SEPTEMBER 22. 1990, SEATTLE, WA

A WHOLE DAY had raced by faster than Reagan could have ever imagined possible. On the morning of Nirvana's Seattle show, she woke up with a dry throat and nauseous pit in her stomach. In a matter of hours, it felt like her life had suddenly jerked off course.

By the end of the night, she would have officially been able to check 'perform live with a band' off of her nonexistent bucket list.

Reagan knew that her own conscious was angry with her, demanding an answer as to why she'd agreed so readily to play drums for Nirvana. She wished she could figure out for herself why she'd said yes to Kurt over the phone.

Reagan had dressed carefully that morning, selecting a pair of hip-hugging jeans and a cropped, striped sweater with torn seams at the sleeves. She'd slipped her pair of drumsticks, the same pair that Richard had first ever gifted her, into her bag and scribbled out an explanatory note for Kate.

While Reagan rarely felt the need to shelter certain secrets from her family, she didn't think it would be the best of ideas to let them know about the show. Kimberly would only prattle on about her being out so late before a work day. Therefore, she entrusted Kate with the truth of where she was going and instructions on how to cover up the secret.

As far as Reagan's family would be concerned, she was to be out late that night with Chris, watching a band perform in downtown Olympia.

When she got to work, Tommy had been waiting outside for her, holding a styrofoam cup of gas station coffee. He knew her order by heart — medium roast, four pumps of cream and a sugar packet. He'd been smiling when she walked up.

"Morning. I like your hair like that."

Reagan's hair, which she usually kept tied back for work, was only pulled halfway up that morning. Her bangs, along with a few stray pieces that had fallen loose, hung around her face. As soon as Tommy made the comment, her hand flew to her chestnut locks, draped over her shoulder.

"Oh. Thanks."

He had not asked right away, but Reagan sensed that Tommy was dying to know where she was going after work. He knew enough about her to know that when she let her hair down and applied mascara to her already naturally long lashes, it usually meant something was happening.

Shortly after their lunch break, Tommy had finally asked Reagan what her plans were later that night. When she'd told him, he had pursed his lips and cordially wished her luck, neglecting to commentate any further. He was more concerned about who she was drumming for rather than the fact that she was drumming.

Wounded by Tommy's snub, Reagan had kept her distance from him the rest of the day, choosing instead to train her attention on her bag where her drumsticks remained hidden. The hours flew by incessantly as she stared, imaging that instead of a pair of wooden sticks, she had a bomb stuffed amongst her belongings.

When it came time to leave, Reagan glanced at Tommy and muttered a goodbye before hurrying out to her car. As much as she would have loved a shoulder to lean on in the moment, she knew that such support wouldn't come from Tommy. He cared about her too much — so much that it had blinded him from the bigger picture of what was happening to her.

Her talent had finally been recognized by a local, certified musical genius, but all that mattered was that the genius was a guy.

She'd started the hour drive to Seattle with her music blaring loudly, trying to amp herself up for the big night ahead. The static of the local radio station practically vibrated her windows, the dial turned all the way up as she drove out of Olympia's city limits.

So far, the music therapy had not worked.

Reagan drove throughout Seattle aimlessly, avoiding the actual destination of the show. Predictably, she had gotten there far too early and had plenty of time to kill before she met up with Kurt and Krist.

She was thankful for the alone time, driving around in an unfamiliar city with buildings taller than she was used to seeing.

It wouldn't have been the same back in Olympia, holed up in her house while she waited anxiously for time to creep forward. With it being a Saturday, all of the Abners were home and it would have been difficult for Reagan to seek peace and quiet. She wondered what Kate had told their parents about her absence. She also wondered if they cared that she was gone — Kimberly had a habit of thinking that every time Reagan left the house, she wouldn't be returning.

Reagan did not need anyone else in her ear that night. The sound of her own voice was enough, squalling at her and influencing her haze of doubt that she would do poorly drumming and humiliate her friends.

Reagan's breathing, already heavy with her strained nerves, hitched in her throat as she came to a stop light. The sun was sinking lower in the sky and she was nearly out of gas. She considered finding a pay phone and calling Kurt but decided against it when she realized he was probably prepping for their performance.

On the outskirts of the city, Reagan spotted a barren café that was void of patrons, at least from what she saw on the outside and through the window. She whipped her car into a parking space and took a deep breath.

Perhaps a coffee would cool her down. She'd once heard that caffeine only increased feelings of anxiety, but in the past it had had the opposite effect on Reagan. A steaming mug of cappuccino swirled in foam always eased her into a mindset of relaxation.

Reagan walked into the café, thankful when she saw only one woman present in the place. She took turns holding a book in one hand and sipping coffee in another. Reagan concluded that she'd unlikely be a bother to her solitude.

After she placed her order, Reagan waited by the counter and nervously glanced at the clock hung against the wall. It was almost six, which meant she'd need to meet the boys at the venue soon. Kurt had suggested that they rehearse and ensure that Reagan knew all of Nirvana's songs.

