Page 2 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“And I can help you if you’d just let me already. I’ve got some good vocal exercises we can do together.”

“There is only one you, and you have something special to bring that no one else can.”

“Like,Mommy made me mash my M&M’s!” Georgia holds up a finger as she stretches the last note of the gibberish she’s started singing for some reason. That’s enough to pause Mom’s self-love speech.

And this is why I was singing—ortryingto sing—in the closet. Alone.

“No. It’s not that,” I say before they can start back up again. “I was just in here for...” I lean down to pick up the Frozen blanket, folding it in front of my face as I mumble, “... the acoustics.”

“Right.” Georgia arches an eyebrow. “The acoustics.”

“We can go with you.” Mom reaches forward and squeezes my hand. “Be your moral support.”

Because that’s definitely who I need in the front row of my very first show as the lead singer of a punk band: my mom being allYou’re doing amazing, sweetie!and my superstar little sister, who will most definitely be judging me.

“Okay, okay. I know what that look means,” Mom laughs, rubbing her finger along my wrinkled nose. I smooth it out with a small smile. “But know that we’re rooting for you, honey.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna break a leg, sis,” Georgia adds. “Or, like, whatever the equivalent is.”

“And when you’re done, we’ll be here waiting for you with these fools!” Mom gestures her thumb toward the living room,where a couple’s argument over crown molding is blasting loudly from the TV. “This family has a two-hundred-thousand-dollar budget and they want a separate dining room. In West Hollywood!”

That’s how we’ve spent New Year’s Eve since Mom and Dad divorced. Just the three of us watching HGTV, drinking apple cider and kissing each other’s cheeks at midnight. But this year I’m doing something different.

“Now, don’t forget your migraine medication. Just in case—”

“And if you get nervous, remember to picture—”

“I’m fine,” I say, stepping out of the closet and shutting the door behind me. “Totally fine.”

I’m not fine.

Not even close to fine.

And yet I’m still loading Beau’s shiny purple toms into the back of Asher’s mom’s minivan and grinning as if I’mnotcompletely certain tonight is going to be a disaster.

“Cheer up, buttercup,” Beau says, nudging me with his elbow. He sits his cymbals in their cases on top of the amps, and then adjusts my placement of his drums, just so.

“I’m cheered,” I insist. “The cheeriest.”

I stretch out my plastic smile until my cheeks ache and pick up his bass drum to throw it in the back. But he rushes over and gingerly takes it from my hands.

“Your handling of my babies is telling a different story, Delilah,” he says, stroking the damn thing. “Please don’t take it out on the kids.”

He’s so particular with his drums, which is why we have to load them all up instead of sharing backline with the other bands on the lineup tonight. I don’t get it and never have. The sets all look pretty identical to me.

“It’s the nerves,” Asher says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. The frames are so tiny that he definitely can’t see out of them, but that doesn’t really matter anyway. He’s just wearing them for the aesthetic. “I remember my first gig. Man, I had the bubble guts all day. I was like Charlie and Grandpa Joe in thatWilly Wonkascene, where they have to burp in that big ol’ metal tube. All,bloop, bloop, bloop.”

“Nah, that is not a thing. There’s no burping scene in that movie. Why would there be a burping scene?” Beau says, shaking his head. His bleached blond hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away in a perfectly practiced move that makes girls melt when he’s on stage. I’ve watched it happen from the back of the crowd countless times. “Also,bloop? That’s what your burps sound like?Bloop?”

“Watch it again, bro. I swear. They had to burp to, like, save their lives,” Asher says. “And, uh, I don’t need to be burp-shamed.”

“Burp-shamed?” Beau laughs.

“Yes, burp-shamed,” Asher doubles down, his permanent sarcastic smile dancing at his lips. “I mean, I’m just trying to make Delilah feel better about our gig.” He leans in, nudging me with his elbow. “But I get why you’re nervous. The crowd is going to be huge.”

I start to picture that crowd and my head spins, but I look down at the ground to hide any terror that might be revealing itselfon my face. “You guys. I’m chill,” I say, keeping my voice steady and convincing. “Stop stressing.”

I wish I could say this was out of character. But I’ve shrugged andyeah, whatever-ed my way into a lot of things I never thought I would’ve done since I transferred to Willmore Prep and met the guys in September. Like if I keep playing the cool girl—the girl they think I am—maybe I’ll actually become her.

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