New LA Life: Chapter 5

We didn't even play for five minutes before Mrs. Taylor called us back to the living room. Auntie Laine, Angela, Curtis and I all hopped into Mrs. Taylor's black Tahoe and she drove us to this huge park. Groups of kids were standing around in the parking lot but they looked nothing like the ones I went to soccer camp with in Portland.

Portland's soccer scene was all white boys with blonde or brown hair cropped short, or cut in slightly shaggy Abercrombie cuts. The white girls all had long straight ponytails and strong, lean legs. There was usually a smattering of Asians from Aloha, a few Indian kids from Bethany, some Latinos from Beaverton, and a handful of mixed kids like me, but in this parking lot the ratios were flipped.

Most of the kids here were Latino. There were some Asian kids, a few Black and mixed-race kids like me and C.J., and a few white kids too, but even they looked a lot harder than the kids in Oregon. What I noticed next was that it was almost all boys. Only a handful of girls stood in clusters around bags and I thought about Nat and wished she were here. Normally, I would have ditched Mom and started walking around, talking to friends I hadn't seen since school got out, or teammates I hadn't played with since basketball or spring soccer. Now I just watched, trying to figure out who went with who and waiting on C.J. to show me the ropes.

"Come on, E," Curtis said, already providing me with a nickname. "I'll introduce you to the guys."

"So, have a good day, Erika," Auntie Laine said before I got to far away, "and I'll see you around five tonight."

"Okay," I said, pulling on the shoulder strap on my bag and ignoring how tight my chest suddenly felt. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I followed C.J. as he walked toward three boys juggling a soccer ball.

"What up, kid?" a boy with black spiky hair asked as he gave C.J. a high five.

"Not much, not much. Hey fools, this is Erika she just moved here from Portland."

Before he even finished this introduction the ball came sailing toward me. I dropped my bag instantly and let my body respond. Right knee, left knee, right knee, head, left knee and then down to my right foot where I passed the ball to C.J. who caught it in his hands.

"Whoa, she gots better handles than you, Jose," said the taller of the boys with longish brown hair and a hint of Asian in his eyes.

"Better than your punk ass too," Jose responded as he leaned down to lace up his cleats.

The short kid with a short-cropped afro held out his hand. "I'm Manny, and that fool over there is Alan. Looks like you might have better handles than all of us."

A whistle blew and kids streamed to the shade of a tree on the edge of the field.


Throughout the morning I lost myself in the familiarity of soccer drills: dribble through cones, pass, trap, pass, trap, wall pass, throw-in, penalty kick and for that first hour I forgot everything but the ball, and the grass and the summer sun shining down. I didn't even pay attention to my competition the way Nat would have wanted.

Instead I pretended that the coaches were the ones I'd played for back home; that the boys I paired up with were Nat or Paris or Andie, girls that I'd known my whole soccer life. I let myself get lost in the only truth that felt right, the stiff leather of a soccer ball, the green grass of the field and my body's automatic responses in that world.

On the soccer field I didn't have to think about Jem, still up in Portland playing with our cousins at Uncle Kev's house, or Mom and Dad's bodies buried six feet underground. I didn't have to think about Nat meeting up with Paris because she was her new best friend and the two of them would call Jason and Derrick, the guys we'd been crushing on before I left, to see if they wanted to meet at the movies.

I played as hard as I had to in order to forget.

New LA Life: Chapter 4 continued

Auntie Laine rang the doorbell and I could hear footsteps. Someone inside yelled, "Angela, can you get that? It's Lainey."

I'd never heard anyone call Auntie Laine Lainey before and then a little girl cracked the door open. She was tiny, about seven or eight years old and super cute with her hair in braids with little pink plastic clips on the ends. She looked like she might be shy but when she saw Auntie Laine she flung the door, "Hi Lainey!" she screamed and I couldn't believe that loud of a sound could come out of something that small. She jumped into Auntie Laine's arms and Auntie Laine carried her inside saying, "Hey, there my little butterfly. I haven't seen you in like, I don't know, three days or something. I have someone here for you to meet."

Angela looked up at me with big brown eyes and held out her little hand. "Hi, Someone."

I smiled a little and held out my hand.

"Hi," she said with an adorable grin. "I think Curtis is going to like you," and then she ran away down the hallway.

Before I could hope that Curtis would like me a woman wearing jeans and a bright orange polo shirt walked in from the kitchen. "Hey, girl," she said, reaching out to hug Auntie Laine. "And this beautiful thing must be Erika."

