Tag Archives: Lyle

Plaster of Paris; chapter eight, part two

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When I do return to the living room, Lyle is ready to take me to the mat.  I can tell by looking at him that he’s itching for a fight.  It saddens me because I like him very much, and I don’t want to ruin our budding friendship.  He demands to know why he has to hear from the inspector that I’ve fucked his boyfriend, and while I understand his pain, I’m not about to roll over and play dead.  If he has a beef, it’s with Paris for not telling him as I haven’t slept with Paris in years.  I hope that Lyle will let it go, but he won’t.  It’s not enough to know that Paris and I haven’t slept together in a long time; he has to know exactly when was the last time I had sex with Paris.  He also insists on knowing how many times Paris and I have slept together, which is even more of an asinine request—order.  I press my lips together; I’ll be damned if I let Lyle browbeat me into ‘confessing’ my sins.

Lyle throws a fit when I refuse to answer his questions.  I suggest that he get over himself because whatever happened between Paris and me is in the past.  Furthermore, perhaps Paris was right not to tell Lyle seeing how he’s reacted to the information.  I dress him down completely, the tension of the past few days suddenly releasing.  I know I’m not saying the right things nor am I being tactful, but I’m tired beyond belief and cannot control what I’m saying.  Lyle starts ranting that the inspector is right about me fucking anybody if I’ll fuck my own best friend.  That does it!  Any vestige of guilt or pity I have for him because he hadn’t known about Paris and me has vanished.  He’s acting like a prima donna over something that happened a lifetime ago, and it’s beginning to piss me off.  I bound across the room and slap him soundly across his face.

“You listen to me, Lyle Kingston, and you listen good,” I hiss at him.  I’m fed up with his pettiness.  My best friend is in the hospital, and I don’t need to dig up ancient history.  “Paris and I have slept together, yes.  It’s not something I’m ashamed of, but it’s not something that I flaunt, either.  We know we are not good partners; we know we are infinitely better as friends.  You want to know the last time I had sex with Paris?  The night he watched Brett die, that’s when!”  Lyle’s face changes, and he tries to speak, but I won’t let him.  He wants to hear the gory details, then he’s going to hear them.  “The last year was total agony, but I expect you know that.  Paris had to do everything for Brett and didn’t dare leave him for more than an hour at a time.  You remember that, don’t you, Lyle?  How absolutely draining it is to watch a lover die from AIDS?  Little things like changing the catheter?  Big things like waking up in the middle of the night afraid your lover is dead?  First the body goes, then the mind goes until he’s nothing more than a walking corpse.  He should have died six months before he did, but his body just wouldn’t give up.  Paris was there every step of the way.  I helped out as much as I could, but it wasn’t enough.”  By now, there are tears running down Lyle’s cheeks as well as my own.  It had been so hard to stand helplessly by and watch my best friend go through such excruciating pain.  I see that same pain on Lyle’s face and wish I hadn’t reminded him.  However, I knew he wouldn’t be able to understand about Paris and me if I hadn’t put it in the proper context.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter five, part three

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“Ok, you two,” my mother says firmly.  “You need to rest.  Go home.”  Lyle and I begin to protest through our tears.  The last thing I want to do is leave Paris.  “Go!  You need real sleep—not an hour here and there.  Take Lyle’s truck and crash at Rainbow’s.  I’ll stay with Catherine.  I have my car if I need it.”  When my mother decides on a course of action, the best thing to do is to follow it.

“I’m not going,” Lyle says firmly, not having as much experience with my mother as I have.

“You are going,” my mother replies, leveling him with a stare.  I shudder at the memory of that well-timed look.  I’ve seen it rarely over the years, but the effect is emblazoned on my soul.  “Ideally, you’ll stay away until morning, but barring that, get at least five hours of sleep.  It’s seven-thirty now.  That means I don’t want to see you until after midnight.”  She lifts her chin, daring Lyle to defy her.  To his credit, he recognizes an immovable force when he sees one and simply nods his head.  The last thing I see as Lyle and I leave the cafeteria is my mother buying more food, presumably for Mrs. Jenson.  Lyle and I walk to the truck in silence.  We are well on our way home when Lyle finally speaks.

