Page 10 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“You know you were,” I say, and Yobani jumps back dramatically.

“You take that back!” he shouts, getting a few stares—which is saying something, considering how loud it is in here.

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Bro, you know you need to reel it in. He can be annoying sometimes, but, I mean, there’s a limit. He mightactuallypeace out, and then we won’t have enough people to play. Or the cookies.”

“Those goddamn cookies. Why must they be so delicious?” He shakes his head, looking wistful. “It just drives me crazy how he’s always trying to critique you, dude. You know he’s jealous, right? ’Cause, like, you just go off the dome and don’t need pagesand pages of notes like him.”

I don’t need notes because they would only get in the way and slow me down when I’m DM-ing. See, I have dyslexia, and storing everything up top is much more reliable than the way letters get all mixed up on a page. “I don’t know if that’s anything to be jealous of,” I say, but Yobani waves that thought off.

“Nah, don’t even. You’re legit, Reg,” he says with certainty. “Plus remember how he used to put his stupid notes behind that stupid screen? Like we were going tocheatat fuckingD&D? The WORST—”

“Two?” The question interrupts Yobani’s Greg rant, which is a good thing, because he could go for hours if unchecked. We’ve somehow made it to the front of the line, and the leather jacket guy, with leathery skin to match, is holding up a sheet of neon pink wristbands. He’s intimidating, like aggressively cool, with tattoos starting at the collar of his T-shirt (featuring a band I’ve never heard of) and ending up by his ears. It makes me hyperaware that I don’t belong in this place, where almost everyone also has tattoos and obscure shirts, plus dyed hair and a significant amount of eyeliner. It’s like a tavern scene in one of our game sessions, where it’s so clear that the adventurers are headed for trouble. But then I say, “Yeah, two.” And the leather jacket guy smiles this big goofy smile that reveals a chipped front tooth and changes his whole face.

“That’ll be twenty, then,” he says. Yobani and I hand him our bills and he passes us two of the wristbands. He leans his head toward the door, where a steady drumbeat and the low sounds of a bass have started to make the walls vibrate. “Sounds like theopener, Fun Gi, is starting if you wanna catch ’em.” He starts to bob his head, rapping his knuckles on the sticker-clad counter. “Actually I think I’m gonna take a peek. They got a new lineup tonight.” He nods to a vampire-pale guy with two nose rings, who takes his place at the counter, and then pulls open the heavy door. The sound gets even louder for a moment—a scratchy guitar and piercing voice have joined the bass and drums. But then it quiets again when the door shuts behind him. He’s not waiting for us to make up our minds. And I’m glad, because I have zero interest in watching some band with a stupid name like Fun Gi. I don’t even want to see Ryan’s band.

“Gotta piss!” Yobani shouts, weirdly loud in this crowded room again. “Be back in five to seven. Longer if those Hot Cheetos got something to say.”

“Yo, we talked about this. You don’t gotta give me all your bodily function details.”

“Just being courteous!” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward a dingy-looking door with a spray-painted toilet on it. Leaving me all alone in this room I have no business being in. Like, surely the Cool Patrol are about to swoop in any minute and remove me from the premises for being so tragically uncool.

I look up from the spot I’ve been studying on my dirty Converse and, as if she’s read my thoughts, a girl is staring right at me, her eyebrows pushed together in confusion. Well, not atme, I realize. At my shirt. Shit.

Leela gave me this shirt as a joke when I took over as Dungeon Master. It says “CARPE DM” in bright yellow letters with agiant d20 dice. She found it on Etsy or something. And it’s, like, so cringe, but that was kind of the point? I started wearing it on game nights and then it just became part of the tradition. I was so ready to get out of my house because of Eric and his asshole friends that I didn’t even think about changing. Which I DEFINITELY should have done.

I zip up my hoodie and then pull the hood on for good measure. But then I quickly pull it off, because that’s bringing attention to me in another way. A way Ialsodon’t want to deal with right now.