Mrs. Taylor looked like she was either Filipino or mixed with Asian and Mexican or something and even though Mrs. Taylor looked really friendly with her long straight, thick hair and big smile, I hated it when adults said stuff like "Oh, so beautiful," or "Isn't she adorable," because it never seemed honest. I had on soccer shorts, a baggy sweatshirt, and my curly hair (my best feature) was pulled back into a loose ponytail. I wasn't wearing a lick of make-up and my eyes had looked dull and tired ever since Mom and Dad died. If that was beautiful, then they sure didn't know pretty on tv or in the movies. I guessed that little Angela and her brother Curtis were multi-racial, like me, half-Black, half-Hapa (half-Asian). In Portland I could have counted the number of Blasians (that's what Auntie Laine said Jem and I are) on one hand, but here in LA, apparently things were different.

"Lainey has told us all about you," she said, giving me, a complete stranger, a squeeze around my shoulders. "I know you've had a rough go this summer, but we sure are glad you're down here."

I imagined what Auntie Laine might have told Mrs. Taylor. "You'll never be able replace her mother, but you'll have to learn to be a parent, Lainey; the parent of a teenager." The idea of having a new Mom sent me thinking about all that bad stuff that was still locked up in a box on a shelf in a closet somewhere and I needed to stop thinking about it because just the thought of that box made me really sad and depressed. I glanced around the house for a distraction and checked out the photos on the walls. Most were of two kids, the little girl about the same age but smaller than Jem, and a boy my age. And a mom and a dad. I had to look away from the photos just thinking about what was now missing from our family portrait.

"Curtis," Mrs. Taylor yelled, and that's when I first met Curtis or C.J. He walked out from the dark of the hallway wearing only a pair of shorts and wiping his eyes like he'd just woken up. He was tall and lean and looked strong, built like a striker. Even though he was Blasian, like me, he was much darker and his hair was dark and cut short so I couldn't tell how curly it was.

"Yes, Mother," he said and I could tell his voice had already changed but then he saw me, turned and disappeared back into the dark of the hall.

Mrs. Taylor chuckled. "I think he was wants to make himself a little more presentable."

It was pretty hilarious, when you think about it, and later C.J. and I would laugh about it but that day I thought, great, what a terrible way to start things off.

When C.J. came out a few minutes later he shook my hand. He was tall and cute and his palm was warm and dry. Something about his touch made me even more nervous. We just stood there for a few seconds while Auntie Laine and Mrs. Taylor talked about soccer camp registration and paperwork she needed to fill out if I wanted to go to school with Curtis in the fall. It was adult stuff and even though it related to me I wasn't really listening because I was avoiding looking at C.J., who had the same great grin his little sister. He nudged my shoulder though and asked if I played video games.

I shrugged, "Sure," even though I wasn't all that into them and he led me through the kitchen and into the Taylor game room.

It was a sports fan's dream room and I was pretty sure Auntie Laine hated it because it didn't go with her design aesthetic. USC, Laker and Dodger memorabilia covered the walls and Fatheads of Reggie Bush, Derrick Fischer and James Loney (I always wondered who actually bought those) flanked the big screen tv. I wasn't in Oregon, Trailblazer or Mariner country anymore. A wide, lived-in couch cluttered with Rock Band instruments and various remotes and game controls sat in the middle of the room. But it was the foosball table in the corner that made my heart hurt. Dad and I used to play at the table in the church youth center on Sundays and I could feel the tears welling up.

"Wanna play?" Curtis asked probably because he noticed I was staring at the table.

"Um," I tried to stop myself from crying in front of this cute guy I'd just met but I couldn't say anything.

"It's okay if you don't want to." He walked over to the couch and landed with a thud.

I didn't want to be a downer and tried to think of something to say. "You a big Laker fan?"

"Yeah, well, my dad is. You can't even talk to the guy when they're in the playoffs. I hope they win this year because he's still depressed about last season."

I sat on the stool in front of the Rock Band drums and tapped a little rhythm. When I looked up Curtis was looking at me. "What?"

"Well, I know you just moved in up the street and, well, your aunt told us about," he stopped then and I waited wondering how much he knew. "Well, you don't have to talk about it or anything, but I just wanted you to know that I already know, so, you know, I'll understand if you don't feel so great all the time."

