SHE DIDN'T WANT to do what she was about to do. Reagan would have rather faced fire-breathing dragons and the kind of monsters made from nightmares than go through with the confrontation lingering ahead of her.

She sat in her car, idling outside near the curb of the driveway that was in front of Scott's house. She had not needed to call ahead of time to know that Chris was there. Like telepathy, Reagan already sensed that her friend was at Scott's without a second guess.

As if to further accentuate those telepathic abilities, the front door to Scott's house opened and golden light spilled onto the porch. Chris walked out, peering into the dark where she spotted Reagan's car.

"Damn," Reagan muttered. Chris had of course known she was outside.

Reagan had barely had the time to conclude what she was going to tell Chris about her planned endeavor with Nirvana. She'd counted on being alone in her car for a few moments to collect her thoughts.

But that time had run out more quickly than she'd anticipated.

Chris was going to be livid. She had been begging and pleading with Reagan for what felt like forever to collaborate with Yellow Fellow and Reagan had always declined. It would be an utter betrayal for her to find out that Reagan had agreed to perform with Nirvana.

Reagan guessed that Chris would probably neglect to listen to her insistence that it was a one time thing. She would only latch on to the fact that Reagan had enlisted herself in doing it in the first place.

As Reagan raised her fingers to her mouth, chewing on what was left of her fingernails, Chris approached her down the driveway. Reagan shut her car off and opened the door.

"I didn't think you'd ever show your face around here again," Chris crowed, wearing a carefree smile. Reagan winced.

"I've been really busy with work. Today was my off day."

"I can see that. Get your ass inside. We've got beer and instruments all around."

"Uhm, Chris . . ." Reagan began, drawing further back inside her car. Only her legs stuck out of the driver's side door.

"Hey, don't worry. If you don't want to drum tonight that's cool. Want me to teach you some more tricks on the bass? Are you still down to learn?"

Chris was firing away rapidly, barely allowing for Reagan to speak as she excitedly embraced that her closest friend had finally come to see her.

Reagan felt sick to her stomach as she looked into Chris's face, visibly lit up with jubilation even in the darkness of night.

"Can we talk before we go inside?" Reagan asked, finally managing to cut in.

If you still want me to join you after this, she considered as an afterthought.

"Oh no," Chris said, her expression going slack. "What is it?"

"It's not . . . bad. Or I mean, not terrible. I think."

"Shit. Is it Tommy? Did you say yes to a date? No, wait! Did you fuck him again?"

Reagan raised both of her palms to her face, covering her eyes with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. Hearing any mention of her and Tommy's sexual exploits was the last thing she wanted.

"It doesn't have to do with Tommy."

"Oh?" Chris said, raising her eyebrows. She stuffed both of her hands into her jean pockets.

"It's about . . . me. And a band."

Although she was squinting through the gaps of her fingers, Reagan could see Chris's eyes widen with abrupt rejection.

"A band? As in you joined a band?"

"No!" Reagan objected loudly. She lowered her hands from her face and waved them, hoping it would settle Chris's boiling anger. "It's not that at all! I'm just doing them a favor!"

"What kind of favor? A favor like playing drums for them?"

"Yes," Reagan whispered meagerly. That, she could not deny.

Chris screwed up her lips, staring hard at Reagan as she came to terms with the confession. She crammed her hands deeper into her pockets and looked at the ground.

"So what? We're not good enough for you but some other band is?"

"No, no, no," Reagan chanted. She stepped forward out of her car, grabbing Chris's shoulders and feeling relief when Chris allowed her to do so. "It's not permanent. It's just for tomorrow night because they don't have a drummer for a show. I felt bad."

"What about us?" Chris argued. "What about my band, huh? We need you too!"

"Chris, you have Michael for a drummer."

"Michael sucks! He's lucky I haven't bashed his head through his set yet!"

"So fire him!"

Chris scowled as Reagan shot back the only resolution to fixing her drummer problem. As much as Chris wanted Reagan in the band, it would mean firing Michael, something that wouldn't be easy since Michael was young and eager to please. Plus, Scott would never approve of the decision.

Chris turned to the side, averting her gaze from Reagan and mashing her mouth tightly closed. Reagan sighed, knitting her eyebrows imploringly and touching Chris's arm.

"Please understand. Don't take this to heart, okay? It's just a favor for a friend. It will only happen once. And then I'm going to go right back into drummer hibernation. I swear, you won't ever see me pick up a pair of sticks in front of you again."

"That's a shit promise," Chris muttered. "If you do that, then I'm really screwed."

She seemed to have calmed down, accepting Reagan's assurance that she really had not betrayed her. With the front of her Converse sneaker, Chris kicked a stray rock into the grass.

"Who's the band?" she asked, still avoiding Reagan's eyes.

"Nirvana," Reagan responded. She didn't see a point in hiding the truth from Chris. Nirvana was a well-known enough band for word to get out that Reagan Abner had drummed for them.

Chris jeered, scrunching her nose up with indignation and finally looking at Reagan.

"Nirvana? Those dudes that you used to hang around with?"