She didn't blame him for this even though he'd heard her mimic all the hits off of Bleach in the past. She went as far to assume that Kurt's suggestion was based on his sympathy for her, knowing she might be anxious. He may have been desperate to have her fill in as drummer, but he was no stranger to being nervous.

"Small cappuccino?"

The barista behind the counter slid Reagan her mug, placed neatly on a plate beneath it. Reagan sighed in relief.

"That's me. Thanks."

"You look like you're about to do something important," the barista said, smiling kindly. She took out a wet rag from beneath the counter and began to mop down the area around the coffee machines, still looking at Reagan.

Reagan stared back, drinking in the sight of the girl's jet black hair cut bluntly at her chin and the piercing nestled beside her eyebrow. She was maybe only a few years older than Reagan and definitely fit the Seattle scene that crawled with punks and post-punks alike.

"Important? Really?" Reagan wondered aloud.

Was the gig that important? What would have made it important to her, anyway? Not screwing Kurt and Krist over, maybe. And surely not making an utter fool of herself in front of concert-goers.

"Yes. Usually when people have something especially important to do when they come in here, they look worried."

"I've been told I'm harder to read than that," Reagan replied, returning the girl's smile.

"I'm just good at identifying it because I see it happen so much."

"Well, you guessed right. I'm drumming for this band tonight. I've never performed in front of an audience," Reagan confessed readily.

She had originally wanted to be alone in her own head, but the girl was nice and willing to listen keenly without interruption. Reagan didn't really mind talking to strangers, especially when they showed as much interest in her as the barista did then.

"Do I know them?" the barista asked.

"Maybe. But I don't know. They're still relatively small."

The girl laughed and swept her arm around the café, gesturing to the wide range of band stickers placed haphazardly on walls and furniture. Reagan could not even identify some of the bands, an unlikely but impressive notion that reflected positively on the barista's behalf.

"Try me."

"Their name's Nirvana. They put out their first record last year through Sub Pop."

"Hey, what do you know? I like them. Good band. You're the drummer?"

Reagan laughed dryly. She imagined that she would hear that phrase a lot later in the night when people saw her in the niche behind Kurt and Krist.

"No, I'm filling in for the night. It's only temporary."

"Well, I'd love to go and watch you guys play if I didn't work. I'm sure you'll do great."

"I can only hope," Reagan said tightly. She nodded in goodbye towards the girl and found a secluded seating area that was hidden out of sight from the counter. As much as she had liked barista girl, she didn't want her to remember her face. If Reagan fucked up at the show, she didn't want anyone to be able to place her face to her name.

Stirring the froth in her cup, Reagan's eyesight went out of focus as she concentrated hard on her mental preparation. She was doing her best to recall all the proper drum parts of the Nirvana songs that Kurt had told her they'd play. He'd rattled off the set list to her on the phone the night before.

She found herself muttering the beats under her breath, tapping her fingers on the wood face of the table in order to strengthen her memory. It didn't feel as if she would forget everything on stage, but Reagan didn't want to take her chances. She didn't want to be remembered as the female drummer who butchered Nirvana's set, and most of all, she didn't want to let down Kurt and Krist.

You weakling, she thought to herself. She had done so well over the years at avoiding any band-related spotlight, yet there she was, sitting in a café in Seattle waiting to back up Nirvana for the night. She was beginning to think that she should have told Kurt 'no' instead of giving him the false pretense that she'd blow every single mind in the watching crowd.

She wanted to be numb. More than anything, it would have been nice to clear her mind and walk out on stage behind the boys breezily. Reagan so badly wished that there could have been a switch in her brain, one that operated the on and off settings of panic mode.

And worst of all, she could not truly accept her own worries when she had been the one to sink herself in them in the first place. She tried to think about what Kate, wise little Kate, would say about the ordeal.

She'd tell you that if you really didn't want to do it, you wouldn't have said yes.

Reagan frowned and clasped her coffee mug in her hand. She was becoming way too good about guessing Kate's dialogue before it actually ever come true.

She also had almost forgotten Chris's point about the new drummer being there to add pressure onto Reagan's shoulders. In retrospect, she wasn't worried about it, but could understand Chris's meaning. Either the new drummer would deduce that he or she had a lot to live up to, or pity Reagan for taking the stage in their place.

In one last check of the clock, Reagan saw that it was nearly time for rehearsal. She drained the dregs of her coffee and prepared to leave, her muscles seizing up when she heard the faint clattering of her drum sticks in her bag.

She supposed that she could have cancelled if it was killing her that bad to go on. Kurt and Krist would have hated her, but at least she could have gone home not feeling like an idiot.

Reagan swallowed and mentally pinched herself.

No, she would never do that.

Not even Reagan Abner, the most assured and brassy girl in Northwest Olympia, had the balls to pull that one.