I looked into Curtis' eyes because he was still looking right at me. He was sitting

here on the couch with his weight leaning forward on his elbows and suddenly I didn't feel like crying anymore. "My dad used to love foosball," I said and I held C.J.'s gaze.

"Do you think he'd want you to play?"

I smiled. "Yeah, probably."

New LA Life: Chapter 4

I woke up early the next morning and took a shower in what had been Auntie Laine's guest bathroom but now was the one Jem and I would share. At first I wasn't sure I liked the bathroom. The floor was this wood bamboo and the sink and stand-up shower were this beige stone. All of that was just fine. It was the shower doors that were all glass-enclosed and there was a big window with no covering so even though the outside wall faced the backyard and a wall of thin bamboo blocked out the view, some peeping tom could sneak into the backyard, part the bamboo and watch me bathe. That first morning I kept looking out the window, imagining what someone would see if they were watching me. I showered for those first few weeks as if I was in a shampoo commercial, lathering up and posing, closing my eyes and arching my back as I rinsed.

For some reason, I didn't feel scared, though. After the last night at our old house everyone kept expecting Jem and I to freak out, be nervous or jumpy, but I never was especially once I arrived in LA far away from anyone who knew Dad or his mistress. In Portland we always had to worry about running into someone Dad had prosecuted as a DA, but in LA no one knew my family, our history, or me.

I dried off with a thick white bath towel and wrapped it around me. When I opened the door to walk across the hall to my bedroom Auntie Lane was there.

"Morning, Honey. Find everything okay?"

"Um, yeah," I responded, my wet hair dripping down my back.

"Well, we're heading over to the Taylor's place in about half an hour. You should probably pack your soccer stuff too. Do you eat breakfast?"

"Um, sometimes," I lied again. I somehow couldn't stop myself. Mom always made us eat breakfast even if it was just a yogurt and a sports bar.

"Okay, well, there's some cereal on the counter and milk and juice in the fridge."

"Great. Thanks."

I closed the door behind me and shook my head. It wasn't a trick question or anything.

She just wanted to know about breakfast. What was my problem?

I skipped breakfast because all of the cereal was the super healthy kind and looked gross. Auntie Laine did have a stash of sports bars though so I grabbed a couple of those and threw them in my soccer bag which was packed with everything I needed to survive this first day: long soccer socks, cleats, shinguards, two bottles of Gatorade, headphones and my iPod loaded with my thinking mix (The Shins, Seawolf, Helio Sequence) and my hyper mix (Black Eyed Peas, Missy Elliot, Beyonce). I was wearing my short soccer shorts instead of the baggy ones, and an extra t-shirt in case I wanted to change. I had a sweatshirt on over my tank top and Auntie Laine told me I probably wouldn't need it but I decided to wear it anyway.

"Okay, so the Taylor's live just a couple of blocks," Auntie Lane said as she backed out of the driveway. "Audrey, or Mrs. Taylor, hired me last year to convert their garage into an office and she has a son about your age."

We passed by houses heading south on Harvard and then turned left on Redondo. The cul-de-sac we pulled into had five houses and the Taylor's house was one of them. It was painted a bright yellow except for the garage that Auntie Laine had helped them remodel. It was painted olive green and blended in with the trees and grass so that it almost disappeared. There was a black SUV parked in the driveway and I was suddenly nervous and hoped, maybe even prayed even that I'd get along will this Taylor kid. Maybe he'd even but hot.

New LA Life: Chapter 3 continued

Auntie Laine was on the phone in the kitchen making some popcorn and I wondered if that was some kind of Yamanaka tradition, to make popcorn and watch tv because Mom used to do that just about every night too. A show was on pause on the tv and Auntie Laine must have been talking with someone from work because she was complaining about being asked to finish some project that shouldn't have officially been her job. Auntie Laine is Elaine Yamanaka at work, an interior designer at a firm in Century City where she caters to people who like that clean, modern, minimal look in their homes.

She held out the bowl of popcorn and motioned for me to sit on the couch. The room was still spotless and there were a bunch of pillows on the couch. I sunk into the leather and I had a sweatshirt on even though it was still hot outside because Auntie Laine liked to keep the air conditioner cranking all night. I pulled my legs up beneath me and soon Auntie Laine was pointing the remote at the tv, "Did your parents let you watch this crazy reality stuff?"