“You going to work tomorrow?”  He is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles are white.

“I have to,” I say simply.  He knows better than most why.  I took a month’s leave of absence after the first murder case and pretty much exhausted my goodwill with the agency.  After the second murder case, I was made to feel guilty for taking a week off.  In addition, people were starting to looking askance at me at work.  I can tell they’re thinking, ‘What’s wrong with her that she’s been involved in two separate murder investigations?’  I’m not thrilled that there has now been a third attempt.  If I’m fortunate, however, it will be thought of as a simple hit-and-run.

“I’m closing shop for a few days,” Lyle says.  He is the owner of a novelty shop on Mission Street and sets his own hours.  “We should check the news when we get to your place.”  He is obviously thinking the same thing I am as far as to how the ‘accident’ is being reported.  When go inside my apartment, there are messages on the machine.  I zip through them quickly.  I’m half-listening, when the last message catches my attention.

“…lucky.  Next time, I won’t miss.”

“Lyle!  Come here!”  Lyle had gone into Paris’s room to find something to wear and comes hurrying into the living room.  He’s wearing a pair of Paris’s black jeans and one of his silver shirts as they are roughly the same size.  My heart twists just looking at him.

“What it is?”  Lyle’s eyes are troubled as he sees the look on my face.  It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand that he take off Paris’s clothes, but I swallow my comment.  I press play on the answering machine instead.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part three

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“Holy shit!”  I blurt out, pressing my hand to my mouth.  Immediately, I feel like a damned ingénue in a cheap novel and drop my pose.  “You’re Ursula Meadows.”  Talk about fucking coincidences!  This is a big one.

“Yes, I am.”  Ursula smiles and stands up, holding out her hand.  She didn’t do herself justice with her self-deprecating description.  Yes, she’s middle-aged with frizzy blond hair and wide hips, but what she forgot to say was that the hair reaches the middle of her back and the hips are accompanied by a generous bosom and a slim waist.  She is wearing a black dress that shows her assets to their best advantage.  She also forgot to say that she has porcelain skin with dark blue eyes and a ready smile.  This is a woman comfortable in her own skin, and what beautiful skin it is.  “You must be Rayne and?”  She dangles the sentence attractively, waiting for me to fill in the blank.  She stands up, showing off her nearly six-feet in its full glory.

“Uh, Rayne.  Paris’s best friend.”  I suddenly wish I had gone home to change.  “This is Lyle.  Paris’s partner.”  Not a flicker from the cool Ms. Meadows.

“It’s so good to meet you, Rayne,” Ursula says, clasping my hand warmly in hers before doing the same to Lyle.

“Ms. Meadows, it’s an honor to meet you,” I say reverentially.  “They were just talking about your upcoming book at Dog Eared.”  She was a waitress before she hit the bigs.  When And San Francisco Wept burst onto the scene, it shot to the top of the New York Times bestseller’s list.  Critics gushed about her being the ‘trenchant observer of our postmodern, weary days’.  They compared her to everyone from Bukowski to Stein, from Henry Miller to Flannery O’Connor.  She’s been hailed as ‘a refreshing antidote to the ennui displayed by today’s youth’.  She’s a local icon.

“Please, I am only Ursula.”  She laughs and gestures to the seats across from her.  “I’m so glad you brought Lyle along.”  Lyle and I sit down, too awed to speak.  At least, that’s my excuse.  “How is Paris?”  A frown creases her forehead.  Lyle and I glance at each other, wondering how much to reveal.  Though I instinctively like this woman, she is virtually a stranger.

“He’s in the hospital,” I say hesitantly.  “Recovering from surgery.”  That seems safe enough to say.

