"YOU ALRIGHT?" KRIST asked as he, Reagan and Kurt awaited their entrance in the wings of the stage. Reagan's hands were slick with sweat, struggling to firmly clutch her drumsticks, though she refused to tell Krist that. As if he needed to worry that she would lose both sticks mid-set, allowing them to slip out of her hands and into the air.

"I'm fine," Reagan lied.

From the side of the stage, she could hear the sound of raucous music diluting any noise from the audience. This made her feel better knowing that the people in the crowd would be drowned out by their playing. She didn't want to hear them if they decided to boo her.

As the Melvins wrapped their performance, Nirvana, with the addition of Reagan, was ushered out onto the stage. Reagan held her breath as they stepped into the view of a hundred watching people. She kept her eyes trained on the drum set awaiting her, knowing that once she was behind it, everything would fall into place. Her anxiety would float far away and hopefully be forgotten.

Once she sat behind the drums, Reagan was thankful to note that she could not even see the congregation of attendees. The lights streaming onto the stage were bright enough to block her vision from anything beyond the figures of Kurt and Krist. It wouldn't have made sense for her to want to see the crowd anyways; she had her drums to focus on.

As Kurt and Krist threw on their guitars, a continuing rise of chatter grew within the audience. Reagan could only hear snatches of the conversations buzzing out ahead of her, but her stomach clenched angrily when she processed what was being said.

'Is that a girl drumming  for Nirvana?'

Their questioning was only moderately understandable. Nirvana had never debuted a female member of the band, so Reagan sympathized with their confusion. What she would not stand was their apparent doubt. The only defense she had in being the only girl on stage was her skill, a skill that she wouldn't hesitate to prove was sharpened with experience.

Like a big brother checking on his little sister, Kurt looked over his shoulder briefly at Reagan. His eyes were searching, seeking confirmation on her end that she was ready to play. She gave him a brusque nod, pushing down her nervous nausea with all the confidence that she could muster. It was like Richard would have said -- she was up to bat and there was no going back to the dugout now.

She was to lead them into their first song, the vigorously titled 'Stay Away.' Reagan was going to kick off their performance and not even Kurt nor Krist would be the first to produce the beginning echo of music in the room. That was up to Reagan.

After a deep breath of air, she launched into the intro of the song, drumming relentlessly against the snare and working her leg up and down to function the bass drum. Only five seconds passed before Krist joined her, throwing his whole body into playing as he plucked out the opening bass line. And then, they were playing. But not even just playing -- they were actually playing well.

Reagan told herself not to get her hopes up as she beat away on the drums, listening as Kurt began to sing scratchily into his mic. It was only the first song and she had a fifteen track lineup to play. But they had started off without a hitch and she hadn't fucked up instantly as she'd predicted.

Kurt's shrill screaming marked the end of 'Stay Away,' and without much of a prelude, they dove straight into the next song, 'Blew.' By this time, Reagan's heart was pumping furiously. The blood that rushed through her veins was thick with adrenaline, and she found herself actually enjoying the thrill of performing. Not a single distraction could have torn her attention away from the drums and the pure stimulation she was getting from playing them.

She felt like it was meant to be, her playing for Nirvana that night. Their tracks were ingrained in her head like a variety of unforgettable mantras. Kurt's adept songwriting was as phenomenal as it was a rarity in their little music community, and Reagan would have never soon forgotten the songs they had jammed out to for fun all those months ago.

Even as sweat dewed at her forehead and a slight concern about her underarms being coated in enough deodorant passed through her mind, she didn't lose her grip. Reagan played as she'd never played before, pouring every ounce of energy in her body into her hands. She banged her drumsticks with the loudness of a child playing their first drum kit but channeled the ruckus into powerful, heavy-hitting sound.

Anyone would have assumed that a man was behind the drums that night, beating out the rhythm to songs like 'Floyd the Barber' and 'Breed.' This assumption was easily debunked by the evidence that the audience could easily see Reagan's face behind the set, a smooth mask of determination. She didn't smile; she didn't need to. Her insides were doing that for her.