I recognized The Amazing Race and nodded. It was the first time Auntie Laine had really mentioned Mom and Dad. "Yeah, they let us watch this, but not The Bachelor or the reality shows on BET or MTV."

"Oh, yeah, huh. Well, I guess we'll keep that same policy going here." She grabbed a handful of popcorn. "Are there any other little rules your mom and dad had that I should know about?"

I thought about Mom and Dad's no computers in our bedrooms rule even though I'd already broken that one and checked my email on my laptop earlier. But what Auntie Laine didn't know about that one it wouldn't kill her. Mom and Dad had tons of rules, about meeting friends' parent before we could hang out with them and no tv during the week but I didn't want to tell Auntie Laine about any of those rules. Mom and Dad were way too strict anyway.

And there was no way I would be able to tell Auntie Laine how Mom and I had stopped getting along after sixth grade, how we hardly talked anymore, how the house had been dominated by silence, how I'd cried at the funeral but no one knew the real reason because I felt too awful about it. What kind of daughter feels relief when her mom is gone?

But that night I had to think of at least a few things I could tell Auntie Laine so I thought about my phone. "Well, I can't go over my minute limit and I only have 500 texts a month. I'm not allowed to download ring tones or movies or anything like that." I stopped. I didn't think she needed to know that they checked my phone every week to see who I had in my contacts or who I was calling the most. Besides, I was pretty much a good kid so she didn't need to be all up in my business like Mom had been. Besides, living in LA now, I didn't know anyone to call.

"Okay, phone rules. And what about boys? Any rules about dating or makeup?"
I hadn't really gotten into make-up but yes, there were rules Mom and Dad had about boys. I could go out with groups of people but never anywhere with just one boy. And again, they had to meet his parents. I definitely didn't want Auntie Laine to know any of that so I just shook my head and pretended to watch the people on tv getting ready to climb part of the Great Wall of China. "I guess I'm not all that into that stuff yet," I lied even though I sometimes messed around with make-up at Sephora with Nat and I had my first real kiss this past year.

As I sat there pretending to watch tv, words from my mom echoed through my mind. "Erika, there's nothing I hate more than a liar." Maybe that's why I'd felt relief when Mom was gone. I knew I'd let Mom down, that she hated the girl was becoming. But how was I supposed to know how things would end?

"I'm heading to bed," I told Auntie Laine before the end of the show and in my room I buried my head in the foreign smelling sheets of my new bed. Tonight I was a liar and as I lay there, face down on the bed I hated myself. I used to lash out at Mom, had told her more than once that I hated her but now she was gone and there was no one to hate but myself.

New LA Life: Chapter 3

That night at dinner Auntie Laine took me to this little Mexican restaurant and asked me what I wanted to do for the last few weeks of summer while she was at work. I shrugged, but I guess she'd already thought about this so she gave me some suggestions.

"Well, there's a surf camp or junior lifeguard classes at the beach. There is a beach volleyball camp or an all-day sports camp where I guess you can play a bunch of different sports."

I picked at the chips served with my burrito at The Burnt Tortilla.

"Then there is this arts and crafts center where you could hang out,"

I shook my head at the sound of that.

"And then there's a soccer camp."

I looked up. "Yeah, soccer camp." I'd just finished up camp in Portland and loved the idea of another couple weeks of soccer.

"Okay, so I'm going to take tomorrow morning off so I can introduce you to the family where you'll hang out while I'm at work. Then we'll get you signed up for soccer and I'll head off to work."

"Okay," I said and thought about how different this soccer camp would be. Every summer since second grade I'd gone to camp and known every girl and every boy, knew who the best strikers and defenders were, knew which club teams everyone played for and where they went to school. My best friend, Natalie (Nat for short) and I had played together since first grade. Her dad was a coach at University of Portland and we used to go to games together and dream of playing in the soccer final four, winning an NCAA championship together. We both still had that dream even though I now lived a thousand miles away and when I got home from dinner I called her to tell her about camp.

"That's awesome," Nat said.

"I wish you could come with me. I'm not going to know anyone. Who knows who my partner will be or if any of them will be any good." Nat and I had a high standard for soccer and I wondered if the girls here in LA would be as good as we were.

"Well, you'll get the chance to scout out the competition that will end probably end up at UCLA."

"True that, " I said and then it was quite for a second.

"So, how are things with your aunt? Is she cool?"

"Yeah, I mean it's all right. She's okay. She wants me to talk all the time and hang out and she seems a little like she isn't sure what she's doing. She's never had kids or anything so, whatever. I have to wait and see how things go. Have you seen Derrick or Jason?"

