Chapter One
It is customary for me to be out of the house at eight o'clock on a Saturday night. No teenager in their right mind - stereotypically, that is - wants to stay home on weekends and surrender the chance to escape parental intervention. Mingxiong and I are sitting in the Starbucks farthest from both our houses, which requires going downtown, both of us sipping venti iced lattes. To be correct, Xio-Xio was sipping, and I was taking peroidic gulps, complete with whipped cream attaching itself to my upper lip.

We retreat to Starbucks not only because Xio-Xio has a fondness for coffee, nor because we want to find a place opposite of anywhere our families would go.

We aren't conscious of the fact that Starbucks is a huge corporate emblem, and not the most private place in town. We simply enjoy the crowd that gathers here. Xio-Xio says that these artsy types are more fun to watch than everyone else, and that when conversation lags, he can't be bored. I accept that explanation. He always has been happy for creativity in the world. His parents are strict and never let him go out on weeknights. For that matter, they push him to study nearly ceaselessly, and scold him for getting any grade lower than a high B on his report cards. Consequently, Xio-Xio is the class "smart kid," and the others beg him to save them from certain failure with his extensive knowledge of the assigned textbook. He seems not to mind this for the most part; it's his parents' rigid behavior, and their comparisons to his older brother, that bother him. "It would be bad if Shihao thought he was God's gift to humanity," mused Xio-Xio once, "but it's ten times worse that my parents think that. In their eyes, he does no wrong." I sympathize and do my best to take him out whenever I can. In other words, we are at Starbucks every weekend for the minimum of an hour before we move on to something else, like seeing a movie together or just walking around and people watching.

Xio-Xio loves people. I am less fond. It must have something to do with orientation.

Very early in life, I figured out that I am straight. It was a devastating epiphany for a ten-year-old who always considered himself relatively normal, except for the small deviation of being interested in girls when I was a boy. That was the kind of thing that, even in elementary school, would get you beaten up. The girls weren't interested, and the boys were incredibly offended, not to mention disgusted. I made sure to disguise my true orientation - my true self, to be philosophical about it - from my parents for as long as I could stomach the emotional strain.

It's no wonder so many straight kids attempt suicide these days. My mothers were very accepting, and even bought me a Playboy. I appreciated the gesture, although at the time, I wasn't entirely sure I appreciated the magazine itself. I stashed it first underneath my mattress, then in my underwear drawer, and finally decided on the most secure hiding place I could think of: inside an old Barry Manilow album cover that, for some reason, had found its way into my closet. I suspected Mom of stashing it there while company was over, to hide the evidence of her appreciation for "Mandy." I forgive her. It's been a useful stash for pornography for three years and counting.

"Sky," Xio-Xio draws my attention, "look at that guy by the far window."

I take a loud slurp and follow his unobtrusive gesture to another table. The man in question is buried in a book, which reveals itself as Gay Sex: A Manual for Men Who Love Men upon closer inspection. "Please don't tell me you're going to hit on him," I say. If Xio-Xio were pointing out the man behind our target, whose clothes are designer and whose hair is grown out to his shoulders, I would understand any possible sexual interest. But this guy? I can tell with a single look that he is not date material. Not for Xio-Xio. "Bad taste."

"What would you know?" he teases lightly. "And no, I'm not going to hit on him. I just find it intriguing that anyone would be comfortable reading that manual in public."

"Yeah, well it'd be a lot more dangerous if I were reading, say, The Straight Kama Sutra in front of everyone."

"Good point." Xio-Xio takes a deep drink, leaving a thick white moustache above his upper lip. I must say, it's striking with his black hair and eyes, and it makes a lovely contrast to his red sweatshirt. He licks it off before I can comment. "Why do you think he's reading it now?"

I watch the man. He seems to process everything on the page before he turns it and begins all over again, his hands gripping the book reverently as though he doesn't want to leave more fingerprints than necessary on the glossy cover. "He must have a hot date later," I decide. "Or soon. He must be planning something. Either that, or he really loves that book."