“I can’t believe the horrible hands of fate,” Ursula muses sadly, sipping on what appears to be a sangria.  Our server miraculously appears out of nowhere to ask if we want anything to drink.  He has a ready smile and dark skin that contrasts marvelously with his white shirt.  I order a dry martini, not wanting to appear uncouth by having a Bud Light or something so horrible domestic.  Lyle asks for a shot of Jack.  Ursula orders us an appetizer consisting of goat cheese and bread before turning back to us.  “It’s utterly ironic that I contact Paris yesterday afternoon, and hours later, he’s had an accident.  So cruel.”

“How did you know it was hours later, Ms., uh, Ursula?”  I ask curiously.  I am fairly certain I didn’t mention when the accident happened, just that it had.

“I was guessing,” Ursula says ruefully, fiddling with her glass.  “I talked to him late afternoon yesterday, and I just assumed it wasn’t this morning.”  Probably true, but it’s hard to say.  She tosses her magnificent mane of hair back, and smiles at us benevolently.  It’s hard to believe this woman is in her mid-forties, but she must be if she’s Paris’s birthmother.  “Well, kiddies, shall I tell you a story?”

Without waiting for a reply, she launches into her tale of woe.  She grew up in Philly.  When she was a teenager, she was a frump who had no social life.  Worse, she was tall and gangly which did nothing to increase her appeal to boys.  She spent Friday nights studying and Saturday nights crying in her bedroom.  Her parents were loving, but distant as they were professors with full lives of their own.  They liked her, were fond of her, but had no idea what to do with a spotty, stuttering girl who had no friends.  Ursula turned to books, especially romance novels that promised a Prince Charming and a happy ending on the last page.  She devoured them like candy, determined to have her romance one way or another.  She dreamed of her own prince, and even had a name picked out for him.  Nicholas.  She thought it was regal without being stuffy.  He would have dark brown hair and flashing brown eyes—she was partially to flashing brown eyes.  He would be the end of all her miseries.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part two

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I bring up Paris’s birthmother, something both of us have let slide.  She did call Paris the afternoon he was hit.  Is it merely a coincidence that on the day she calls, Paris is hit?  That’s too much to swallow, although coincidences do occur.  Lyle and I look at each other, thinking the same thing.  Where is Paris’s cell phone?  Lyle had assumed the doctors had it, but he isn’t sure.  We have to get the cell phone to find out if there is a record of Paris’s birthmother’s phone call.  I curse Paris silently for his love of drama.  If he had just told one of us who she was before he was hit, we wouldn’t have to waste time tracking her down.  Lyle and I both start shoveling in the our food as fast as possible, gabbing the whole time.

We are short in the way of suspects, and we start tossing things out into the air.  Lyle mentions that Jenna has been calling Paris on his cell lately, begging Paris to come back to her.  I am disconcerted as I thought she had finally gotten over Paris.  He hadn’t mentioned a thing to me about Jenna calling him, but it’s probably because he knew I’d give him hell for getting involved with her in the first place.  I can’t believe she’s calling him again.  They only dated for a month, and she’s acting as if they’re Romeo and Juliet.  Lyle is more sympathetic than I, however, remembering some of his own pathetic behavior at her age.  My face flushes as I recall a few of my own escapades.

Of course, Lyle can’t let it slide and wants to know why I’m reacting so dramatically.  I try to deflect him by returning to the suspect list, but he’s not having any of that.  With a flare of intuition, he guesses the story has something to do with Paris and crows in delight when I am not quick enough to come up with a plausible lie.  When I realize that he isn’t going to let it drop, I order him to finish his sandwich to give myself time to think.  I don’t like thinking about the incident, and I certainly don’t want to tell Lyle as it involves me, stupid behavior, and Paris.  I have a hunch Lyle won’t be happy to hear it once I’m through, but there’s nothing I can do about that since he insists.  Besides, maybe it’ll take his mind of Paris for a minute or two.

