New Year’s EveDelilah
I’m sitting in the hallway closet with two beach towels shoved into the crack under the door, trying to make myself sing.
Now. I have to do it now. I’m running out of time.
I take a deep breath, shake out the nerves, open my mouth, and—
There’s a loud bang on the door.
“Delilah, why are you in the closet?” Georgia, my sister, yells from the other side. “Are you doing something weird?”
She pulls the door open, filling the small space with bright light, and I squint up at her. She has a sparkly, plastic New Year’s Eve crown perched on top of her cloud of tight auburn curls, and her lips are stretched into the shining smile that got her the role of Glinda in Willmore Prep’s production of Wicked last semester as a freshman.
I stand up, kicking the towels out of the way. “Shouldn’t you wait for my answer to that question before barging in here?”
“Where’s the fun in that? Though I gotta say, this is a bit of a letdown.” She taps an old fleece Frozen blanket on the floor next to me with her foot. “Are you just, like, taking a nap?”
“No, I’m, uh—”
I’m trying to finally sing. Really, actually sing.
Not the quiet singing that sometimes sneaks out when I’m sitting in Mom’s car and the song is so good it just kind of pulls it out of me before I can think about it too much. Or the halfway singing I’ve been doing in band practice, trying to get every one of Charlie’s lyrics, scribbled in his precious Moleskine, exactly right. Even with the mic in my hand and all the guys’ expectations, I feel like I’ve been sprinting right up to the edge of a cliff with my voice, ready to leap, but then I just . . . stop. My voice sounds like I’m gripping the earth with my toes, staring at the ocean below.
And that kind of singing isn’t going to cut it in a few hours at The Mode, where we’ll be playing our New Year’s Eve show.
Our show, not just their show. As in . . . including me.
Instead of tagging along and trying to push the guys’ merch at a table in the back, as I’ve done most Saturday nights for the past few months, I’m going to be up on that stage with them for the first time tonight.
Because I am officially the new lead singer of Fun Gi.
Me. The girl who can’t read a single line of music. The girl who can only carry something tune-adjacent, at best. But who even knows when I still haven’t made myself actually sing?
Georgia smirks and twirls her hand in front of her, waiting for an explanation. But there’s no way I can tell my Broadway-
bound sister all that. She wouldn’t understand.
Before I can make up a reasonable excuse for why I’m sitting in the dark with the extra linens, though, Mom appears behind Georgia, wearing tuxedo-printed pajamas and a matching gold crown.
“You were hiding in the closet?” Her face cracks open in concern. “Oh no, honey. You know you don’t have to go. You can stay home and watch the House Hunters marathon with us until the ball drops.”
My whole body tightens and she reads it right away. “Not that I don’t think you can do this. I know you can do this, and I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there, but . . . if you’re hiding in the closet . . .”
“Yeah, this is weird,” Georgia cuts in. “I feel like we all need to acknowledge that this is weird.”
“I wasn’t hiding in the closet!”
They both cross their arms and narrow their identical dark brown eyes at me.
“Okay, I was in the closet,” I admit, crossing my arms right back. “But I wasn’t hiding. I was practicing.”
They both start talking at the same time.
“Oh, Lilah-girl, do you not want to sing in front of us? I’m sure your voice is so beautiful and there’s no reason—”
“Is it because you think I’m going to judge you? Because I won’t. I know a voice like mine only comes around once in a generation.”
“Even if it’s not, um, conventionally beautiful, as long as you believe in yourself, that is what will shine through!”
“And I can help you if you’d just let me already. I’ve got some good vocal exercises we can do together.”
“There is only one you, and you have something special to bring that no one else can.”
“Like, Mommy made me mash my M&M’s!” Georgia holds up a finger as she stretches the last note of the gibberish she’s started singing for some reason. That’s enough to pause Mom’s self-love speech.
And this is why I was singing—or trying to sing—in the closet. Alone.
“No. It’s not that,” I say before they can start back up again. “I was just in here for . . .” I lean down to pick up the Frozen blanket, folding it in front of my face as I mumble, “. . . the acoustics.”
“Right.” Georgia arches an eyebrow. “The acoustics.”
“We can go with you.” Mom reaches forward and squeezes my hand. “Be your moral support.”
Because that’s definitely who I need in the front row of my very first show as the lead singer of a punk band: my mom being all You’re doing amazing, sweetie! and my superstar little sister, who will most definitely be judging me.
“Okay, okay. I know what that look means,” Mom laughs, rubbing her finger along my wrinkled nose. I smooth it out with a small smile. “But know that we’re rooting for you, honey.”
“Yeah, you’re gonna break a leg, sis,” Georgia adds. “Or, like, whatever the equivalent is.”
“And when you’re done, we’ll be here waiting for you with these fools!” Mom gestures her thumb toward the living room, where a couple’s argument over crown molding is blasting loudly from the TV. “This family has a two-hundred-thousand-dollar budget and they want a separate dining room. In West Hollywood!”