"Uh, no. Paris and I went to the mall and the movies yesterday but we didn't see anyone."

I imagined Nat and Paris going on with their lives without me and suddenly felt every single mile that separated us. "Oh well. Maybe you should call him and then they could meet you guys instead of trying to guess where they'll be."

"Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that."

I shook my head at my best friend because I knew she just liked the drama of possibility, possibly seeing her crush or possibly bumping into her enemies.

"Okay, well, I better go," I said, thinking I should see what Auntie Laine was up to before I went to bed and as I hung up the phone I knew more that just soccer camp was going to be completely different. I was leaving Portland, Oregon, the only world I'd known before far, far behind and entering something completely unknown.

New LA Life: Chapter 2

"I have an old surfboard at the house, can get you some lessons, if you want," Auntie Laine told me on the drive to her house. She practically had to shout over noise coming in through the open windows and the old school R & B blasting through the stereo, "Smooth just chillin' on a Sunday afternoon..."

I nodded even though she wasn't looking at me and I wasn't looking at her. I peered out the window and try to guess which street we would to take, which turn off of Redondo Beach Boulevard would take me to this new place called home. I tried to let the mellow grove play like a soundtrack for a my life, of a happy moment, to forget what had brought me here.

A sign welcomed us to Gardena but I didn't see any gardens. All I saw was concrete, asphalt, anemic palm trees rising up from sidewalks and a few trees planted in mini-mall parking lots.

We passed by a Starbucks and an In 'N Out burger and my stomach rumbled again but rather than stopping for lunch we turned right on Harvard Avenue and pulled into the driveway of the house that would be my new home.

The house looked different than the others on the block and I figured it was because she was an interior designer. Most of the homes were older, one story ranch homes, or two story duplexes and they all looked like it they were built in the late seventies. The paint on these homes had faded from day after day of sunshine and the trim was peeling around the edges. Most of the lawns were cut and maintained and had these plants called Birds of Paradise with red flowers pointed like a beak planted around the edges. Auntie Laine's house was once one of those one story ranches, but in a recent remodel the pitched roof became straight and the windows wide with neat white trim. The rest of the house was painted a dark gray and her lawn was perfectly maintained and trimmed with succulents and pointy desert plants. I figured she must hire a gardener because I couldn't imagine her actually mowing this lawn or pulling weeds around the desert plants.

She pulled into the garage and pulled up the parking brake. "Welcome home, Kiddo," and I remembered how Grandpa used to always call me kiddo and both Mom and Auntie Laine must have gotten that from him.

We grabbed my bags and the room grew dark as the garage door slid down behind us. Auntie Laine opened a side door that opened to the kitchen and the first thing I noticed was how clean the house was. I wondered if Auntie Laine had cleaned up for me or if she always kept it so neat. I learned later that the house was always clean on the weekends and during the week dishes might pile up in the sink and mail would fill the woven basket on the kitchen counter but that was as messy as her house got until Friday night when out of habit or some sort of ritual Auntie Laine would clean like crazy until order was restored, the floors shone, dishwasher was loaded and everything placed back where it ought to be.

She glided down the hardwood floors, past the living room where there was a huge tv flanked by two paintings with browns and greens bubbles of color. A mini-grand piano in a deep chocolate color sat in the corner of the room and an acoustic guitar gleamed from a stand next to that. Across from the TV there was a big leather couch a couple of chairs that matched but didn't match perfectly. I followed her down the hall lined with black and white family photographs and recognized one from Mom and Dad's wedding with Auntie Laine as the maid of honor.

"This will be Jem's room when he gets here," Auntie Laine said pointing to a room off to the right, "And this is you," she said as she plopped my bag onto a bed with an icy blue comforter and pillows with big white flowers on them. I hate flowers, but how could she have known that.

"Thanks," I said and my voice sounded quiet even in the completely silent house. I walked around the room and noticed that it was bigger than my room back home. Everything in the room looked new and I hoped Auntie Laine hadn't bought all of this just for me. The walls looked like they'd just been painted a light brown and the trim a clean white. There was a little desk in the corner that had that perfectly distressed look and there was a pile of books on each bedside table. A wide window was covered by a white sheer curtain and there was a full length mirror with a fancy scalloped trim. I was way too tomboy for that room. I was about to sit down on the bed when Auntie Lane asked, "You hungry?"

