THE WARM TASTE of smoke slipping down the back of Reagan's throat did little for her nerves. She was on her third cigarette and didn't feel any less keyed up than she had when her mother and father had told her the bad news. Richard was now jobless.

Reagan took another pull off of the Marlboro between her lips, reminded of earlier in the day when she had scolded Kate for wanting to try a cigarette. Maybe she should have taken her own advice. But that moment felt like ages ago. A whole century had passed since then and now, Reagan was keen to continue waltzing down a path of micro-self destruction.

The cigarette was burning closer down to its end. She could feel the hot ember nearing the edge of her mouth, flaming brightly against the swallowing dark of the night. It should have been her last one, but even she knew she'd be digging another one out of the pack within minutes. She had nothing else better to do but to smoke until the ends of her cigarettes scalded her fingertips.

"Well, damn. You really do get the shit end of the stick, Abner."

Reagan's eyes, having gone nearly crossed in examining the orange glow of her cigarette, glanced to her right side. Her friend Chrisann, better known as Chris to those she was close to, was sitting next to her on the set of porch steps Reagan had found refuge on.

Reagan had not known where to go after she'd learned about Richard's loss of work. But predictably, she'd ended up at Scott Miller's house.

Scott's house was a sort of vagabond shelter for anyone and everyone who came running through it. He operated his band out of the house's garage and sometimes the living room when a show was to be put on.

The lineup of band members was a constantly changing circulation of different musicians scattered throughout Olympia. Chrisann played bass for the band, the cheekily named Yellow Fellow, and she was a rare permanent fixture. Scott would have never let her go. She was too ridiculously good at what she did, so good that other amateur bands had sought her out with tenacity.

Reagan had first met Chris in downtown Olympia after a distinctly riotous show that had ended with the band's drummer punching the lead singer in the face. Reagan had been amused by the display of idiotic violence, and it seemed fit when Chris had bumped into Reagan and clamored on about how the show had been incredible. Reagan had never been more grateful to have been accidentally elbowed in the ribs by someone. She'd been close to Chris ever since.

Reagan surmised that Chris was the one friend out of a thousand acquaintances that truly meant something to her. Chris was easygoing and fun to be around. She would have keeled over dead before starting drama and her musical knowledge was as expansive as Reagan's own.

If anything, Chris was more of a ruffian boy than a girl anyways. She always sported her hair in a scruffy, short mop and donned baggy clothing from the men's section of Walmart. She was attracted to girls and the very thought of dating a man was horrid to her.

Reagan loved this attribute of Chris's. It made her who she was and strangely enough, led Reagan to being even more comfortable around her.

"I'd agree with you, but then I'd feel like a selfish fuck," Reagan said, exhaling and stubbing out the remains of her smoke on the concrete.

"Why?" Chris snorted. "You're the least selfish person I know. You bust your ass every single day for your family and ask for nothing in return."

"Yeah, but I'd probably be screwed without them anyways. So why complain? I'm only helping myself."

Reagan pulled her knees in closer to her chest, regretting that her long legs were bare and exposed to the chill drifting in the air. It may have only been September, but a brisk breeze had befallen Olympia. It must have been a warning for what the approaching winter was to be like.

"Ah, fuck that. You'd be just fine on your own. You don't need them. They need you."

"It would be too hard for me to just up and leave when they're so bad off."

"Well, I didn't say it would be easy."

Chris leaned back and stretched out on the steps, propping herself up on her elbows which rested on the cool cement beneath her. She gazed up at the sky, squinting at the endless patterns of twinkling stars above.

"My mom asked me to pick up more shifts at Wilson's," Reagan explained, lowering her voice. "As if I'm not working almost every damn day as it is. She even mentioned me getting a second job."

"You could always join the band," Chris said hopefully, looking up at Reagan with a toothy smile.

"No bands," Reagan shot back firmly. "I'm not joining anything."

"So not even a speech and debate team?" Chris teased, swinging herself into sitting upright.

Reagan shook her head but cracked a small smile. Chris forged on with her band proposition.

"Why not join, Reags? If we make it big, you'll be hauling in cash like there's no tomorrow. Imagine how your family will feel then."

"Key word there is 'if.' I can't rely on 'if.' And you're forgetting that there would be no time for me to even practice because I work so much."