That’s how we’ve spent New Year’s Eve since Mom and Dad divorced. Just the three of us watching HGTV, drinking apple cider and kissing each other’s cheeks at midnight. But this year I’m doing something different.
“Now, don’t forget your migraine medication. Just in case—”
“And if you get nervous, remember to picture—”
“I’m fine,” I say, stepping out of the closet and shutting the door behind me. “Totally fine.”
I’m not fine.
Not even close to fine.
And yet I’m still loading Beau’s shiny purple toms into the back of Asher’s mom’s minivan and grinning as if I’m not completely certain tonight is going to be a disaster.
“Cheer up, buttercup,” Beau says, nudging me with his elbow. He sits his cymbals in their cases on top of the amps, and then adjusts my placement of his drums, just so.
“I’m cheered,” I insist. “The cheeriest.”
I stretch out my plastic smile until my cheeks ache and pick up his bass drum to throw it in the back. But he rushes over and gingerly takes it from my hands.
“Your handling of my babies is telling a different story, Delilah,” he says, stroking the damn thing. “Please don’t take it out on the kids.”
He’s so particular with his drums, which is why we have to load them all up instead of sharing backline with the other bands on the lineup tonight. I don’t get it and never have. The sets all look pretty identical to me.
“It’s the nerves,” Asher says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. The frames are so tiny that he definitely can’t see out of them, but that doesn’t really matter anyway. He’s just wearing them for the aesthetic. “I remember my first gig. Man, I had the bubble guts all day. I was like Charlie and Grandpa Joe in that Willy Wonka scene, where they have to burp in that big ol’ metal tube. All, bloop, bloop, bloop.”
“Nah, that is not a thing. There’s no burping scene in that movie. Why would there be a burping scene?” Beau says, shaking his head. His bleached blond hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away in a perfectly practiced move that makes girls melt when he’s on stage. I’ve watched it happen from the back of the crowd countless times. “Also, bloop? That’s what your burps sound like? Bloop?”
“Watch it again, bro. I swear. They had to burp to, like, save their lives,” Asher says. “And, uh, I don’t need to be burp-shamed.”
“Burp-shamed?” Beau laughs.
“Yes, burp-shamed,” Asher doubles down, his permanent sarcastic smile dancing at his lips. “I mean, I’m just trying to make Delilah feel better about our gig.” He leans in, nudging me with his elbow. “But I get why you’re nervous. The crowd is going to be huge.”
I start to picture that crowd and my head spins, but I look down at the ground to hide any terror that might be revealing itself on my face. “You guys. I’m chill,” I say, keeping my voice steady and convincing. “Stop stressing.”
I wish I could say this was out of character. But I’ve shrugged and yeah, whatever-ed my way into a lot of things I never thought I would’ve done since I transferred to Willmore Prep and met the guys in September. Like if I keep playing the cool girl—the girl they think I am—maybe I’ll actually become her.
But also, they’re my friends. This is what friends do. They needed a new lead singer, and in a couple weeks, I molded myself into exactly that for them.
“Of course she’s chill,” Charlie says. “Delilah is a star. Our star.”
He walks out of Asher’s garage, where they store all their gear, and stands next to me. I can feel his warmth, and I have to fight the urge to lean in to him, like a plant reaching for the sun. Because that would be ridiculously awkward. We’re not like that. We’re just friends.
Except . . . Well, I guess I’ll admit it: Charlie’s probably half the reason why I agree to everything. Especially when he
asks me in that rumbly low voice that I feel in my chest. Or when he wraps his arms around my shoulders and makes his bright blue eyes all big and purses his lips in the perfect pout.
But, no.
Our star, he said. Not his. Never his.
“Yes, the star, and you better not forget it,” I say, bumping him with my shoulder. Charlie laughs and throws his arm around me, squeezing me tight. As friends do.
“Ah, the ego on this one! Already!” Beau says with a snort, laughing too. “We gotta watch you.”
“I’m just saying. Bubble guts are normal,” Asher continues. “There is no shame in the bubble guts.”
“Asher, I don’t have the bubble guts!” I yell, throwing my hands up. I totally have the bubble guts.
Charlie lets go of me to put his guitar in the van, and I feel the loss of his touch like blankets thrown off in the early morning. But I keep my face blank. Chill.
“Did you practice the lyrics some more?” Charlie says, turning back to me. His strong jaw sparkles with stubble and his wavy dark hair is tucked into a burgundy beanie. “During practice Thursday, I noticed you kept getting tripped up on the bridge of ‘Parallelograms.’ Remember you kept saying ‘bird’ instead of ‘blurred.’ And you’ve gotta make sure you stretch out ‘soon’ into two syllables in the second chorus.”
I messed up the lyrics because they make no sense. I swear sometimes Charlie writes esoteric stuff just for the sake of being esoteric. I would never tell him that, though.
“Yeah, I practiced,” I assure him. “I’ve got it down.”
He nods and keeps going. “And did you watch those videos I sent you last night? Of the other girl singers? I had more but I didn’t want to overload you. I really think those two are, like, the masters when it comes to stage pr
esence.”