"Starving."

"Okay, well, take a minute to get settled and then we'll go grab a burger or something."

I thought she was going to leave then but she stopped at the door. All I wanted was to be alone for a minute but she turned and looked back at me. "You're so quiet, Erika, and I understand. This is all so completely crazy, but you can talk to me. Really, you can."

I could tell she wanted me to say something. "Sorry, Auntie Laine. I'm just..." and that was when my voice faded away again and I didn't know what I could say to her. Not yet. I knew I wanted to talk to her but I didn't know what to say. Not yet; not then.

A little more of New LA Life

My sister asked for the next installment of the novel I'm writing for NaNoWriMo, so here it is, for my audience of... ten? twelve maybe?

Auntie Laine parked the car and plugged the meter with a few quarters. Then she took me by the hand and said, "Come on, my favorite niece," (I'm her only niece) and I walked with her down the sidewalk toward the beach. All I really wanted to do was see where I was going to be living for, for, who knows how long, but instead I followed her down a steep sidewalk toward the beach.

Auntie Laine was wearing flip flops, a tank top, and a little skirt that flounced with every step. She belonged here in this world. It had been cloudy and rainy when I'd left Portland so I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt from my soccer league and grey Converse low tops. The sun shining off the ocean looked like glitter scattered across a crinkled of piece of blue construction paper and I couldn't look at it without squinting. I was getting sweaty and wished I had sunglasses.

We reached the sand and Auntie Laine waited for me as I slid off my shoes and socks. Beads of sweat started to drip one by one down my back and the sand was hot on the soles of my feet but Auntie Laine seemed determined to get to a shoreline crowded with sunbathers and kids splashing in the break. The temperature dropped as we got to the water. I stopped and sat on the sand to roll up my jeans so I could dip my toes in the water.

Auntie Laine neared the water. She hadn't noticed I'd stopped following and walked straight into the surf. She must have felt my eyes on her though because she turned and waved for me to join her, ankle deep in the water. I stood up and walked toward her, a feeling rising up as I neared her silhouette against the shimmering wall of water. Maybe it was because she reminded me of mom, standing there in the water, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, reaching back for me.

For a second I wanted to cry but then a breeze blew past and I took a deep breathe of salty, ocean air. I closed my eyes and walked toward my auntie, my mom's sister who was so much like Mom and still completely different. For a minute I stopped worrying about being dressed all wrong for the beach, or that I was thirsty and really wanted a pop with lots of ice or that my stomach was growling. I forgot that I was stuck living here for good, that this wasn't just a summer vacation.

For a second I felt happy and I let the happiness wash over me like the waves rushing across my feet. I let the water pull at some of the heavy weight that I had carried down with me and let it wash out to sea.

New LA Life

Here is an excerpt for my new NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) work in progress. It's a YA book but it doesn't have anything on the novels my students are writing. If you don't know anything about NaNoWriMo... here's a link. http://www.nanowrimo.org/

LA is nothing like they show in the movies but I didn't know that as I was flying into LAX last summer. Now I know, reality isn't something you watch on tv and celebrities never make their way to Gardena, the suburb I moved to a year ago.

Sure, there are palm trees, sunshine all year round, and the beach is just a few miles away, but Hollywood (even though it's just a few freeway miles to the north) is a completely different LA than the one I moved to.

My Auntie Laine picked me up from the airport that afternoon and for once she wasn't late. Well, she wasn't early either, but she pulled up there at the curb in her little white Audi just as I walked out of the terminal.

She looked nervous. She glanced around the airport like a little squirrel, gave me a quick, rough hug and then grabbed one of my two bags. Her keys jangled as she popped open the truck and as I watched her fumble with my luggage it occurred to me that even though I'd spent every Christmas with my mom's sister, even though she'd come to visit us every summer, I'd never seen her look uncomfortable or uneasy.

Usually, she flew into Portland all tan and golden. She wore jeans and traveled light and always seemed so much younger and hipper than Mom ever did. It was hard to believe Auntie Laine was two years older than Mom, but they were two extremely different people.

First off, Mom had me and my brother Jem. She married Dad right out of college and stayed home to take care of us. Auntie Laine is single. She works out every morning, drinks wine with dinner and watches more tv in one night than we watched in a whole week at our house.

