“I understand that, Canon, but—”
“I don’t know if you can understand. Do you have any idea how many Dessi Blues there are? Black artists who shaped our culture, made our music, but whose contributions have gone unacknowledged? Their stories just slipped through the cracks. People who, by all rights, should be household names, but nobody knows their names? All they have to show for what they did is a plaque in their hometown or a line on Wikipedia, if that.”
“You’re making this personal.”
“Black artists getting their due is personal for me. All my life I’ve seen their talents mined and appropriated, even while being told they weren’t as good. They paved the way for me to be sitting in this office arguing with my bullheaded privileged business partner.”
Lips twitching, Evan drops his head back, releases a heavy sigh and stares up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you do this.”
I chuckle, making a conscious effort to loosen the tight muscles in my shoulders. “You hate it when I what? Be right? Or be Black? I’m one most of the time and the other all the time.”
He lifts his head to glare at me, but relents with a smile. “I’ll set up a meeting with Galaxy. They assigned an exec to us as our contact. New guy named Lawson Stone. We’ll start there.”
10
Neevah
“So how are we looking, doc?”
Dr. Ansford filters my hair through her fingers, touches a few tender places on my scalp.
“Better,” she murmurs.
“I promise not to say I told you so,” I tease, looking up at her over my shoulder.
“I will admit you’re doing well without the drugs, but we’re not out of the woods yet. I still see some spots here along your crown. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“I cut out all red meat, gluten and dairy, like we discussed. Eating lots of wild-caught fish, leafy greens, avocado. Taking my supplements. Fish oil, vitamin E. All of them. I’ve always had to stay fit for my job, so I was already exercising, and that seems to help.”
“Good. Good.” She runs a cool finger along a small bald patch at the base of my skull. “This seems to be healing nicely. What are you using on your hair?”
“All natural products. Lots of jojoba oil and shea butter. My roommate is a hairdresser. She mixes them for me herself. I wear protective styles like braids as much as possible.”
“And no sign of the malar rash again?”
The butterfly-shaped rash over my nose and cheeks, often an indicator of lupus, was one of the most telling symptoms that prompted my primary care physician to refer me to Dr. Ansford, a rheumatologist, who subsequently confirmed my diagnosis.
She pats my shoulder approvingly. “Your blood and urine look good. Antibodies under control. Lupus isn’t easy to manage. You’re doing great.”
“Discoid lupus,” I correct. “Right?”
I always hold my breath when I wait for her answer. I got the lupus diagnosis about eighteen months ago. It was a relief to understand the fatigue, rashes, and hair loss, but the word lupus struck fear in me immediately. My aunt died from lupus so I know how dangerous it can be. Dr. Ansford assured me it was discoid, which is not life-threatening, not systemic, which was the kind my aunt battled. Knowing my family history actually helped identify an accurate diagnosis faster than it otherwise might have been. We knew where to look.
“Right. Discoid.” Her brown eyes are kind and reassuring when she takes the seat behind her desk. “I don’t see any signs of systemic lupus as of now and from what I can tell, everything is under control. I was concerned the stress of performing in the show a few weeks ago might have triggered a flare-up.”
“I know, but I meditated every night before I performed, and I tried acupuncture.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad. How was that? You think it helped?”
“I guess? To be honest, that week is a blur. I was more stressed about getting stressed than I was about the actual show, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” She chuckles and peers at me over her rimless glasses. “You were brilliant, by the way.”
“You came?” I cover my mouth with one hand.
“Twice. Best seats in the house.” She grins and flicks the dreadlocks over her shoulder like she’s fancy. “My husband and I came the first night, and I brought my niece later that week.”
“You should have come to the stage door. I would have loved to meet her.”
“She had a train to catch. She had to get back to school in Connecticut.”
“Next time.”
“Next time it will be for your opening night.” Her gentle smile fades, her expression sobering. “You are incredibly talented, Neevah. I really had no idea. I’m sure you’ll have people banging on your door after this.”
“Well, I don’t know about banging.” I grimace and shrug. “My agent’s gotten a few calls. Commercials. Auditions.”