: What a great opportunity.

  Neela wasn’t an exclamation mark person, but the absence of one at the end of that particular sentence was conspicuous. Was she being sarcastic?

  Rukmini curled on to the rug by her desk and texted back.

  I think Sumi thinks it’s stupid or I’m selling out

  Selling out how? We all have bills to pay.

  But what if Hayley only invited me because I’m a “hip brown trans girl”?

  Better you on that stage than another bearded white dude

  “True,” Rukmini said aloud.

  Besides do you think if Sumi was offered a similar gig, she would turn it down? Neela continued.

  Haha probably!!

  Her loss. It’s also hard to say no to Bart Gold.

  Rukmini sat up and nodded. That’s what I said!

  I gave him my album years ago when I was looking for a manager.

  No way!

  Lifetimes ago. Let’s celebrate when I come over tonight. 8 pm?

  Since their conversation about Hegemony and Rukmini’s past one month prior, they had been spending even more time together. It was as though they had each shed a layer of their defences in that conflict, stimulating the growth of a new layer of mutual affection. In one of her last visits, Neela had asked Rukmini if she could check out her studio and hear the covers she hadn’t posted online instead of listening to records — like Rukmini was finally akin to any of the other artists they devoured. Reading Neela’s texts, she became excited about the possibility of Neela coming along for part of the tour. They could hang out backstage. Maybe Neela would even join her onstage and they could perform “Every Song” as a duet. She wouldn’t share these thoughts with Neela though. She knew it would sound like she was asking Neela to be a glorified groupie and Neela Devaki deserved her own damn tour.

  Rukmini jaunted upstairs to the bathroom, balanced herself on the side of the bathtub and reached for the bottle of Lapis nail polish inside the drawer. She hummed the title line from “Hey! Hey! Hayley!” as she painted her nails, and then sang “hey, hey Rukmini” in the same melody, making herself giggle. Is that how Hayley would introduce her on stage every night? She giggled again. Why would Hayley introduce her?

  As she flapped her hands to dry her nails, she became distracted by the braided fate line on her palm. When she had covered Neela’s song, had she also accidentally stolen Neela’s future? Distracted, her hand whacked the nail polish bottle over, and blue tears streamed down the side of the counter. Bart should have contacted Neela years ago, or even now. Maybe this was supposed to be Neela’s tour. And yet, if Rukmini were offered the opportunity to return Neela’s destiny to her, she wasn’t sure she would.

  She avoided the judging stare of her reflection across from her but couldn’t dodge wondering about Malika’s destiny. This was everything she had wanted. Maybe not performing for Hayley’s audience, but performing their music for more than their classmates.

  When the interview requests about Hegemony first started flooding in, Rukmini declined them all out of respect for Malika. Then she realized that she might be able to use the press to draw out Malika. Maybe one day Malika would be listening to NPR and, hearing Rukmini’s voice and their old songs, feel compelled to respond to the text she had sent after their album resurfaced or the email she had sent to Malika’s old university email address. She answered questions about their album in first-person singular, so it wouldn’t appear as though she was speaking on behalf of Malika, but every response still felt incomplete, and therefore deceitful. Subaltern Speaks was so much more Malika than Rukmini — the whole band was her idea. Maybe this is why Malika still hadn’t reached out.

  Rukmini’s online searches had also been futile. She had pictured her hand penetrating her computer screen, stretching into cyberspace and waving aimlessly, searching for her old friend. How lonely for the same hand to return empty from the land of infinite connectivity.

  Where was she?

  * * *

  “You’re here,” Neela said as Rukmini stepped into her place, shivering. “I know your leather jacket is the look but it’s no winter coat.”

  “Says who?” Rukmini chattered, snuggling her jacket.

  A few weeks before the tour, Neela began to help Rukmini prepare for what would be her first shows and her first tour.

  “Wow, it’s so green in here. I wouldn’t be able to keep a single one of these plants alive. Wait, is that an Amrita Sher-Gil?” Rukmini pointed at the large painting of three women hanging in Neela’s living room.

  “It is. You know her work?”

  “I think I read about her in The FADER.”

  “The timeless tale of a brown female artist who is unrecognized until after death. And on that note,” Neela strode to her piano, hit the C key and made a buzzing sound in tune with the note. “Now you try.”

  “Already? I kind of want to snoop through your things,” Rukmini said, her eyes like a cat, zig-zagging all over the apartment.

  “Maybe after. Let’s stretch your voice first.” Neela hit the key again to help herself focus. She too wanted to give Rukmini a tour of her place, point out her mementos and introduce her to her bookshelf.

  “Fiiine.” Rukmini flung her jacket on the matching couch and positioned herself across from Neela. She tried to make a similar buzzing sound, which quickly morphed into a giggle. “Sorry, I feel kind of silly.”

  “What, you’ve never buzzed with a friend before?” Neela joked. “If it helps, you can face the kitchen instead of me.”

  Rukmini shook her head. “No, this is good. Silly is good.”

  As Neela led Rukmini up and down different scales with hums and vowel sounds, she relished this opportunity to share her expertise. She also took pleasure in somersaulting through vocal warm-ups with someone else, especially as Rukmini’s shyness wore off. She typically ran through them alone, before her shows, wherever rare privacy was accessible: in a crumbling hallway backstage, or a shit-stinking washroom, or even beside the dumpsters behind the venue.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I’m rediscovering my voice.” Rukmini wiped her brow with her forearm like she had just stepped off the treadmill. Neela took it as a compliment.

  “Your voice is actually in good shape. But do some of these half an hour before your shows and you will be roaring. But hopefully it won’t come to that.” Neela circled around Rukmini into her sunny kitchen.

  “What are you looking for, Neel?” Rukmini asked, following her.

  Neela combed through a few vitamin bottles in the cupboard above her stove before securing the one she was looking for and placing it in Rukmini’s palm. “Arnica. Best jet lag remedy.”

  “You are the
best. Thank you for doing all of this for me.”

  “Well, you are going to be the best once I am through with you.” Neela guided them to the kitchen table and sat down. Rukmini remained standing, twisting the bottle lid open and closed.

  “Honestly, I’ll be happy just not to get booed.”

  “Who’s going to boo you?”

  “Malika,” Rukmini whispered and abruptly headed towards the door.

  “Are you leaving?” Neela started to get up, but Rukmini returned with her canvas purse, stowing away the Arnica and pulling out a ripped piece of paper. She smoothed it onto the table, a map for the coming months.

  “Sorry. I’m a bit scattered.” Rukmini slumped into the chair across from Neela. “I’m still worried about not having Malika’s permission.” Her hand covered the list of song titles written in uppercase — her set list.

  “For what?” Neela freed the list from under Rukmini’s hand and scanned it. She knew that Rukmini would have to perform “Every Song” on the tour, but it was disorienting seeing her song title on someone else’s set list. She briefly stroked her song with the tips of her fingers. She didn’t have to guess how Malika would feel.

  “For everything. This tour. Performing Subaltern Speaks songs,” Rukmini responded.

  “Did you run it by Bart?” Neela deflected.

  “He said that as a co-writer, the songs are just as much mine as they are Malika’s.”

  “That makes sense.” Neela stood up and squeezed Rukmini’s shoulders. “The tour invitation was addressed to you. Plus, you tried to contact her, and she didn’t respond.”

  Rukmini placed her hand over one of Neela’s. “You’re right.”

  Neela found a red Sharpie in the stationary drawer under the cutlery drawer and lifted her chair to sit next to Rukmini. “Now let’s get to business.” She drew an arrow from where Rukmini had handwritten the Subaltern Speaks song “Wanting” in the middle of the set, to the end.