But when Auntie Laine picked me up, and I buckled my seat belt in the passenger seat, I wasn't all that worried about her. I was worried about me. Even though it had been almost a month, I couldn't talk about it, couldn't make the words come out my mouth about what happened to Mom and Dad. I could talk about them no problem, but I still can't talk about that night, what I saw or what I heard once I closed my eyes.

Grandma, she's a psychotherapist, and she says that's okay. When something terrible happens you can put it in a box and lock it up, shove it on a shelf in a closet far away from everyday life. It's called coping and I don't know how I'm coping and when people ask I don't think they really want to know about it so I tell them I'm okay.

It was warm in LA, way warmer than it was in Portland, but it wasn't too hot and Auntie Laine had her sunroof open even with the air conditioning on. The combination made it cool in the car but I could still feel the dry air of LA and smell the exhaust from all the traffic as Auntie Laine pulled away from the curb.

I wasn't in the room when Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Kev and Auntie Laine talked about where Jem and I should go. All I know is that it wasn't really up to me or Jem. Who knows what Mom and Dad would have wanted for us under these circumstances. I tried to listen from the tv room where I was watching the Wimbledon final while the adults discussed my fate. Venus and Serena were playing and I didn't know who to root for. I wasn't really watching the match anyway. I was trying to eaves drop on the conversation that would determine where Jem and I would land for the rest of our lives.

Uncle Kev kept saying, "They'd want them together," and Auntie Laine agreed but they also knew that I couldn't stay in town, not after what I'd seen, which was already boxed away and on a shelf in a closet far away so I didn't have to think about it.

I don't know how it was finally decided but I ended up on a plane and the plan was for Jem to come down in a few weeks later, right before school started.

Auntie Laine drove fast and I felt like I had to hold on but didn't because I didn't want her to know she was scaring me to death. The sky above me was perfectly blue and that definitely didn't fit my mood.

"Well, welcome to LA," she said and as I looked over Auntie Laine steered us out of traffic. She put her hand on mine and gave it a squeeze. "We're taking the scenic route home," she said with a smile, but I could tell she was still freaking out. Just like my life had changed completely, so was hers and I didn't how she was feeling about it.

I did know she was missing her sister, maybe as much as I missed my mom, so at least we had that in common.

She turned left and the ocean appeared before us, reflecting sunlight and stretching all the way to the horizon. The palm trees, the sand, sea and sky all made me want to cry just like so many things did lately. But I didn't cry so I wouldn't have to explain that I didn't know why I was crying so I fought back the tears and wondered how Auntie Laine was coping. Did she have a box stored away on a shelf in a closet somewhere or was she handling this differently? I thought about asking her but she seemed preoccupied by driving and finding a parking spot so I figured we'd have time to talk about it some other time. In fact, we had the rest of our lives.

Disguises

A story for a Moth evening (that I didn't perform...)

The unintentional disguise I don is the mask of racial ambiguity.

Particularly if you don't hear my name, pronounced with the proper Japanese inflection (Noriko Nakada desu. Hajimemashite) then the chances of correctly identifying my half-Japanese ancestry diminish drastically.

See me walk down the street here in LA and you might assume I'm Latina; speak to me in Espanol. Or maybe you'll read my name, assume my identity, then meet me in person and struggle to reconcile the name and the face.

But it isn't only strangers who ask, "What are you?" Growing up multiracial I struggled with my own identity issues. Born and raised in small-town, Oregon, the only half-Japanese family in town, we were accepted as one of their own, just another rural, middle-class white family. The closer we were to the Kah Nee Tah reservation the more likely people were to assume we were Native American but for the most part people ignored our foreign look, name and culture.

I couldn't shed my subtle Asian features even though I shortened my name to Nori, spelled like seaweed (Nodi) but pronounced Nori, like Lori but with an N. I pretended I was like everyone else even though my "exotic" look set me apart.

In the summer we'd drive to Los Angeles to visit family. We'd go to Disneyland or eat sushi with Dad's side and around my full Japanese cousins with their shiny, black, straight hair woven into thick braids I hated my fine brown hair and honey-colored eyes. With Mom's side of the family we'd drive from the valley to Zuma Beach and in that world of sand and sea, blonde hair and blue eyes I couldn't believe I was related to them at all.

A few years after moving away from that small town I traveled to Hawaii for the first time. You know how every year there is one Halloween costume everyone wears, the year everyone is a pirate, or a princess, a vampire or a witch. In Hawaii, my disguise was just like everyone else's. Instead of my identity setting me apart, being Hapa meant I belonged.

