Page 9 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

At this point, I’m kind of an expert in the eyes—the heavy, oppressive feeling of having others staring at you. Especially after this past semester. That’s what happens when you’re moved from a perfectly good public school to a prestigious (code word forexpensiveandextremely white) private school at the beginning of sophomore year because your dad is sending his new kids to kindergarten there and doesn’t want to look bad or feel guilty.

When you’re one of the only Black kids in a building, you feel it in your bones. The stares that linger too long, the too-wide smiles that hide all their expectations and discomfort—man, it made me want to shrink and hide. I begged Mom to let me transfer back to Bixby High, but she insisted that my sister, Georgia, and I weren’t going to turn down this opportunity. And it’s not like I was leaving behind some big social life. My old friends Tamir and Rachel lost patience with me constantly cancelling plans because of my migraines, even when they saw me every day at school. Like so many people, they didn’t understand why I couldn’t just take an Excedrin and keep it moving. So after I left, the invitations trickled down to nothing pretty quick. Out of sight, out of mind sure was easy for them.

Charlie presses his shoulder to mine, and Asher moves in close to weave around a group of guys I recognize from school with pointy silver hats and noisemakers. And it reminds me that things are different now than they were in September. This is me choosing the eyes, choosing to stand out.

Because the guys are always the center of every room they walk into. Beau is super tall and always rolls up his sleeves, eventhe uniform shirts, to show off his tan arms, ripped with muscles from drumming. Asher has light brown hair, deep-set sparkling eyes, and style that makes you turn your head. Tonight he has on cropped, ripped jeans over his butter-yellow Crocs and an oversized neon floral-print silk shirt. And then there’s Charlie... Well, I’ve already talked about Charlie. And I’m only one entry on the long list of girls who have taken notice.

They’re like teenage boys in some Netflix movie: clear skin, unlimited charm, devastating smiles, and good hair that they always seem to be running their fingers through just so. But, you know, real. And as soon as Charlie ushered me in, I moved to the center too. In a good way this time.

I see a girl with a septum piercing and pink hair sizing me up, the question so obvious on her face: Who issheto be with them?

But the guys make me feel like I belong. I’m protected in their cool.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Charlie calls, steering us over toward him. “Meet our new secret weapon!”

“I know Delilah,” Jimmy says, handing change to a kid in a faded Sonic Youth T-shirt and then smiling at me. I’ve spent quite a few nights in the back of The Mode with Jimmy, selling the occasional Fun Gi sticker while the guys are on stage. He’s old, somewhere between thirty or forty, but still manages to pull off silver earrings and a leather jacket without looking too try-hard. “These knuckleheads talked you into going on stage with ’em?”

I take a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. “Looks like it,” I say with a shrug.

“After tonight, people are going to be like, Ryan Love who?”Beau says. Jimmy just chuckles and shakes his head. Probably because there’s no waythat’sgoing to happen.

He points to the wall, where a list in his chicken-scratch handwriting is posted underneath an illustrated flyer for tonight. “Well, I can’t wait to see it! And we’re about to throw you into the deep end, darling. You guys are up first tonight.”

“First?!” Asher yelps, jumping in to study the list for himself, as if it’s going to change.

First is bad. First is who plays while people are still taking selfies and gulping down vodka out of water bottles outside.

“C’mon, Jimmy,” Charlie says, leaning on the counter in between us. It’s covered in faded stickers from all the bands Jimmy has hosted here over the years. “Haven’t we paid our dues?”

Jimmy laughs again. “That’s just the way it goes, kiddos. Feline is playing last tonight—that’s who’s selling all the tickets.”

“But that doesn’t mean we have to play first. Why isn’t Ryan playing first?” Charlie asks.

Jimmy waves that question away. “You guys better get a move on. Feline just told me they want to be on stage at midnight. Got confetti cannons, or something like that. You know how they are. So if you want a full set, we need to start soon.”

I gulp. “Soon as in...”

“Soon as in twenty minutes, darling,” Jimmy says. And he must see the color drain from my face, because he quickly adds, “You’ll be all right.”

Twenty minutes.

I thought I had time to go over the set list one more time, maybe run through Charlie’s lyrics. But twenty minutes... that’snot even enough time for a real sound check.

As the buzz in the room starts to get even louder, my stomach dips and my head spins. And I realize this isn’t just nerves. No, this is a migraine coming on. The warning signs are as familiar to me as an old friend—or really, worst enemy—because they’ve run my life since I was twelve. But I wasn’t paying attention tonight. I was distracted and didn’t catch it in time to head it off. And I brought my meds, like my mom reminded me to, but they’re buried in my purse in the minivan and Charlie is tugging me back through the double doors into the main space, where things are about to get a lot louder. I’m going to have to suck it up, though. There’s no time to run to the parking lot, and I can’t back out now.

So twenty minutes later, I’m standing on a dark stage, holding on tight to the microphone stand like I’ll fall over without it. And I might.

The sound of the crowd is so loud that I feel like I’m underwater, and thethump-thump-thumpof my heartbeat is pounding in my head. I don’t know how I’m going to remember any of the words, any of my cues, when my mind is so fuzzy and only getting worse. The lights flick on, so bright and sharp, I swear I’m going to puke.

But then Asher’s velvety bass line starts, followed by Beau’s steady drumbeat, and it centers me. Charlie comes in with his first chords, beaming at me like I belong there.

And I want to.

I close my eyes, open my mouth, and sing.

Reggie

“Do you think I was too hard on Greg?” Yobani asks as we’re standing in line for tickets at The Mode. With a wave to the guy in a leather jacket at the front, Leela slipped backstage to see Ryan, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

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