Chapter 11 Kal
11
KAL
I get a text alert from Miz as I am unlocking my bike outside of the low-rise redbrick building where I’ve just had another gruelling on-camera acting class. Not another affirmation, Miz, please. The first GIFs she sent me were a little amusing, but now I’m regretting bringing up skipping my parents’ anniversary party. I open the text, hoping for a regular message.
Miz: Did you do the TV show audition Oliver promised?
Me: Nope.
I pocket my phone, toss my cross-body bag toward my back and hop on my bike. Setting a brisk pace, I barrel down the road, eager to slough off my foul mood from class. Days after the afterparty, Oliver had reached out to tell me about a comedy show that he’d just joined as one of the executive producers. They would begin casting soon. He could get me seen for a part, and if I was successful, that would earn me a new work permit.
Grateful as I was for his support, I couldn’t feel truly optimistic about this prospect. Drama, not comedy, is my strength, and there was a condition with the offer: that I take an on-camera acting class. We both knew this was also my weak area. I have hated screen acting ever since I was introduced to it in school. It feels so disjointed and small compared to the immediacy of stage acting.
And sure, I could extend my stay by another year, but at the end of that permit, I would be back in uncertainty. What I want is the real thing or nothing. But I had accepted Oliver’s offer regardless.
Just as I am starting to feel myself relax, I am forced to slow down in Trinity Bellwoods Park to navigate through lovers, friends, and young families meandering along the tangled paths. Rather than overuse my bell like those obnoxious cyclists, I hop off to walk the rest of the way. Soaking in the greenness might even do me good, not to mention save me from taking a Frisbee to the head.
I fall behind an elderly couple walking hand in hand and smile at the sight—one I never see in Addis. Young people with interlocked hands, yes. But not the elders. Every time I see it here, it reminds me of my parents, a rare pair who did. Who am I trying to fool? No, I cannot miss their party. I must have faith like Miz that my situation will be different by January. And even if it isn’t, I’ll still go and accept whatever happens at the border.
As I come to this decision, the tree branches, heavy with blossoms, all dance at once, raining soft pink petals down. My father would take this as a sign of approval from Emay, and in this moment, I agree. My phone vibrates, interrupting the hallowed moment.
Miz: Have you thought of applying to grad school?
I know she is just trying to help, but it’s starting to feel as if she sees me as a problem she has to fix, like one of her patients. For a millisecond, I regret ever reconnecting with her in Toronto, then I immediately regret thinking that. When we were younger, I’d show her around Addis during her summer visits, but our roles flipped when I moved to Toronto—and that has given us the best memories of our friendship.
Me: Nope.
Miz: Okaaay…would be easy to switch status to study permit while you’re still here…They would enjoy charging you international student fees! :)
Instead of responding, I put my phone back in my pocket and continue my walk, but it buzzes again a few moments later, just as I’m approaching the other end of the park.
Miz: What about the US Green Card lottery? Friend of Mom’s friend just got it.
I shake my head in frustration. She’s relentless. With a deep breath, I jab out a response so full of errors I have to retype it several times. This irritation toward Miz—I hate it.
Me: Literally one in a million chance. And there are people who need it more than me.
Miz: A lot of random people get it.
I don’t know what she means by “random people,” but regardless, I opt for silence again.
Miz: Worth a try.
Miz: Feel me?
Miz: Okay, saint. I will submit the app for you. It’s very basic.
But she knows she can’t, not without my passport information. I watch the screen, waiting to see what else she could possibly come up with. Nothing, it seems. I send her a silent apology for having quashed her spirit and straddle my bike to ride again. Buzz.
Miz: Don’t get mad but…claim asylum? You’d just be telling a story. You do that for a living.
This one I can’t ignore.
Me: I would only be making it hard for people with real cases who NEED asylum.
Miz: What about what you need?
Me: I have never really NEEDED anything.
Miz: Wow. Ok. I feel like I’m pulling teeth here.
Me: Then don’t.
Miz: Man, do you even want to stay??
Me: Didn’t you say it’s ok if I leave? That at least I know I tried?
That, I know, is low, and factually inaccurate. She never said that it would be okay if I left Toronto and headed back to Addis; she said that because I had tried, I couldn’t have any regrets. I linger by the roadside, my legs on either side of my bike, expecting her to call me out, remind me that I said it first and that it’s true—better to have loved and lost than not at all. But this time, Miz goes quiet. After about five minutes, I give up. Why shouldn’t she ghost me? If Miz has decided that she doesn’t want anything more to do with me, then so be it. I deserve that. It will make it easier for both of us to move on once I am gone.