Page 71 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“Bessie always comes through,” I say to reassure Delilah, and she giggles and shakes her head.

“If you say so. Okay, now what were you saying about my Twizzlers, AKA the best road trip snack ever? I know you weren’t trying to diss them.”

“They taste like plastic,” I say as we turn down Bellflower and toward the freeway.

“No, they don’t.” When I flash a side-eye at her though, she relents. “Okay, the regular ones totally do. But these are Twizzlers Pull-and-Peel. They’re not the same. They’re in an entirely different universe.” She holds out the bag like it’s some priceless artifact, and I laugh.

“The assessment still stands.”

“Oh, that’s just because you haven’t been given the full Pull-and-Peel experience.” She’s keeping her face all serious but I can see the playful glint in her eyes. She gestures at my stash of chosen snacks in the back seat. “Plus they’re better than Funyuns. They don’t make your breath all funky.”

My cheeks get hot as I realize what a stupid mistake I made buying those. Nothing makes a girl want to kiss you less than synthetic onion breath.

But that must not be on her mind, because she’s back onto the Twizzlers. “They’re not just a dessert. They’re an experience.”

“An experience?”

“Yes. Observe.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull off two of the strands, twist them together, and shape them around one of her fingers. “See—a ring.”

“Is that what that is?”

“Ha! Shut up!” she says, hitting my shoulder. Gently, because I’m driving... or maybe just to linger there. “Georgia and I would always get these when we were stuck in the back seat for a long drive. We’d have competitions to see who could make the best creations. And then we’d eat them all.”

“Who would win?”

“Me.” She frames her face with her hands. “Give me a coupleminutes. I can make a very impressive flower.”

“A flower? Nah, I want, like... a dinosaur or something. That would be a true test, especially if you’re trying to win me over to your nasty candy.”

“Hey, more for me!” She laughs and shrugs.

“So did you go on road trips a lot as a kid?”

“Yeah, I guess. My mom grew up going to Bass Lake, so she’d bring us there to see, you know, real seasons. And Georgia went to this fancy performing arts camp on the central coast. We took this drive, actually, to get there. The 405 to the 101. I always loved it, especially once we get further north and are driving alongside the ocean.”

“Why didn’t you go to the camp?”

“Because I’m not a performer,” she says quickly. The carpool lane is moving slow, so I steal another look at her, and her eyebrows are pressed together tight. But then her face smooths out and her chin raises. “Well... I wasn’t. But I am now.”

“You are.”

She nods once, with finality, like she really believes it. “Georgia and I are just so different, you know? Performing has always been her thing. She knew when she was so young, and I was always the quiet one. I think that’s why my mom is so shocked by all this, the band thing. Sometimes I catch her watching the videos online and just, like... smiling. It’s weird.” The smile taking up Delilah’s face now shows me that it’s something much bigger than just weird to her. It’s special. “Anyway, you probably know what it’s like. You get stuck in those roles you’ve always played in your family. They don’t expect you to ever change.”

“Yeah, I completely get that.”

“Is it the same way with your brother? Eric?”

“Mm-hmm. We’re very different too.Verydifferent.”

And because of those differences, we’ve never really gotten along. Probably never will.

“I can’t believe I still haven’t met him. Or I guess, I have... but not really. Just that quick wave at the barbecue when we were heading out.”

And if I keep playing it right—only inviting you over when everyone is gone, hanging out far away from my house otherwise—then you never will. Because you meeting Eric... that would be the absolute worst-case scenario.

But of course I don’t actuallysayany of that. Instead I mumble, “Yeah, weird, right.” I slap the steering wheel and point at the stereo, which is currently bumping “Respect” by Aretha Franklin. “Okay, now I know I said you were in control of the music. But if Bill Withers is what my mom played when she first started cleaning on Saturday mornings, this song is what she played when we didn’t get our butts up fast enough to help her. I’m getting flashbacks to the floor shaking to the beat of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. That’s, like, the only word I can spell without thinking about it. I’m getting triggered.”

Her head falls back against the seat as she laughs, a cascade of shiny brown curls against the dull gray, and I want to freeze the scene in my brain so I never forget it. I get that feeling a lot, as we drive up the coast, sharing snacks and stories. I want to remember everything.

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