When the set was finally over, Reagan watched as Kurt and Krist flung their guitars around with abandon. To add to the mayhem, she playfully grabbed her ride cymbal and threw it at them. Kurt looked affronted to have been given a taste of his own medicine, but Krist doubled over with laughter as his best friend dodged Reagan's throw. She laughed along with him all the way off stage.

Someone hastily shoved a bottle of water into her hands, though she could not see any faces around her. Her eyes were still adjusting to the low lighting of backstage, still reflecting the white stage lights that had beamed into her face.

"That was amazing," Reagan breathed. She unscrewed the water bottle and lifted it to her mouth, but missed and drenched herself with water. She hadn't realized that her hands were shaking.

"My God, we knew you could play, but not like that!" Krist yelled. He roped his arms around Reagan and jerked her up off the ground, causing her to spill more water. She laughed.

"I didn't know I could play like that," she admitted. For Reagan, there was no sense in being modest that night. She knew completely how well she had done and not even for the sake of humility would she hide it.

"You're making me seriously question this new drummer," Kurt said loudly, catching her attention.

Reagan turned to look at him as Krist set her on her feet, feeling aghast by his comment.

"Don't say that," she urged. "I couldn't join even if I wanted to."

"And you want to," Kurt pointed out.

"Yeah," Reagan said with a growing smile. "I do."

It was something she would not even admit to her family or Chris, let alone herself. The feeling of playing in a band -- of truly exerting the talent she'd practiced for years -- had been more appealing than Reagan expected. It was going to be hard for her to tuck the experience away for good. There would be no more bands for Reagan, at least not for a while.

"I wouldn't say that out loud," Krist warned. "Our new guy is going to be coming backstage soon. He's probably feeling threatened enough as it is."

"Shut up," Reagan said bashfully.

She sipped what was left of her water, drifting off to the side and away from Kurt and Krist. As much as she enjoyed their company, she felt like she needed to be alone in order to come down from the adrenaline frenzy she'd been whipped up in.

While walking towards the back of the room, Reagan couldn't hide her grin as she received a rush of compliments from those hanging out backstage. Most of them seemed overly impressed, probably stunned that a girl of Reagan's size inhabited enough force to beat on drums like a fully grown man. She was proud to have floored them.

Even though he was miles away in Olympia, she could almost hear her father's praise in her ear.

This is what he had always hoped to see her do.

In a secluded area that was partially obscured by equipment, Reagan found a spot to process her thoughts. She crouched down to the floor, finding the only clean-looking rag available and wiping her face with it. She was more covered with sweat than she realized.

Nearby, Reagan found her bag. She picked it up and brought it back to the spot she'd located, sitting back down on the floor and rummaging through her things. She pushed past her crumpled Wilson's vest. The sight of seeing it substantially brought her back down to reality. It was almost hard to accept that she wasn't actually a drummer pursuing fame in a band. She was still just an auto shop girl.

She found the watch she kept on during work buried at the bottom of her bag and raised it up into the faint light, checking the time. It was almost midnight. If she wanted to get back to Olympia by one in the morning, she would have to leave soon.

"Hey, Reagan! Come over here!"

Reagan glanced behind her, noticing a cluster of bodies that was more pronounced with Krist standing in the middle of them. He was waving his hand, calling her over to the small gathering that had been made. She set her watch back down in her bag and slid her drumsticks in there as well, standing to her feet.

"Come on!" Krist cried again, waving his gangly arm faster.

Reagan brushed her hand against her forehead, wondering how much she was still perspiring. It was not exactly cold backstage, and she was almost positive that she had not displayed such endurance in years.

With her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, Reagan walked over to the group of people and kept her eyes fixed on Kurt and Krist. Besides from the Melvins, she did not recognize anyone else in the bunch.

"What's up?" Reagan said, still doing her best to slow the panting breaths that filled her chest.