"The very ones," Reagan answered calmly.

"That Kurt kid is the frontman, right? Tracy Marander's boyfriend?"

"Yep. That's him."

"I bet he wants to fuck you."

Reagan gasped, except it was a gasp of frustration rather than surprise. Chris's assertion reminded her strongly of what Tommy had said to her earlier that month — that the members of Nirvana only wanted her around for sex appeal.

"That's fucking mean, Chris," Reagan lashed, losing all sense of composure.

"How is that mean? It's true! You're hot!" Chris retorted bluntly.

"Because they didn't hire me because they think I'm attractive, which by the way, they don't! They hired me because I can do a simple backbeat and I have basic hand-eye coordination!"

Reagan spun around, too infuriated to pursue the conversation any further. Of all people, she would have never expected Chris to credit her small success as an amateur drummer towards her gender. It had hurt her feelings and she felt sick of trying to convince Chris that her intentions were not callous.

"Wait, wait," Chris said, grabbing Reagan's arm before she could duck back into the driver's seat. "I'm sorry Reagan. I didn't mean it that way. I would never mean it that way."

Reagan paused. A part of her still wanted to speed off and leave Chris standing alone in Scott's driveway, but she couldn't do it. Reagan could be as nasty as she wished to be, but never to the people she loved.

"You better not have," she mumbled, moving away from her car and crossing her arms.

"You just took it the wrong way," Chris explained. "I meant that they value your drumming and the fact that you're hot, so to any guy with musical capability, that makes you a good fuck. Do you get what I mean?"

"Honestly, I don't want to get what you mean."

"Look, I'm sorry for freaking out. I get it. You want to help them out. And you can't help me out because we're stuck with a dickhead named Michael."

"He's not that bad, Chris," Reagan said, though she nicked her teeth against her lip to keep from laughing. Michael was indeed a borderline dickhead.

"Don't try to make me feel better about it," Chris said glumly. "Nirvana won over the best drummer in Olympia. I just have to accept it."

"They didn't win me over. I'm not in the band, remember? Kurt told me they've got a new drummer and he's going to the show tomorrow to listen to them."

Chris suddenly bursted with laughter. "No shit! They're having the new drummer come to listen while you play?"

Reagan felt her body go ram rod straight at Chris's allusion to what would take place the following night.

"Yeah. So?"

"I mean, I guess that's normal. But damn, what a way to put pressure on you! Who's the new drummer? Is he any good?"

"No idea. I could care less what he thinks about my drumming, though. I'm there to get them through the set and that's it. Then I'm driving straight back to Olympia."

Chris threw her arm around Reagan's shoulder and tugged her into her side, a physical reassurance that all was okay between them. Together they began to walk towards Scott's house.

"What about work? Are you taking off?" Chris questioned.

"I work the morning shift tomorrow, so I'll be done in the late afternoon. I'll probably go straight to Seattle from Wilson's."

"Don't you dare wear that Wilson's vest to a rock concert, Abner."

"I would never," Reagan laughed. She tried to imagine herself on stage, wearing her work vest with her name stitched into the breast pocket while she drummed. The image did nothing for her already tense nerves.

"Damn, I wish I could go and watch you play. But my parents have my Aunt Sally coming into town. You know, she's bringing her Bible and vast knowledge of conversion therapy."

"Trying to convince you again?" Reagan asked in disbelief.

Chris's parents, along with family members like her Aunt Sally, had been trying to convince her for years that she wasn't gay. They would camouflage their psychotherapy sessions under the premise of family dinner; Chris had quickly learned what those gatherings were actually for.

Now, she merely tolerated them. Reagan even thought that sometimes, Chris enjoyed making a mockery out of her family's expectations of her. The last time they'd gotten together, Chris had dropped the bombshell of professing her love for female genitalia. From what Reagan assumed, it had not gone well.

"Yeah," Chris sighed, though she didn't sound the least bit sad. "They told me they'd buy me a car if I brought home a boyfriend."

"Fuck them," Reagan exclaimed. Chris smiled, gratuitous for her support.

They entered Scott's house, walking into the living room and taking in the scene of Scott and Michael guzzling beers on the couch. A re-run episode of Headbanger's Ball was being played on MTV.

"Hey guys, guess what?" Chris announced. Scott and Michael looked up at her apprehensively, still holding their beers to their mouths. Chris didn't wait for them to answer back.

"Reagan is playing with Nirvana tomorrow night."

"Kurt Cobain and Krist Novoselic's band?" Scott asked, looking taken aback.

"Yeah, can you believe it? The guys who put out Bleach," Chris laughed. Her demeanor towards the news had totally changed in a matter of minutes. It should have, considering that Chris had praised Bleach and Nirvana's efforts when the record was first released.

"They actually kind of suck," Michael said, sipping his beer smugly.

Reagan smiled icily at the drummer. Her defense of Michael to Chris earlier dissolved and as she looked at him, she realized Chris was right — he was a dickhead.

"Well, Michael," Reagan said sweetly. "I guess that means you have something in common with them then, don't you?"