The tale isn’t pretty, nor is it particularly interesting.  When Paris and I were sophomores in college, I was desperately unhappy for many reasons and watching Paris date bimbos of both genders did nothing to cheer me up.  I decided I was in love with him and tried to seduce him.  It didn’t work, and I fled from the apartment, humiliated.  I slipped into a bar and proceeded to drink myself into a coma.  Some snake approached me and persuaded me to go home with him.  We were just about to leave when Paris showed up and prevented the snake from whisking me off.  Oh, I protested, but Paris simply slung me over his shoulder and brought me home.  When we got there, I promptly fell apart—as well as threw up—and Paris held me until I regained my sanity.  After reaffirming his love for me and the fact that we make better friends than lovers, he carried me off to my bed.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter three, part one

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Lyle and I move a bit away to an unoccupied couch.  Now that there’s nothing else to do, I can’t help but notice our surroundings.  There are people everywhere, with every kind of wound imaginable.  One woman has an angry gash from her collarbone to her belly.  A knife wound, by the indication of the shredded dress.  She is being talked to by a nurse who quickly hustles her behind a door.  There is a small boy blubbering as he watches blood dripping from his knee which is embedded with slivers of broken glass.  I avert my eyes from the human suffering that is happening around me.  I rather watch the nurses and doctors rushing from one place to the next, intense looks of concentration on their faces.  They don’t even acknowledge each other as they hurry on their way, intent on their next assignment.  The walls are a dingy white, as if tired of offering brightness and comfort.  There is an older man arguing with the intake nurse, the volume of their argument increasing by the word.  I shudder and shut my eyes to block out all the stimuli.  I hate the hospital—as I’m sure most people do.  It’s ironic that the place which is supposed to be for saving lives is loathed by so many.

The hours pass with monotonous regularity.  Sometime during the evening, the inspector returns to question Lyle.  It takes a half hour, which is twice the amount of time she talked to me.  Lyle doesn’t want to talk about it, so we go back to waiting.  We also take turns napping.  First me with my head on his lap.  Then him with his head on my lap.  Neither of us is able to sleep for more than half an hour at a time, which doesn’t make for very restful sleep.  Lyle tosses as he sleeps, moaning softly for Paris.  I stroke his forehead, not wanting to cause him more agitation.  It’s strange how this terrible circumstance has thrown us together.  I like Lyle tremendously, but I haven’t really spent much in-person time with him.  Most of our conversations have taken place over the phone when he and Paris were in Memphis for Paris’s sister’s funeral.  Now, we are going to be spending much of our time together over the next couple weeks whether we like it or not.  Fortunately, I like him because it would be even more hellish to spend this kind of time with him if I didn’t.

The hospital isn’t quiet—not even at four in the morning.  There are patients still streaming in the door.  It’s Saturday night, so many of the wounded are hopped up or drunk as well as injured.  My admiration for hospital personnel increases tenfold as I observe the business they have to do.  I know there is no way I could handle dealing with this kind of large-scale tragedy on a daily basis without flipping my lid.  I lean against the back of the couch and close my eyes, even though it’s my turn to stay awake.  I don’t know why Lyle and I decided that one of us needs to be awake at all times, but it suddenly seems ridiculous.  If the doctors have anything to say to us, they can wake us up.  Why are we keeping this vigil?  What good is it doing Paris?  I’m sending him good vibes, but what he really need is a miracle.  For the first time, I allow myself to think the unthinkable.  I open my eyes, suddenly shivering in fear.

