Screaming Divas by Suzanne Kamata

bloke Adam? The one who made the coat of arms out of a garbage can lid? We’re going to represent his work.”
    â€œCool.” Esther pictured herself flitting from guest to guest with a plate of canapés.
    â€œAnd I have the most brilliant idea,” Rebecca went on. “Why don’t we ask your friend—the little Japanese girl—and her band to play? It would be purr-fect. Trash art, trash music.”
    Esther felt as if her skin had suddenly become a size too small. She hadn’t spoken to Harumi since that night in the car, since the night she’d met Rebecca. She knew that Harumi worked at that bohemian coffee shop on the next block, but there was no point in going there. Their friendship had crashed and burned.
    â€œWell, uh, actually that band broke up,” Esther said, not meeting Rebecca’s eyes. “She’s in a new band now. A girl band.”
    â€œHow fabulous. Even better.”
    Esther shifted her weight, trying to think of some sort of response. She wondered what Rebecca would make of Cassie. Maybe she’d go after her with the same kind of intensity she’d used in seducing Esther—the prowl and then the pounce. For a few seconds, Esther imagined the two of them clawing at each other, but it was Rebecca she was jealous of, not Cassie. She closed her eyes and choked back her fear.
    â€œWhat’s the band’s name?”
    â€œUh, Screaming Divas. I think.”
    â€œFabulous! I love it!”
    â€œThey haven’t actually performed in public yet. I don’t know if they’re any good.”
    â€œDarling, they don’t have to be good. We want something rough to go with the feel of Adam’s work. Think of it as performance art, not music.”
    She crossed the gallery and reached out to stroke Esther’s cheek. “Please, darling, will you ask your friend? As a favor to me?”
    Later, after a woman had bought a string of hand-painted clay beads, after a pair of Yankee tourists had waltzed off with a signed Blue Sky print, Esther said goodbye for the day and rounded the corner to Goatfeathers.
    She’d been there a few times before on coffee breaks with Rebecca, but never during Harumi’s shift.
    The interior was dark. Most of the tables were empty, though Esther spotted a thirtysomething guy in a blue Oxford shirt at the center table. He was leafing through a dog-eared copy of
Architectural Digest
. A group of students in USC regalia and crew cuts were crammed into one booth. Empty beer bottles cluttered their table.
    As Esther walked by, she heard one guy say, “Hey, get Connie Chung over here. We need more brewski.” The others laughed.
    Esther felt that old anger rise within her. Her first impulse was to grab one of those empty beer bottles and bring it down on the guy’s prickly head. He was big, though—meaty and stupid—and she knew she’d lose the fight. She might end up with a broken head herself. But she couldn’t just ignore the remark.
    She turned to the booth and said, “For your information, your waitress is named Harumi. And her roots are Japanese, not Chinese.”
    They stared at her for a moment. Then the ringleader smiled and said, “Who the hell are you?”
    Esther could feel someone coming up behind her. She moved out of the way and Harumi brushed by.
    â€œHey, guys. More beer?”
    Esther watched for a moment as Harumi loaded a tray with clinking bottles, and then climbed on a stool across from Blue Oxford Shirt. He looked up and smiled at her.
    Harumi was beautiful and confident, Esther thought. She didn’t need anyone to defend her from the bigots and assholes of the world. Look at the way she held herself—back straight, chin high, eyes cool. She held everything important deep inside and there was no getting at it.
    Esther watched her one-time best friend come toward her, pad in hand.
    â€œHey, Esther. What’ll it