Page 27 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

It’s not a steady release. It’s not controlled, safe. No, it’s ripping the top right off.

We’re at The Mode again tonight, and I’m electric. I feel like I’m plugging in when I first grab the mic, and what felt scary before, what gave me the bubble guts on New Year’s, feels like relief now.

I let out syrupy-sweet screams, punctuating each line of the chorus of “Reverse.” I twirl around Asher when he plays his bass solo at the end of “Parallelograms” instead of just standing therewaiting for my cue like I did at our first couple shows. I let the adrenaline take over instead of holding myself back. I’m light and loose. I keep my eyes open.

And the calls from the crowd, the energy so intense I can almost reach out and grab it like something tangible—it’s everything. It’s the greatest reward.

I’ve always tried to keep myself and my life so small. I’ve never sought out attention. And with my migraines, it’s so much easier to do nothing since I might get sick anyway and have to miss out on anything I look forward to.

But it feels good to be big, to take up all this space. To be the girl that the band, and this audience, wants me to be. That girl can do anything.

From his place on the stage, Charlie nods for me to come over to his mic, smiling around the words that he’s singing, an echo of mine. I know his look, like I’m all he can see in this room, is just part of the show, but I strut over to him like I deserve it. Our voices intertwine, sharp and soft, as we stare into each other’s eyes, and he winks at me when I hit the last note exactly as he told me to.

A girl in the front, with bangs that part in the middle like a curtain, looks at Charlie with want, like almost every other person in the place. He’s beautiful, stepping straight out of a rocker dream. But then she looks to me, too, with wide eyes, awe. Because I’m who is capturing his attention.

It’s all part of this act, of course. It’s just another layer of this person I get to be here on the stage.

And when Beau starts the thundering drumbeat that opens“Ten Seconds,” I step into the center, with the guys behind me. I picture my voice weaving around the room, filling up every inch. I feel my body light up, shining. For these last few moments, I am totally free because I’m totally protected, wrapped up in this role I’m playing. And maybe it’s not even a role. Maybe this is someone I actually could be.

Charlie strikes his last chords and everyone cheers. I wave and then run off, leaving the guys to bask in it and do their thing. I don’t know what to say when I’m not singing, and it’s highly possible that the magic will wear off and I’ll turn right back into a pumpkin. Better to get out when I’m ahead.

My heart is speeding, and I close my eyes, taking big gulps of air. But shut eyes and fast legs don’t mix, because I slam into another body almost instantly. I open my eyes to see Jeremy—or maybe Jared... definitely J-something—the guitarist of Undead Jupiter, the band that played before us. Because as Asher cheered when Jimmy showed us the lineup for tonight, “We’re moving on up!” Still not closing—Jimmy called Ryan Love and the Valentines to do that when the Drivers dropped out all late. But at least it’s no longer a forgone conclusion that we’ll go first.

“That set was fire,” he says, leaning in close. He’s wearing a green three-piece suit, which may be because it’s St. Patrick’s Day but may also just be his general aesthetic. He’s definitely been partaking in the furtive green beer drinking, as there’s a lilt to his words and his breath smells like an armpit.

“Thanks.” I take a step back, but he sways closer.

“Your lyrics, man... they really speak to me? Like when yousang ‘my devotion is an inverted parallelogram,’ just... whoa. I really felt that.” He nods aggressively to emphasize his point, and I get secondhand wooziness.

I bite my lip, holding in a laugh. “Oh, I don’t write the lyrics.”And I don’t get them either, I finish in my head. Probably because there’s nothing to get. I know these words back and forth now, and I’m certain Charlie just throws them together for how they sound, with little care for their actual meaning.

Jeremy or Jared looks me up and down and a smug grin sits on his lips. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Makes sense? The words cut through me, and I try to decipher his intention. It makes sense that I don’t write the lyrics because I’m Black? (One of the only Black people here, I’m hyperaware.) Because I’m a girl? Because I don’t look smart enough? Maybe what I’ve taken for pretentious gibberish from Charlie is actually incredibly profound, and I really just don’t get it. Of course this routine is familiar. It’s all part of going through life in my body. Trying to anticipate what lens I’m being seen through, going down the checklist until—Bingo! Got your prejudice!

“They got lucky finding you to put out front, though,” Jeremy or Jared continues. “Now Fun Gi like... stands out, you know? They got theirthing.”

“Yeah, uh. Thanks,” I mumble, even though his words make me want to scream. But I can’t do that now. I’m not on stage anymore.

Their thing.Is that really all I am? Just a gimmick to make the band stand out? I know I shouldn’t be giving all this weight to thethoughts of this dumb drunk guy, but then again, drinking’s supposed to make you honest, right? Maybe he’s saying what everyone else is thinking. What everyone elseknows.

I’m putting on a show: singing Charlie’s lyrics that I don’t understand, imitating other musicians. The band could do this without me, but I couldn’t do this without them. I can’t let myself get lost in all this and forget that.

“I need to go,” I say, but Jeremy or Jared is already moving on, shuffling to greet Charlie, Asher, and Beau as they come offstage. I walk out into the lobby, keeping my eyes down so I can dodge any more reviews of our performance.

Reggie

“All right, it’s official. Something weird is going on here.”

I know before I spin around that it’s Delilah.

But what Idon’tknow is how she figured out that I’ve been trying to engineer this exact moment for weeks. I thought I was slick—never accidentally liking the pictures I had to scroll way back to see, following them from my burner account and not the one with my real name. And anyway, it’s not like I’m some brooding guy from a Netflix show, heavy breathing as I peer at her around a corner. I’ve just been, like, normal weird—notweirdweird.

And I’m thinking all this in my head, straight spiraling, but all that’s coming out is “Uh, hey, yeah... okay—hi—” and other indecipherable drivel, made even worse by the fact that Yobani is flicking his head back and forth between us like he’s watching an intense tennis match.

“’Cause of the holidays,” she says slowly, like she’s throwingme a bone. But that just makes my brain start spinning even faster, because I have no idea what the hell she means.

“Ummm.” Yobani’s eyes are wide with curiosity and also way too much joy over my current misfortune. “I’m just gonna... go over there.”

---