Paris is more necessary to me than any of my appendages.  I’d rather lose all my limbs combined that lose Paris.  He is more important to me than any lover I’ve ever had, except perhaps, Claudette, the girl I partnered with for a year of my life in high school—the longest relationship I’d ever been in.  I was shattered the day she killed herself after tiring of her battle with anorexia, and it was Paris who patiently put me back together.  It’s been Paris holding my hands the last few months when the nightmares visit each night.  It’s Paris who has cooked me tempting dishes every day, hoping it’d coax my capricious appetite to spring to life.  It’s Paris who kept me from drowning after my father was killed by a drunk driver.  It was Paris who showed me what it meant to love someone unconditionally.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter two, part two

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“I think that’s our job, Ms. Liang.”  A woman’s voice, husky, informs me.  I sigh heavily.

“Hello, Inspector Robinson.”  I don’t have to look up to know what I will see.  A tall, slender woman with blond hair that falls to her shoulders and light gray eyes.  Cheekbones to die for.  A woman I’m attracted to, but could never date.  I don’t even know if she dates women, but we have too much history to be bed partners.  She holds herself responsible for not preventing both attempts on my life, though there really was nothing she could have done.  When I do look up, I’m struck again by her fragile beauty.  She is much too delicate to be a homicide inspector.  “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she says levelly.

“We must stop meeting like this.”  My attempt at jocularity falls singularly flat.  “What are you doing here?  This isn’t a homicide.”

“Attempted, Ms. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says wearily.  “In addition, because of Mr. Frantz’s involvement in previous homicide cases, we are taking every precaution to ensure that this attempt is not linked to the prior ones.”  Sounds like faulty reasoning to me as both the previous murderers are indisposed of, but it’s not my place to say so.

“What can I do for you?”  I am less cautious with Inspector Robinson than I would be with another cop, but I’m still on my guard.

“I would like to have a few words with you in private,” Inspector Robinson says, glancing at Lyle who is paying no attention to us.  He is more interested in staring at the back of his hands.  Inspector Robinson motions with her head, so I stand up and follow her a healthy distance away.  She gestures for me to sit, and I do so reluctantly.  She angles a chair so it’s facing mine, then sits.  She stares at me for a minute before starting her questioning.  I have the uncomfortable feeling that my blouse is buttoned crookedly; the inspector has that effect on me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vashti walk over to Lyle and sit next to him.  She must have been waiting for an appropriate time to approach us.  What a thoughtful woman.  I’m so intent on watching her, I miss what Inspector Robinson says.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”  I wrench my thoughts back to the inspector who doesn’t look pleased with my request.

“Where were you this evening?”  Inspector Robinson asks, her voice brisk.  I stare at her uncomprehendingly.

“You’re asking me for an alibi?”  Unreasonably, I’m wounded.  After the last two cases, I would think I’d be above suspicion, but obviously not.  I take a minute to compose myself before replying.  “I was at Vashti’s apartment.”  I nod at Vashti, and the inspector follows my gaze.  “She made us dinner.”

“Then what?”  Inspector Robinson is scribbling notes, but doesn’t miss the blush that spreads to my cheeks.

“Um, we were getting to know each other better when Lyle called me on my cell.”  I am strangely reluctant to give the inspector the gory details, though they’re fairly tame.  “Vashti drove me over.”

“How have you and Mr. Frantz been getting along?  Things tense lately?”

“You have to be kidding me,” I exclaim.  “I just gave you my alibi!  You still think I might have,” I stop as my eyes flood with tears.  My best friend is in surgery fighting for his life, and I’m being questioned by the cops.  “I love Paris.  I would never hurt him.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter two, part one

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“Hello?”  I have to admit I’m a trifle snippy in my tone.  I do not like coitus interruptus, even if I am still undecided about whether there will be coitus or not.

“Oh my god!  Rayne, is that you?  I can’t believe it!”  It’s Lyle, and he sounds more agitated than I’ve ever heard him sound as he is normally an even-tempered guy.  “You have to come quick.  Paris is in the hospital.  We had a fight, and he left, and now, oh god.  He won’t open his eyes!  Why won’t he open his eyes?”

“Lyle, calm down,” I say, fighting back my own panic.  “Please.  You’re not making sense.”

