Page 59 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

She looks up at me and squints, like she’s trying to solve a complicated math problem written on my forehead, but then that shifts into a small grin.

“That’s a nice thing to say.”

I shrug. “Well, it’s true. So, did something happen?”

“No. Actually... I guess,yes.A whole lot of things. Too much.”

“Yes, that all makes perfect sense. Thank you for elaborating,” I say, nodding and stroking my chin. She hits my shoulder and laughs, and I want to take her hand and hold it there.

“It’s just... all of this, for the past month with that video. It’s been really good,so good, for the band. People are paying attention to us that never did before and we’re getting a lot of new opportunities from it. Like, we got offered a gig at The Echo.”

“Whoa! The Echo!” I have no idea what The Echo is, but I can tell from her tone it’s a big deal.

“Yeah, so it’s all really exciting. And I’m grateful. But it’s like what you were saying... Fun Gi didn’t get this attention before, and the music is the same.”

“But, I mean... it’s not the same? Because there’syou. You arethe difference. People are responding toyou.”

She waves that away quickly, like I just tried to claim unicorns and mermaids are real. “Is it me, though? Or is it...” She pauses and bites her lip, takes another deep breath. “You’ve watched the first video right?”

“Of course! You’re, like, perfection in it.”Roll it back there, Reggie. You’re trying not to scare her away.

Her cheeks turn pink, but she shakes her head fast like she’s trying to physically knock a thought out of there. “Thank you. But—what I mean is, you saw the caption, then? You saw all the comments, what they all bring up?”

I try to call them up in my mind. Were people talking shit about her? Being racist? That makes my chest get tight in anger, but, like... it wouldn’t surprise me. It’s pretty much par for the course as a Black person on the internet—that’s why I’ve been so careful. But no. Everything I’ve seen, at least, has been pretty positive.

“They all talk about me being Black,” she says, answering her own question. “Well, not all of them, but a lot of them. And this guy at The Mode... I don’t know if Leela already told you about that. So I keep thinking, did the video get so big, were people into it... because of that? Do they see my... I don’t know. My talent for this? Or am I just... a novelty to them?”

“A token?” I chime in, and she starts nodding vigorously.

“Yes, exactly yes.” And it’s as if that small amount of recognition, of validation, was all she needed and now the floodgates have opened. She starts talking super fast, like her mouth is rushingto keep up with all the thoughts spilling out. “And don’t get me wrong. I love being Black. I’mproudof being Black. But my whole life, I’ve had people telling me I’m not really Black, so much that I doubt it all the time. And that’s happening now, of course. But then for other people, that’s all they see. It’s my primary identifying trait. And sometimes in the past, that’s been a bad thing. To other people, I mean. But now, all of a sudden, it’s a good thing? Especially with all these new people following us and sharing the video. So I guess I feel, I don’t know, whiplash or something? It’s just... really freaking strange.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It is,” she huffs. “Too much! And oh god, I’m sorry for unloading on you like—”

“No, I mean. That’s a lot for you to be dealing with all on your own. So, like, thank you for trusting me enough to share it.” I scoot my hand between us, so our pinkies touch. And then I keep talking before I can start spiraling over its significance or turn it into something totally awkward. “Okay, so number one, who’s been telling you you’re not Black?”

She shrugs and looks down, though her pinkie stays firmly in place. “Oh, lots of people. Some outright and some just in their behavior toward me... if that makes sense. Because I’m biracial, when they find that out. But also because I don’t dress the way I’m supposed to dress or like the things I’m supposed to like.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not biracial.” My hand pops up to gestureover at picnic tables, where my family is, and I immediately regret moving my pinkie from hers, cursing whatever gene I got that made me a hand-talker. “But the not being Black enough... I feel that. I’ve had people be real dicks about it, call me an Oreo—”

“Mm-hmm. Yes!”

“But there’s also the little things that let you know how people really feel. Like there was this one time freshman year, Mr. Lewis—he’s the Ethnic Studies teacher at my school, and he’s Black. So he was trying to get students to join BSU, walking around, passing out flyers. And he just... strolled on by me. He definitely saw me. We, like, definitely made eye contact. But he didn’t even ask me to join.”

“No!” Delilah says, eyes wide.

“Yep,” I say. “And it’s not even like there are a ton of Black kids at my school. It’s a pretty small charter. Anyway... yeah. I feel it. There’s this incredible pressure to be a certain way or have these, like, very specific interests to be considered Black.”

“And who even decides?” She throws her hands up.

“Oh, you haven’t heard of the Official Council of Blackness Arbiters? Better known as OC, uh... OCBA?”

“Ha! Stop!” She throws her head back, curls bouncing, and then slaps my shoulder. She keeps doing that, and my mind is jumping at, like, record-breaking levels to conclusions, while my body rushes to memorize the exact sensation.

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