Page 15 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

The countdown already? Have I really been out here that long? I’ve gotta pee (another side effect of the meds), and I should probably find my friends. But more than anything, I want to keep sitting here, in this quiet easiness with Reggie. My whole body feels warm, light—such a difference from how I felt when I first sat on this curb. And it’s so clear that he’s the source. What would it be like to feel this way all the time?

“Six, five...”

And now, looking into his eyes, seconds away from midnight, I also can’t help but think what people usually do when the clock strikes. I feel myself leaning in closer to him, like my body is taking the wheel from my brain. And is he? Yes, he’s tilting his head in, too...

“There you are!” I turn around and see Charlie walking out of the venue. I stand up off the curb, and Reggie follows. “Feline finished their set and I realized you never came back in.” Charlie presses his eyebrows together as he looks between Reggie and me, the question clear.

“This is Reggie. He was helping—”

Cheers of “Happy New Year!” erupt inside, and Charlie pulls me by the hips in close to him, planting a kiss on my cheek for the second time tonight. He’s sweaty and hot, and I can feel the kiss all over me, even after he pulls away. My cheeks flame and the rest ofmy body follows. This is everything I secretly wished for, even just this morning, but now... I’m not sure.

“Happy New Year, kid,” he whispers in my ear. His arm stays around my waist. “This is gonna be a good one for us.”

He’s probably not talking aboutusus, justthe bandus. But I know how it sounds, and I turn back to Reggie to try to... reassure him? But that’s so dumb. Try to reassure him of what, exactly? We just met; we don’t know each other. That definitely wasn’t an almost...something. Why would he care that Charlie and I are not dating?

Sure enough, Reggie is already on the move. Probably going to find his friends. “Well, uh, bye, Delilah,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, looking past me. He quickly turns and starts walking toward the parking lot.

I want to thank him again for looking out for me. I want to ask him the name of the website where he posts his essays. I want to get his number so this won’t be the last time I ever get to talk to him. But he’s already far away, moving fast. He probably doesn’t even hear my disappointed “Bye, Reggie.”

“Your headache gone?” Charlie says, but he doesn’t even wait for my answer. “Jimmy wants to talk to us about playing again in two weeks, and we should probably network a little bit more before we leave. The keyboardist from Feline puts on these fucking amazing guerrilla shows I want to get in on, and he wants to meet you.”

His arm drops from my waist as we walk back inside.

Reggie

Man, I was really feeling myself for a second there. I really, truly believed that if I just put on a front, faked some confidence in who I am and what I like, that this perfect girl might actually like me. That we might have actually... well, whatever we almost did.

But of course she already has a boyfriend. A guitar-playing, brooding white boyfriend with sweat that doesn’t even stink—and stubble. Legit, non-patchy stubble! In high school!

Of course she’s with someone who doesn’t have to role-play cool. He just is.

That’s why I like my games more than reality. None of the normal rules of life have to apply. I’m talking status, stereotypes... stubble! It’s all chance, so I actuallyhavea chance. And it’s clear to me now that I had no chance with Delilah at all.

Valentine’s Day

Reggie

“Well, that took a lot longer than I expected,” Dad says as we walk into the house. He checks the time on his phone for like the hundredth time in the past hour. “Were they always that long? I don’t remember them always being this long.”

“It’s that transition section at the end.” Mom puts her hand on my shoulder to balance herself as she slips out of her heels. “They added it when he was in middle school, and it’s a whole ’nother thing we need to go over. You know this, Winston.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Dad puts his wallet and his keys on the entry table and takes off his shoes too. “I’m just saying, it felt especially long today. You know what I mean, Reggie, right?”

I shrug and then nod. “Yeah, it was pretty long.”

We just got home from my annual IEP meeting—the third one since I’ve been at Tom Bradley Charter, my high school. IEP stands for “individualized educational plan,” and we meet once per year to go over this thick-ass stack of papers that basically outlines everything about my disability and all that the school is supposed to bedoing to help me with it—or in teacher-speak, “limit the impact of my disability in order to improve my educational results.” All these people show up to the meeting. My resource teacher, Ms. Thompson, runs it; one of my gen ed teachers is always there. And the assistant principal, Mr. Colby, hosts the whole thing in his office. I think it’s all required by law or something.

And my dad’s right. I’ve had these meetings since I was officially diagnosed with dyslexia in second grade, but this one did feelparticularlylong. Probably because Ms. Thompson always talks this big game about how it’s a collaborative meeting and we’re creating the IEP together, or whatever, but that lady, like,lovesto hear herself speak. So it ends up being a lot of her talking and everyone else nodding and agreeing, and today she was especially on one.

“I was hoping I could pick up another load this afternoon. A lot of people are taking off early for the holiday.” Dad lets out a heavy sigh and checks his phone again, as if the time will magically change. “But it’s definitely too late now.”

My dad’s a truck driver for a fertilizer company, and because he’s an independent contractor, he gets paid by the load. So an afternoon spent listening to Ms. Thompson wax poetic over the nuances of each accommodation the school can offer me is pretty much money flying out of his pocket. My stomach gets tight, but I try to push the guilt away. He comes to my IEP meetings, all of them, because hewantsto be there. He says they’re important to him.

But still, I don’t hear him complaining about the time and missed loads when it’s one of Eric’s away games.

I guess those are a lot more fun, though.

“Well, I’m glad I’ve got my valentine for the rest of the day,” Mom says, wrapping her arm around Dad’s waist as we walk into the kitchen. He kisses the top of her head, and she bats him away. “Now, you know I just got this done yesterday.”

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