“I’m at St. Luke’s.  Can you get here?  Now?  I can’t talk over the phone.”  He clicks off before I can get any more information.

It’s a nightmare, it has to be.  I hang up my cell phone, stupidly looking at it in my hand.  Vashti asks me what’s wrong, but I brush her off.  I need her to drive me to St. Luke’s, and I’m praying that she knows the way.  She does.  We are out the door in a flash, and soon, she’s speeding down Caesar Chavez as fast as she dares.  Neither of us speaks on the way over.  Thoughts are rushing through my mind at breakneck speed, and I don’t bother trying to separate them.  I can’t even think about Paris being in the hospital without wanting to either hurt someone badly or bursting into tears, so I push it to the very back of my brain.  I keep my eyes fixed on the window as Vashti pulls up to St. Luke’s.  She drops me off at the front door and goes to park the car.  Information points me to ER, and I race down the hall.

“Lyle!”  I call out as soon as I glimpse him.  He catches me in his arms and crushes me to his chest.

“It’s so horrible, Rayne.  He was deliberately hit.  Who would do that?  Why won’t he open his eyes?”  Lyle is weeping and has been for a while judging by the looks of him.  We sit down, our arms wrapped around each other.

“Can I see him?”  I ask anxiously, wanting to reassure myself that Paris is ok.

“He’s still in surgery,” Lyle moans.  “Why did I let him run out?  Why didn’t I try to stop him?  What was I thinking?”

“Lyle, tell me what happened!”  I shake him slightly to try to calm him down.  I am sympathetic to his pain, but I have to know what is going on.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter thirteen, part three

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Rosie stole things from her employers, just as I surmised.  Usually silver or jewelry, but once in a while, she’d have a sheaf of papers and wouldn’t tell Derek what they were.  When I open my mouth to interrupt, Derek hurries on over my questions.  The last time he saw her, he tried to find out obliquely if she was still stealing things.  She just laughed at him and said that was penny-ante compared to what she had going on now.  When Derek asked what she meant, she explained her newest venture to him.  Venture.  He makes it sound like she was an entrepreneur or a small-business owner, not the blackmailer she really was.  She regaled him with stories of her clientele without revealing their identities.  She said one had killed her husband; one had embezzled some money; one didn’t have the credentials she said she did; one was running an apartment scam.  Things like that.

I couldn’t believe he hadn’t gone to the police, and I tell him so in no uncertain terms.  I mean, we’re talking about blackmail.  Derek doesn’t see it that way.  In his eyes, all her clients deserved it because they are all liars and cheats and thieves, not to mention a killer.  I look at him in disgust.  This is the same man who works with juvenile delinquents, trying to rehab them.  Does his attitude mean that he thinks they deserve whatever happens to them?  I don’t ask because he’s still talking.  He says the fact that Rosie’s clients live in Marin is a blackmailable offense.  By now, he’s slurring his words which means I should get as much information out of him as quickly as possible and save my indignation for later.  Besides, I’m hoping at some point he’ll realize if he had stopped her from continuing her ‘venture’, she’d still be alive.

“What else?”  I massage my forehead, feeling the stirrings of a headache.

“Um, well,” Derek stalls again, refusing to meet my eyes.  Suddenly, I get it and heave a big sigh.

“Derek, I don’t care if you slept with her,” I say earnestly, though Greta might care.  A lot.  “As long as it has nothing to do with her death.”

“No!  It’s just, um, well, we had both drank a bit, and um, I invited her back to my place, just to reminisce some more.  One thing led to another.”  I look at him in exasperation.  That is the lamest excuse in my book.  One thing doesn’t lead to another, not without help.  I don’t debate his statement, however, as it isn’t the point.

“So, when exactly did this happen?”