"Quit work, focus on the band . . ." Chris began loftily.

"And make money how?" Reagan implored.

"Reagan. You're a fucking great drummer. I bet if we had you, we wouldn't have to wait to finally make it. Maybe you're the missing link."

"You're not being serious right now and it's bumming me out," Reagan said glumly.

She lowered her chin onto her kneecaps, hugging herself around the legs and wishing that for once, Chris would set aside her devilish taste in humor and instead offer up some real advice. Maybe advice was not even what Reagan really wanted -- what she really craved was guidance, or the reassurance that things would turn out okay and she wouldn't live out the rest of her life being a work mule for her family.

"Hey," Chris said, moving closer and placing her hand on Reagan's back. "You don't need me to be all serious right now. You need to laugh. Cheer up. Forget about it for a second and try to have fun while you still can."

"I'm just freaking out."

Reagan dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, shielding them from Chris in case her long-awaited tears started to pour. She had not cried in God-only-knows long, but the prospect of Richard losing his job had her reeling. She'd done so much already. It was nauseating to think of adding more to her already stacked agenda.

"Freak out all you want. That's very much so allowed here," Chris assured, slipping her arm around Reagan's shoulders.

As soon as she was sure that her eyes were not going to betray her and spill the tears that she so feared, Reagan gulped back the thickness in her throat and turned to Chris. She trusted her judgement enough to follow it when it was given. If Chris was going to tell her to have fun while her life seemed to crumple around her, then she would do it.

"Let's go inside," Reagan suggested, climbing to her feet and dusting off her hands.

"Best idea you've had all night. I'm freezing my ass off out here."

Scott's squat, pale blue house was comparably more warm than the outside weather, inviting its occupants in with open arms. When Chris and Reagan weaved their way inside through the hallway and into the living room, they were met with a cacophony of noise.

Scott was strumming so frantically on his beat up, Univox Hi-Flier that Reagan was sure the strings were about to pop off from the tuners. The drummer Michael was behind his set thrashing his head, his face invisible by the veil of long dark hair he shook about. Whatever jam session they'd been having had clearly turned into something else. The sounds emitting from their instruments could have hardly been described as music.

Reagan and Chris exchanged weary looks. Reagan couldn't believe that Chris was so adamant on making it big with Yellow Fellow when Scott's taste in songwriting ranged from wild to borderline insanity and Michael struggled to produce a consistent tempo. Chris read her friend's mind, cringing before turning her to bandmates and waving her arms.

"Shut up!" Chris yelled, nabbing their attention.

Scott looked up, hardly perturbed by Chris's abrupt interruption. He was used to her making demands despite it being his band. Chris had the kind of voice and presence that couldn't be ignored, even if you wanted to blot her out of your mind.

"Yeah?" Scott asked, panting slightly and wiping his forehead for traces of sweat.

Reagan rolled her eyes. It was amazing to watch Scott take pride in himself for doing practically nothing. The sweat he'd broken into had been solely caused by his bouncing up and down -- not by any feat of magnificent guitar playing.

She would never call him out on it, though. Who was she to judge?

"Michael, get up. Reagan's going to jam for a little while," Chris commanded, jerking her chin in Michael's direction.

The drummer's eyes flickered to where Reagan stood, brief and hesitant before he clenched his hands around his drumsticks and stood up.

"Okay," he agreed, though he sounded far from content with the decision being made.

Reagan held her hand out as he walked past, indicating that he pass her his drumsticks. His gaze tightened on her face slightly, calculating her intentions, but nonetheless he handed her the sticks and grudgingly took a seat in the corner of the living room. Reagan chewed her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

She would have to eventually make a point of reassuring Michael that in no way did she want his job.

Chris picked up her bass and strapped it across her body as Reagan settled down behind the drums, familiarizing herself with the area as she always did. No matter how much time she spent apart from the drums, whether it be two days or two months, the feel of playing them always returned to her like a bright, instantaneous memory. As corny as it was, she loved the trembling tingles that wracked her body when she took her place on the drum stool.

Reagan always felt like she had been made to play the drums. From the time she had sat down behind her father's old set, she knew that her limbs had been crafted to hammer away on the cymbals and toms calling out lusciously to her, demanding that she produce sound from their static being.