"Howzit?" a local asked as I browsed through ukeles and plastic leis. "You playing one tourist today?"

I looked at the woman behind the display of puka shell necklaces and paused. If I kept quiet I could stay in costume, just a local girl stopping by the gift shop. Open my mouth, release my mainland accent without a hint of pidgin and my real identity would be revealed.

"Oh, I just visiting," I said trying to mimic the rhythm of the locals.

"Ha! I thought you one local," the woman said with a smile. "Shua look like one."

After years spent wishing I could shed my disguise, in Hawaii I saw another possibility. If I'd lived in the islands since small kid time I could fit in here, fo' shua, no act, local style, brah. I suddenly saw how banana I was, yellow on the outside, but white inside the peel.

It's taken years, a few more trips to Hawaii, countless questions, explanations, and looks I've learned to ignore in order for me to figure it out: I'm not Latina or Native American or Alaskan Eskimo. I'm not white, not Japanese, and not Hapa from Hawaii.

I don't fit neatly into one of those boxes used to make sense of a complicated world.

The disguise isn't about me. It's about how you perceive me because this is no disguise. This is me and I have no choice but to keep the world guessing.

Being There: September 18, 2006

My husband, David, and I fell in love watching the Dodgers. Soon after we met, we found we shared a history in Fernando's no-hitter and Kirk Gibson's post-season homerun. But the problem with being a Dodger fan is that they'll break your heart. They blow 11-game leads to lose pennant races. They move to LA from New York leaving devastated Brooklyn fans behind. They trade away your favorite players. So on this warm September night, with the Dodger's tied for the National League West Lead, David and I drive through the streets of Chavez Ravine hoping for a win, but we know our team can and will break your heart.

We take our seats high in the reserve level, finish up our hot dogs and garlic fries as the sun sets behind us sending streaks of red and purple across the darkening sky and shake our heads as the Padres score four runs in the top of the first.

Our disappointment is familiar. The Dodgers have been struggling at the plate and it seems unlikely that our boys in blue will be able to make up the deficit.

But as we crack into our bag of peanuts, the Dodgers chip away at the Padre lead and by the end of the fourth the scoreboard shines from the dark sky: Padres 4, Dodgers 4.

The pitchers for both teams settle for several innings but in the top of the eighth, the Padres score two. It's nearly 9:00 and I'm tired. I've had a long day at work and wonder if just this once David would be willing to leave early. But the Dodgers need this win to stay at the top of the division so I don't even ask. The Dodgers get one run back in the bottom but in the ninth the Padres score another three.

"Bye, bye Dodger fans," David says as fair-weather-fans stream out of Dodger Stadium.

The Dodgers come up in the bottom of the ninth trailing 9-5, and even when Jeff Kent sends a homer out to center, I cheer, but don't get too excited. We're still down three.

JD Drew comes up next and when he homers, David and I stand and cheer. After all, back-to-back homeruns are rare, but it's still a two-run game.

Russell Martin steps to the plate and the instant we hear the crack of the bat, our cheers explode into the night. Back-to-back-to-back homeruns? No way.

But the Dodgers are still losing. It would be crazy to hope for another homerun, but Marlon Anderson grants the wish none of us could imagine tying the score.

David and I sit back down, in awe, but the Dodgers make consecutive outs to end the inning and we're going into extras.

It would be a shame to lose a game like this, but the Padres aren't done. They score a go-ahead run in the tenth forcing the Dodgers to perform again.

I look up at the line-up on the scoreboard. Lofton and then Garciaparra. Garciaparra. If Lofton could just get on, Garciaparra might be able to do it just like he has so many times this season. A little hope sneaks in and I pray the Dodgers won't let me down.

Lofton does his job with a walk and Garciaparra walks toward home plate. David and I stand shoulder-to-shoulder and hope. For all the games we'd seen this season, last season and the season before that, we hope.

"Come on, Nomar," I whisper beneath my breath as Nomar fidgets with his batting gloves, and taps his toes in the batter's box. He leans back, there’s the pitch and the swing.

I leap with that ball as it flies off his bat and into the night and we jump up and down just like Nomar does out of the box.

The Dodgers win. The crowd, or what's left, of it goes wild and the Dodger players welcome Nomar at home plate.

Tonight, being there was everything. And tonight, even though it was just for one Dodger night, believing didn't break my heart.