"I've got someone for you to meet -- Dave, hey Dave, c'mere," Krist babbled. He reached into the group and grabbed the arm of a long-haired man spieling to Kurt, an easy smile on his face. Under Krist's grasp, the young man stumbled and barely caught himself. When he raised his eyes away from his feet, he looked squarely at Reagan.

His expression was suddenly wiped clean of the laidback contentment he'd been sporting. Whatever conversation he'd been having with Kurt vanished for his mind as he stared at Reagan. Something similar to a starstruck gape came over his face while he registered who he was standing in front of.

"Reagan, this is Dave Grohl, our new drummer. He was out there tonight in the audience," Krist announced, nudging Dave forward.

"Hi," Dave greeted in a voice much softer than Reagan expected.

"Hello," she responded, inclining her head in acknowledgment.

He hadn't stopped looking at her, which Reagan supposed was normal when two people met for the first time. But Dave's stare was not of the routine, lackluster kind that most people assumed when greeting a stranger. He was entirely captivated by Reagan, or at least seemingly so, telling by the firmness of his eyes.

Reagan had seen this look before. It was the same look Tommy had worn when she'd first asked him to employ her at Wilson's.

He was cute. That was the first word to pop into Reagan's mind as she tried to describe Dave to herself -- cute. His hair was dark and long, past his shoulders with half tucked behind one ear. The general visage of his face was unique, carrying features that would stick out amongst an ordinary mass of people.

But even then still -- he was cute.

"You were really great out there," Dave finally offered. Reagan glanced at his chest, taking notice of the Black Flag shirt he wore.

Naturally, he would have good music taste.

"Thanks," Reagan said. She resisted turning back to where her belongings sat. She really did have to leave soon.

"Are you filling in from another band?" Dave continued, raising his voice. More people had circled around them, chattering and filling the air with conversation.

"Me? No. I'm not in a band. Just helping out," Reagan explained.

"Really? I would think someone who can play like you do would be in a band."

Cute, good taste in music and flattering.

"Yeah, no. I can't because I work," Reagan said, laughing dryly. He may have stroked her ego with his admiration, but his assumption was just as false as everyone else's.

"You could work in a band," Dave suggested with a soft smile.

He was only being nice. Reagan knew that. But something about having truly come to terms with the real world that she lived in had made Reagan irritable that night. It didn't feel fair that this stranger could insist that she put her talent to use when there was no possible reality where that could happen.

Dave was just spitting out ideas that Reagan had already exhausted in her mind before.

"I don't think so," she said tersely.

Dave wasn't insulted by Reagan's bitter reply, but she didn't pay any mind to his reaction. She finally looked towards her bag, feeling pressured to return home. Getting up for work the following morning would be painful unless she got some sleep.

Reagan's gaze slid past Dave and the other faces surrounding her until she spied Kurt. She moved towards him, pushing aside both Dave and Krist to tug on Kurt's flannel sleeve.

"Hey, Kurt, I've got to go. It's getting late for me."

Kurt's mouth opened, but the sound of Krist's booming voice surpassed Kurt's answer.

"You're leaving? Don't go, Reag! We're all going out to this bar. Come!"

Reagan frowned apologetically. It was heartwarming to have been extended the invite from her friend, but the thought of going to a bar when she had work the next day felt wrong. Not wrong morally, but wrong because Reagan's tired brain would pay the price.

"I wish I could, but --"

"You should come," Dave added. He was standing at Krist's side, attempting to be helpful but also remaining much too intrigued by Reagan to look away.

She hesitated, debating whether or not she felt that Dave had the right to give his opinion when Kurt touched her shoulder and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

"Come with us. It will be fun. You don't even have to get drunk."

It was three against one, with Reagan's choice to return home outweighed by the persistence of three guys, one of them who was a stranger. Reagan chewed the inside of her cheek as she envisioned herself the next day, groggy and hating herself for having abandoned her common sense.

Kurt's words replayed in her head.

You won't even have to get drunk.

It was meant to be a helpful assurance, but Reagan forgot it quickly. It looked like she would be getting drunk that night with them, only because if she didn't, the regret of having knowingly stayed would burn worse than any hangover headache.