Free Meatspace by Nikesh Shukla Page B

grimace.
    ‘Well, you look good,’ she says, knowing that it’s bad luck to ask a writer what they’re working on, especially between first and second novel. It’s like yelling ‘Macbeth’ in an actor’s face.
    ‘Thanks, same ol’ jeans and shirt combo.’
    ‘There’s something different. I dunno what. Anyway, sorry about the Telegraph thing.’
    ‘What Telegraph thing?’ I say. Hayley pauses.
    I’m only pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about because that’s the aloof thing to do. No one needs to know about my thorough Google Alerts. I know the Telegraph refer to me as ‘One of those new writers with nothing to say but the pretence of all the style in the world. A fleeting blip in literature’s great history of ethnic authors.’
    ‘I suppose it’s a humblebrag of sorts,’ I say.
    ‘Oh, who cares?’ she replies, diplomatically after a careful pause to consider her options. ‘What have you been up to?’
    ‘Dodging questions about my second novel. You?’
    ‘I just signed mine to my publisher. It’s out next spring. And,’ she pauses conspiratorially. ‘My mother has signed up for Facebook. Now that’s a delight.’
    ‘Awesome,’ I say, as if I don’t know, as if my Google Alerts don’t carry information about my peers and their big deals with publishers bigger than my own. I’m not jealous. ‘Get the families off Facebook.’
    ‘There should be a family setting, right?’
    ‘Yeah, I mean, my dad writes LOL on every status I do.’
    ‘I know, I see. He’s cute. My mum wrote on my profile picture that I had jowls. JOWLS, Kit.’ Hayley grabs my hand and gestures for me to pinch her cheek and neck. I do. Her skin is soft. It smells of berries.
    ‘It feels jowly,’ I say, Hayley hits my forearm. I wince because it’s on my sore tattoo.
    Hayley is wearing brown peep-toe shoes and I’m transfixed by her big toe. It’s painted orange. She wiggles it up and down when she talks. She has a very friendly big toe. I look at her and catch her look at my arms and my neck. She smiles and closes her eyes. She grabs my hand.
    ‘I’m nervous,’ she says.
    ‘You’re always great.’
    ‘I’m not funny like you, though.’
    ‘That’s why you’re great. You’ve got stuff to say. I’m just an idiot.’
    ‘Oh shush, you’re sweet.’
    ‘Oh … you,’ I say, not knowing how to reply to a compliment.
    I get all my funniest lines from the things Aziz says. I reappropriate them and give them a proper narrative arc. He’s not here though. ‘I’m always nervous too,’ I say, and she smiles at me. I hate talking in public. I don’t ever dare look out at the audience. That would make me realise they were there. I can’t let myself know they’re there.
    I check Twitter.
    ‘Here for the The Book Doctor Trials. Excited about @Hayleyspen reading. @kitab will bust out his Buddha of Suburbia bullshit for sure.’
    ‘The Book Doctor Trials @welovebooksbitches! @Hayleyspen @kitab @wself #lovereading #literature’
    ‘The Book Doctor Trials are starting. Who is Kitab Balasubramanyam?’
    Hayley taps my hand twice to shush me as May, the organiser, takes to the stage to start proceedings. Her attempts to rally a crowd comprised mostly of writers who feel they should be the ones performing mean the evening flatlines before the first reader takes to the stage.
    My mind wanders to Aziz and how he’s getting on just before I go on stage and so when I’m introduced, my first words are muted as I try to adjust to being in front of an audience.
    ‘His exotic words, his spicy references, his search for identity … please welcome Kitab Balasubramanyam!’
    I’ve removed my coat on the way to the stage and people can see the hint of tattoo coming out of my sleeve and I feel like dynamite.
    ‘Thanks for the introduction,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if you all guessed … I’m Indian. What’s up, white people?’ I see Mitch in the audience. My heart is pounding. I wish I hadn’t looked