Her fingers curved smoothly around the drumsticks and she smiled to herself when she felt the hard-earned callouses covering her palms. As a kid, she'd beaten herself up over having not-so-feminine hands, but when she was facing the wide array of a drum set, she had no concern for looks.

"Are we doing an original?" Reagan called out, bouncing her knees up and down with a strange thrill of anticipation.

"We're just covering the greats," Scott said back over his shoulder. "Want to start with some Sabbath?"

Chris jeered at Scott and shook her head fiercely. "No covers. Only Yellow Fellow originals. Let's do 'Changeling.'"

Scott was already scowling, opposed to Chris's insistence that they practice their own songs even though he obviously needed all the practice he could get.

"I wanted to cover 'War Pigs.' If we're going to rehearse, put Mike back on drums."

"Oh, fuck off Scott. We're doing our own songs."

Scott opened his mouth, hurling another defiant protest at Chris's demand . They began to bicker, an unsurprising occurrence that frequented the jam sessions Reagan had joined in on prior. From behind the set, Reagan sighed, growing bored with the sound of their raised voices.

She began to think of songs in her head that they would have recognized; Scott was a true fan of metal in spite of his punk-ish roots that had led him to form Yellow Fellow. It would have pleased Reagan to baffle him with her playing of metal classics. She had a tendency of startling him with her expertise in music.

Over their continued quarreling, Reagan started to play. She settled on 'Creeping Death,' a Metallica song she knew Scott would know and Chris would appreciate. She skipped the intro, forwarding to the up-tempo part of the song that she could have played with her eyes close.

Both Chris and Scott immediately ceased their talking, whipping their heads in Reagan's direction as she alternated between slamming the hi-hat, crash and snare with ease. They were seemingly bewildered at Reagan's forwardness, but Chris quickly took action. She dove straight into playing, directing her attention down to her rapidly moving fingers.

Scott scuttled along as well, attempting to gather himself and join in, but he mostly fell out of key while Reagan and Chris took the reigns.

Reagan smirked as she played. She liked Scott alright, but perhaps Metallica had been to difficult of a selection for him.

She didn't tire as she played. The rise and fall of her leg working the bass drum felt natural, a kind of second nature that her body liberated while she performed. Reagan lost herself behind the drums and she didn't mind it. She wouldn't have even cared if the threads of her mind remained forever entangled in the ethereal space she inhabited while playing. 

When Reagan played drums, she always shed the facade she wore every day and embodied her true identity. Every time she raised her fists and pounded the drumsticks downwards, there was a release of the anger and frustration that she'd been harboring for years.

It was going to take her awhile to get rid of it, but the drums at least helped.

She already lived in a small home, but an even tinier home for Reagan came in the form of the drum stool behind a kit worth playing.

Scott was the first to stop following along, releasing the strings of his guitar from beneath the pads of his fingers and inhaling deeply. He was out of breath again. Reagan wanted to cackle at him.

"Tired already?" she joked, unable to bite down on her own sharp tongue.

Scott ignored her sarcasm, as he usually tried to do. Chris on the other hand, whirled her focus around to Reagan with round eyes and a slack jaw.

This was nothing new. Chris gave Reagan the same reaction to her drum playing every time she witnessed it.

"Holy fucking hell," Chris gawked at her friend, her bass swinging freely as she put her hands to her head, unbelieving that Reagan wasn't in a band.

Reagan chuckled. Chris's flattery was always nice. It reminded her that she still had the ability to not only play, but to play well.

"Michael," Chris barked. The Yellow Fellow drummer was still holed up in his corner, looking considerably more threatened by Reagan after having witnessed her perfect a Metallica drum track.

"You're fired," Chris announced. "Reagan's taking your place."

"What?" Michael yelped, jumping to his feet and assuming his full height.

"Relax," Reagan said, standing up from the drum stool and balancing the sticks on the snare. "I'm not taking your job. I don't do bands."

"Please," Chris begged. "We need you."

Michael, affronted by Chris's pleading, lumbered over to his drums and grunted as he swiped his sticks back into his hand. He shot a glare at Reagan, though it was more begrudging than nasty.

"As if they weren't asking enough of me already," he muttered.