Page 44 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

Yobani follows me into the kitchen, where I grab a ginger ale from the fridge. My grandma Lenore swears ginger ale is the cure to any and all ailments—colds, nausea, probably even heart attacks. I don’t know about all that, but I do think it’ll do something about my stomach. Like, seriously, it’s felt like I’m riding Supreme Scream at Knott’s Berry Farm for hours now, all because I’m so fucking terrified about seeing Delilah again. She’s giving me another chance, and it’s for sure my last one. What if I totally screw it up? What if she—

“Actually,” Yobani says, cutting through my worst-case-scenario brain loop. “I’m glad Greg’s not here yet, because we gotta talk some more about this Darren Lumb offer. I know Gruly’s all kumbaya-I-accept-your-feelings, but I’m going to keep telling it to you straight. You’re making a terrible mistake!”

And oh yeah. That’s making my stomach extra wavy too.

What started as a six-word response to Darren’s comment turned into a long-ass email from him offering to have me onRole With Itas a onetime guest or as a regular player at their virtual table, whatever I wanted. And I know I should be really fucking excited. I should have sent him a big, all-caps YES immediately because this is a huge opportunity in the world of D&D and tabletop games. Darren’s show is a legend and this would really get my name out there.

But the problem is... I don’t want my name out there. Having my name out there is actually my worst nightmare.

“It’s just not what I want. The recognition, I mean,” I say nowto Yobani, repeating what I already told him the fifty-leven times we’ve already gone over this. “It’s enough that so many people read and respond to my pieces. I don’t need them to, like, know who I am.”

“Um, said no one ever.” Yobani rolls his eyes and grabs his own ginger ale from the fridge.

“Says me,” I say. As if that’s really it.

But it’s not just that I don’t need the recognition—which for the record, Ireallydon’t. It’s also that it’s scary as hell to be a Black person online. I don’t want my trolls to know my real name, where I live. I don’t need them to be able to harass me more effectively. I’ve got plenty of people in my real life that do that already. And oh man, what if those people—Eric, Tyrell!—got wind of exactly how deep I am in this nerdy shit. Right now they think I just play once a week and read some books with dragons on the cover. They’d never let it go if I was doing YouTube videos and podcasts with my real face and name online. Like for real, at my funeral someday, Eric would still be talking about, “Here lies Reggie, the dorkiest Oreo that ever lived.”

I can’t.

“Anyway, I can’t even think about this right now,” I say, internally crossing my fingers that he’ll let this go. “We’re about to see Delilah and I feel like I’m about to throw up, poop my pants, and let out the loudest burp of my entire existence—all at the same time.”

“Well, first, I want to see that,” Yobani says. “And second... yeah, I can see why you’re nervous. Hopefully you don’t screw itup. I’m really surprised she’s letting you go to bat again.”

“Hey! It’s your fault that I’m here in the first place.”

“You listened to me.” He shrugs. “Also you send corny-ass texts.”

“What’s this you’re saying about my son being corny?” my dad asks, strutting into the kitchen.

“It’s nothing,” I say, at the same time Yobani shouts, “He needs help!”

Dad chuckles as he grabs a beer from the fridge and shakes his head. His laugh is just like mine—a hiss that always starts at the roof of his mouth and ends in his nose. It’s pretty much the only thing we have in common.

Highlighting just that, he nods his head toward the living room and asks, “You guys want to join Eric and me for the game? It’s Dodgers versus Angels.”

It takes me a couple extra seconds to process those team names, his red hat and jersey. Baseball. He’s talking about a baseball game.

“Can’t. Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not at all. “We’re meeting some friends over at Story Sanctorum.”

He squints like he always does when my interests are brought up, as if he thinks that looking at me differently will change me into the son he was expecting—the kind that runs marathons, watches baseball. “Why don’t you invite them over here?” he presses. “The Story, uh—whatever you just said will still be there tomorrow. The Freeway Series only happens once a year!”

Why don’t you just be normal for today?That’s what I hear, what I know he’s really trying to say. God, I’d be getting the squinty-eyedstare of the century if he saw me onRole With It.

“Thanks for the invite, Mr. Hubbard,” Yobani says. “But it’s Free Comic Book Day. Basically the most important day of the year after Christmas. And my birthday.”

“All right, all right,” Dad says, waving his hand, likeyour loss. He starts to head out, but then stops, eyeing Yobani. “Boy, what you got on?”

Yobani waggles his eyebrows, all confident. I don’t know where he gets it from. “It’s a new look I’m trying out. I’m going to add a pendant next.” He traces on his chest where that totally-a-joke, not-at-all-serious pendant I suggested is going to go.

Dad presses his lips together, taking it all in. Finally he laughs and shakes his head. “Well, go on then.” He grabs a bag of Doritos on his way out.

Yobani starts shimmying his hips and snapping his fingers, singing, “Mr. Hubbard approved!” in a disturbingly high-pitched voice.

“That’s not what that was!” I call over my shoulder as I head toward the door, Yobani following behind.

Delilah

“Wow, that was actually pretty good.”

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