Page 64 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

Delilah?

Oh no I was joking but for real I’m about to do a drive by wellness check

LOL!

I am safe

Just playing around on my guitar

Phew!

Tell Mabel I said whats up

So whens our next holiday hang?

4th of July?

I have to go to my dad’s house that day

Anyway I want to see you sooner

Tomorrows National Catfish Day

And my show at The Echo

Do you want to come?

I’d love to

National Catfish Day

Reggie

“Do you think the day is referring to the actual fish, or the people that take pictures off Google Images and somehow convince their internet girlfriends they don’t know how to use Zoom?”

That’s the first thing Delilah says when she runs off the stage and directly up to me after her set at The Echo. And, like, I don’t even know how to process her question, because her curls are wild and her brown skin is shiny with sweat that, magically, doesn’t stink. And she just screamed and spun and demanded the attention of the whole room like a high priestess of punk, and out of everyone she could talk to, which is literally anyone because I’m definitely not the only person who’s flashing her heart-eyes, she chose me. Me!

I still don’t fully understand what she wants, what we are. But I’ll take whatever this is gratefully.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks. “Because that’s really going to determine the rest of the night.”

I didn’t expect us to hang out after her show. She has her band of cool guys. What does she need me for? And from the way the stubbly one is eyeing me right now, it’s clear he thinks the same.

“I kinda don’t even want to find out?” I say, finally. “Let’s celebrate both.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Fried catfish and MTV marathon?”

She bounces on her tiptoes, like she’s still jittery with the leftover adrenaline. “Do you have a fried catfish hookup? And also cable? I don’t have cable.”

“I’m pretty sure there are old episodes on Hulu. But okay, for real now, Delilah.” I step forward and I almost touch her arm, but I stop myself. “You were really fucking good.”

“Thank you. It’s whatever,” she says, waving her hand. “Back to business. Have you ever tried fried catfish?”

But I ignore her attempt to change the subject. “It’s not just whatever. And I’m not the only one that thinks so.”

I subtly nod my head at two Black girls with raccoon eyeliner and strategically ripped clothing. They’re wearing bright orange underage bracelets and look a couple years younger than us, like maybe their hip parents dropped them off. Even though most people have gone to get drinks or vape before the next set, they’ve been standing nearby ever since Delilah hopped offstage, whispering and sneaking looks. It’s clear they’re not interested in talking to the guys of Fun Gi—just Delilah.

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