Secrets

Another Kyle-induced evening and I was worse than a hyper one-year-old by daylight. I cooked breakfast, which, believe me, never happened in LA. I run through some classic but lively and meaningful CDs stacked beside the player and let them hum around the house.

Aunt Hilda and my cousin Allen agreed that Matt was a good influence despite the fact that I hadn't even talked to the guy or just said Hi.

It was ridiculous, but I would let them assume whatever they wanted. Just as long as they don't hit the right chords, I'd be fine; ecstatic even.

But then again, too much won't be good, and I have proof of that.

My Aunt decided to set me up with Matt. And Allen, the ever generous alien, had called the person mentioned immediately, telling him that the gang planned to meet at Bob's Café in Lacson Street by four in the afternoon.

So basically, despite my outward protest and insistence that I couldn't meet up with him, I had no other choice.

At precisely 4, I was fairly seated outside Bo