I mean, it’s not like I’m the only Black person here, but the crowd is “diverse” in the way that woke white kids think of diverse. Just a few of people of color sprinkled around the room, the only-the-lonelys in their friend groups. Like the cilantro in the white rice at Chipotle, you know what I’m saying? That rice is freaking delicious, but I’m not trying to live in it.

Man, I just want to go home, but that isn’t safe right now either. Plus Leela would be pissed if I bounced without saying anything. So I’m stuck here. Damn. I pull out my phone. At least there’s one place (other than my table) where I can always keep it one hundred.

There are a bunch of notifications on my screen, comments on my most recent essay on Medium. I threw up the post on the insidious othering of orcs yesterday morning, and it’s been getting a lot of engagement. I know you’re not supposed to read the comments—that’s like Internet 101—but I always brave the trolls to see the comments from my regular followers. They’ve been around so long that I recognize their screen names and actually want to hear their feedback.

I’ve been writing essays critiquing the racism and colonialism in Dungeons & Dragons for a couple years now. It began as just ranting to my friends, but then Leela suggested I actually do something with those rants. So I started getting my thoughts down, using this transcribing app my resource teacher turned me on to, and Yobani stepped up to edit all my posts. It’s become a real thing now—something I spend more time on than homework, that’s for sure.

Which might seem weird, because I play D&D every week and overall just devote a significant amount of my brain space to this game. But, like, nothing you love is above critique. And if you love something, you want to make it better. I’ve gained a lot of loyal followers, especially in the past six months or so. Black people and people of color that love the game, live and breathe the game like me, but they have the same issues with D&D that I do and are happy to see it all out in the open. I’ve gained a lot of haters, too, though.

Andah, yes—I scroll through the notifications. That’s who these comments are from. The trolls are out in full force. I put in an AirPod and have my text-to-speech app read them to me.

I’m so tired of these SJWs playing the race card

I can’t take anyone seriously that would have all these typos.(I always have typos, even with Yobani editing, but, like, whatever. They get what I mean!)

if u don’t like the game, then stop playing. wizards of the coast don’t need ur money!!!!!!(I don’t know... I give them a lot of my money.)

PLEASE tell me again how this fictional world is VICTIMIZINGyou! BLACKS are always trying to play the victim but THEIR NOT.(Oh, you can hear the hard-R about to jumpoutin that one.)

Comments like these are why I post my essays under an anonymous screen name, KeepinItd100. I don’t need these assholes knowing any of my personal details. And I definitely don’t need anyone outside of my friends being able to search up my essays on Google. What would Eric—or, god,my parents—think if they knew just how much time I was devoting to this nerdy game? I would never live it down.

I take out the AirPod and shove the phone into my back pocket. So much for looking to the internet to make me feel valued and respected tonight.

Someone opens the door, an explosion of sound coming from the main room. And I realize I’ve been hearing this back-and-forth the whole time in the background. The lobby is a whole lot emptier too. People seem to be giving this fungus band a chance.

Yobani’s Hot Cheetos prophecy must have come to pass, because he’s been gone for a while, so maybe I’ll give this band a chance too. It beats standing around this lobby feeling sorry for myself.

I pull open the heavy door, and it’s like walking into a different realm—the sound is so loud and the air is thick with sweat. All around me, bodies are moving, running the spectrum from subtly bobbing their heads to crashing together in a mosh pit that’s formed in the middle. But no one’s having snarky side conversations or checking their phones. No—everyone’s full attention is at the front. I follow their eyes to the stage and I feel like I’veforgotten how to breathe, like my brain doesn’t even have space for basic bodily functions anymore. Because all I can process, all I can see, is the most beautiful girl in the world.

I know that insta-love is bullshit. It’s a necessary evil in some of my D&D sessions because I’m trying to move the game along, but, like, it doesn’t actually happen in real life. Iknowthat.

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