Yes, I watched Karen O, front woman of this old band the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, screaming and spitting and spinning across the stage, owning these huge audiences with abandon. And Courtney Love, lead singer of Hole, growling in her babydoll dresses and smeared makeup, dripping confidence.
They were badass. My jaw dropped in awe as I watched both of them. But it was quickly replaced with fear. I’m not like that. I could never be like that.
So I went searching on YouTube for other women musicians that were more my speed, and I found even older videos—like before-my-parents-were-born old. Patti Smith, with her baggy clothes and howly voice that hits you right in the gut. And Poly Styrene from X-Ray Spex, a biracial Black girl like me, whose yelpy crooning commanded attention.
And of course, there’s my real music role model, Taylor Swift, who’s written every single one of my favorite songs. But I would never, ever mention her to the guys. They wouldn’t let me live it down until I was a senior citizen.
So instead I just shrug. “Yeah, I watched. They were cool. But I think I might go for, I don’t know . . . an X-Ray Spex vibe?”
He nods approvingly.
“Okay, and remember, especially during the last verse of ‘Bronze Statue,’ sing with me. We’ll share the mic. It’ll look so good.”
I need this reminder even less than the other ones. Every cell in my body is still vibrating from when we sang this song together last night at practice. Our breath mingling over the mic, his eyes locked on mine. I know it’s only for show, but it felt so real.
“And one more—” Charlie starts, but Asher cuts him off.
“Lay off her, bro!” Asher slaps his shoulder. “If she wasn’t nervous before, this goddamn third degree is definitely going to change that.”
Charlie winces, and then smiles, throwing his arm around my shoulder again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just want everything to be perfect tonight. It’s hard for me to . . . let go.”
“I know. I get it.”
Fun Gi is his baby. He started this band back in seventh grade with Asher, and Beau joined at the beginning of freshman year after their old drummer moved from Long Beach up to northern California. And until now, Charlie’s always been the front man.
But after Fun Gi had been upstaged at yet another show by Ryan Love and the Valentines, this supercool all-girl rock band, they decided they needed to do something different to stand out. And there I was—the girl who’d started hanging around their practices for the past few months, just happy to be included. Charlie’s the one that suggested I step in, only three weeks before this big New Year’s Eve performance at The Mode, a venue downtown. And I went along with it. I’ve been going to every practice, learning every one of their songs—even though I know I’m not cut out for this at all.
And also . . . it’s not like Fun Gi’s lack of feminine energy is the reason they kept being upstaged by Ryan Love and the Valentines. It’s because the Valentines are better. Ryan’s voice is bubbly and bright. Her lyrics get stuck in your head.
And I’m not a musician—not like Charlie, Beau, and Asher all are. Or like any of these women I watched last night, or Ryan Love. I can’t play guitar. I can’t write lyrics. I couldn’t even get a handle on the recorder in third-grade music class. So what do I know?
“Okay, one more question though,” Charlie says, and Beau, Asher, and I all groan. Charlie smiles sheepishly but keeps going.
“Don’t hate me,” he says, holding up his hands. “But have you thought any more about those outfits?”
We went shopping last week at some vintage stores on Retro Row, searching for the perfect stage outfits. Ryan Love’s well known for the sequined capes and embroidered tulle skirts she wears on stage, and I think Charlie was trying to help me figure out a stage look of my own. He picked out shiny gold leggings, crop tops with balloon sleeves, and a short romper covered in feathers.
They were so not me. Though I guess that’s the point. Me wouldn’t be doing this in the first place.
“No. No—forget it,” he says, waving that away. He pulls me close. Our hips touch and he runs his hands up and down my arms. “You look great.” I’m wearing what I usually do when I’m not in the Willmore Prep uniform: high-waisted jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and my checkerboard Vans. I threw a flannel over it tonight because the temperature has dipped below sixty-five and I’m freezing. But when he says it that way, touching me like this, I get pretty close to believing him.
“Really, kid, you’re made for this.”
Kid. I don’t remember exactly how that nickname started—he said it and it felt like the way things were supposed to be. Just like how Charlie and I became friends.
One day I was sitting all alone at lunch at a brand-new private school, and some cute boy sat down next to me and said, “Oh, you I need to know.” The next day I was in their group, drawn into their orbit. I felt special, chosen.
Am I really made for this?
I don’t know. I don’t think so.
But I’ve always believed in the magic of the new year. Even though it’s just a day on the calendar, I love the idea that we get a chance to start over. Maybe when I step onto the stage tonight, I’ll feel like I belong there. Maybe the s
potlight will make me into someone I’ve always wanted to be.
I keep that corny shit to myself, though.
“You ready?” Charlie asks, sliding open the door to the back seat. Asher and Beau are already in the front, arguing over what we’re going to listen to on the way.
No.
That’s the honest answer. But I pull on my chill exterior and shrug.
“Yeah, whatever. Let’s go.”
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