Neevah
“So they found a new understudy?”
Takira’s sitting cross-legged on the twin bed in my tiny bedroom while I purge and prepare to move. We’re crammed in here like Tic Tacs. I’m due in LA in two weeks and I’m so ready to leave this place.
But I’m not ready to leave Takira.
“Yeah.” I toss a denim jacket I don’t even remember buying into a trash bag for Goodwill. “She starts next week, the new girl. I get a few days off before I have to fly out and report to set.”
“That’s great.” She bites her bottom lip and folds a sweatshirt.
We haven’t talked much about me leaving. I think we’ve both been avoiding the subject. I’ll still be able to pay my part of the rent since they provide a place for me in LA. She’ll have more room, privacy, but I know she’d rather have me here. And I want her with me. When you lose your natural family by blood, the family you choose is that much dearer, and I’m closer to Takira than anyone else.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it to check the text message. A slow grin spreads over my face. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.
“Well this is good news,” I say, waving my phone at Takira.
“Oh yeah?” The forced brightness of her tone does little to disguise the glumness.
“My agent and I had a few things in the contract we needed to negotiate.”
“Nice.” She pairs up socks and rolls them into a ball.
“I told them that too often Black women get to a job and there isn’t someone who knows how to do their hair.”
“Girl, facts.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “They don’t be checking for us.”
“And you already know my hair has . . . we’ll call them special considerations.”
Her eyes soften. “Dr. Ansford said everything looks good, though, right?”
“Yes, and I want to keep it that way, so . . .” I let the smile I’ve been suppressing break out fully. “I told them I need to choose my own hairdresser, which is not unheard of.”
“And?” Takira’s eyes hold curiosity and cautious hope.
“They said yes!” I jump on the bed and squeeze her neck. “Girl, we going to Hollywood!”
“Ayyyyeeee!” Her squeal probably wakes the roaches. “We are? You and me?”
“Unless you don’t want to live rent-free in LA for the next five months and get a movie credit on your resume.” I grab my phone and pretend to start dialing. “’Cause I can tell them right now that you’re not—”
“Gimme!” She snatches my phone and rolls from the bed to stand. “Seriously, Neev?”
“Seriously. I need you out there. For emotional support, of course, but also for this hair, which is on a sliding scale from 3B to 4A with a 4C patch in the back.” I touch the tender bald spot at the base of my head. “And this scalp is a war zone. You know that better than anybody. This is the biggest opportunity of my life. The last thing I want to be thinking about is my hair.”
“Did you tell the studio or anybody about your condition?”
“My agent and I talked it through. As long as I pass the physical for the insurance company, which I did, I’ve done what they require, and I don’t have to disclose anything else.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“When we requested you as part of my contract, we did tell them I have a condition that affects my skin and hair. Discoid lupus isn’t contagious or life-threatening so that’s as much as they need to know, but the word lupus freaks so many people out. They don’t understand it. They make assumptions about what it must mean. I don’t want special treatment or anyone assuming I can’t do my job. I don’t want them doubting me. I got enough doubt”—I tap my temple—“right here. I don’t need more second guesses.”
“And you’ve been performing and making a living in this business with no problems since you got the diagnosis.”
“Exactly. I mean, I have some joint pain and fatigue, but who doesn’t? I probably take better care of myself now that I have the diagnosis than when I didn’t.”
“What’s the doc say?”
“She’s setting me up with a rheumatologist out in LA who I can check in with, someone I can see in person if needed, but my bloodwork looks good. My antibody levels are in range. This,” I say, pulling at the hair puffing around my shoulders, “is my biggest concern, and that’s where you come in.”
Takira walks over and wraps her arms around me. “I got you, girl. Don’t worry.”
I run my hands through my thick hair, delving into the bare spaces hidden by its sheer volume. Don’t worry?
Easier said than done.