“The day before she was killed,” Derek says glumly.  “I can’t believe she’s dead!  We spent all afternoon in my bed talking and having sex.  She told me one of her clients would be upping her payment.  She was in such a good mood.  When she left, she told me she’d call me after the deal went through.  To celebrate.  I waited all the next night for that call.”  A call that never came.  I have a ton of questions, most of them irrelevant to the case.  I also remember the day in question at work—Derek had called in sick after taking off to see the counselor at the other agency.

“Has the police talked to you yet?”

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part two

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I focus on the conversation at hand.  Lyle is a laidback kind of man with a knack for putting people at ease.  After talking with him for half an hour, I feel as if I’ve known him for years.  I can tell by the look on Paris’s face that he’s feeling the same way.  I’ve never seen Paris so relaxed with a partner before.  Usually, he’s ‘on’, performing to a one-person audience.  It feeds his ego to have someone adoring him, though it doesn’t always bode well for the relationship.  I am pleased to not see stardust in Lyle’s eyes when he looks at Paris.  I have a feeling that Lyle can more than hold his own with Paris, that he can give as good as he gets.  I certainly hope so, for his sake.  Paris is a difficult person to date, but I think Lyle is up to the task.

I learn that Lyle grew up in a single-mother household with two older sisters.  They lived in the Tenderloin, but Lyle never knew he was poor until some bratty kids in his fifth grade class hassled him for wearing one of three shirts to school day after day.  His teachers looked at him with pity, which wasn’t what he wanted, either.  He just wanted to learn.  The kids also teased him about being a bastard and would ask where his father was.  He quickly learned to use his fists to silence his critics as he was bigger than most of the boys, even then.  While he was beating them up, however, a strange thing began happening.  He’d get a boner every time he fought a boy, but not a girl.  He started fantasizing about Sheldon, a brainy boy in school.  Lyle would dream of scenarios where Sheldon was being picked on by the bullies and Lyle would save him.  Even as a young boy, Lyle was the prince on the white steed.  His mother was now dead, and his sisters live in Washington and Houston, respectively.

I tell him about growing up as Taiwanese American in Oakland with two hippie parents and one conservative sister.  How my parents taught me and my sister Taiwanese and Chinese, but preferred that we speak English.  They wanted us to have the language of our ancestors, but thought it best if English was our primary language.  We were only allowed to speak Taiwanese in the house and Chinese with our relatives in Chinatown and in Taiwan.  I tell Lyle how it was difficult growing up in Oakland because there were more black kids than Asian kids, and the black kids didn’t like us.  They thought we were taking their small piece of the pie and were bitter that we were flooding their neighborhoods.  I used to get harassed on a regular basis by a group of black girls that had a chip on their collective shoulders and something to prove.  I became adept at avoiding them.

By the time Lyle and I have finished swapping our life stories with Paris frequently chiming in, I am at ease with Lyle.  Paris and I have always checked out each other’s potentials as we are best friends and that’s what best friends do for each other.  When Paris glances at me, a questioning look on his face, I nod slightly, a smile spreading over my face.  I normally do not warm up to people right away, but Lyle is different.  There is something about him that invites friendship.  I think my comfort level also has something to do with Paris’s comfort level.  When he’s tense around a potential, he conveys that tenseness to me.  When he’s at ease, I’m at ease.  Plus, Lyle is certainly easy on the eyes.  Briefly, I regret that he doesn’t play for my team, but then I scold myself for thinking that way.  It’s infinitely better that he’s completely off-limits so I won’t even be tempted.

“Shall we get some dinner?”  Lyle asks Paris as if they have been together for a long time.  “I’m starved.”

“Sounds great.”  Paris stands up and holds his hand to Lyle who accepts it.

“Wanna come?”  Lyle asks me, a smile on his face.

“No, thanks,” I smile back.  I know Paris doesn’t want me there, as much as he loves me, and I think Lyle asked me to be polite, anyway.  Still, it was nice of him to ask—major bonus points.  “I’ll catch you later.”

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