"I'll take the former," Xio-Xio says amiably. He finishes off his latte and wipes his mouth off on his sleeve. I shake my head. Xio-Xio sees no reason to use a napkin when his clothes are already dirty from a whole day of wear, and much more convenient. "Wanna see a movie?"

"What movie?" I ask. I finish my latte as well, going slower than I have the entire time. I want to enjoy the last drinks before we leave. Ice and dregs of whipped cream touch my upper lip, making it tingle with cold and a ticklish foamy sensation. I lick my moustache off my lip, a wet swipe that erases the previous sensations and leaves my lip feeling colder than when the ice touched it.

Xio-Xio shrugs. "Something good," he answers vaguely. "I think there's a new romantic comedy playing."

"Who's in it?" I am immediately wary of romantic comedies. They get old after about the fortieth time of seeing Orlando Bloom making out onscreen with his boyfriend of the week. And I am tired of being in the theater with a bunch of rabid "Orli" fanboys, all of whom are probably busy wanking while I'm trying to pay attention to the plot. This is the consequence I pay for being different. I feel heartened, though, remembering that if it gets too bad in the theater, Xio-Xio will recognize my discomfort and pull me to safety.

"Heath Ledger and somebody nobody cares about." Xio-Xio is picking lint off his sweatshirt now, one of his more neurotic habits that has always driven me absolutely nuts. I choose to ignore it for the time being. He is the one paying for my coffee and sticking by a dangerous minority. Very few people our age are capable of tolerating straights. Ten percent of the population seems like too little to them to be much of a danger. "It should be good, right? I mean, all the guys at school say it is."

"'All the guys at school' are gay and in love with Heath because they love his supposedly cute Australian accent," I point out with a playful smirk. "Come on, Xio-Xio, you're hoping you can see that butt shot that's supposed to be in there."

Xio-Xio colors. It's so fun to tease him, really it is. I always manage to get a rise out of him. Either he blushes and stammers, ducking his head and shaking thick black hair over his eyes, or he retorts and tries to deny whatever it is I've accused him of. This makes it all too easy to continue teasing him mercilessly.

"Mmm, Heath Ledger's ass!" I giggle, flicking my wrist exaggeratedly as we walk out of Starbucks. I glance around at the people passing us on the sidewalk.

Neither of them gave me a second glance, proving what I've known since I was ten: behavior that feels bizarre and out of place to me is no aberration to them. There isn't anything wrong with that; of course I can't complain about gay people, since my only friend is gay, but I have to say that at times, I wish there is someone out there, immediately accessible, who feels the same way I do.

My stomach twinges a little. It was as close to a heartache as I can get around Xio-Xio. He is a soothing presence, and my salvation from certain doom. He even tolerates my dirty comments about girls. I reciprocate and am carefully averting my eyes as we pass a man on the street, whom Xio-Xio is intent on ogling hungrily. "He was cute," drools Xio-Xio.

I say nothing for a moment. When I deem it appropriate, and he is least expecting a comment, I moan in falsetto, "Oh, Heath Ledger!" I throw my arms around myself and make loud, smacking kissing noises. Xio-Xio blushes again. "Sorry, Xio-Xio, I couldn't resist," I say, patting his shoulder. It's easy, since we're within an inch of one another's heights. I am taller. His Chinese genes give him that stereotypical Asian shortness that plenty of guys at our school would likely kill for. They complain frequently that they are taller than their boyfriends, or that they are too short to attract someone. They never make up their minds. "We need to get my wallet from the car if we're going to the movies," I tell him, steering him toward the parking garage where his '92 Nissan Sentra is parked.

"No we don't." Xio-Xio steers me the opposite direction, toward the movie theater. He practically drags me by the wrist, tugging at the old friendship bracelet I am wearing there. "I can pay for your ticket. It's not Edwards, after all."

"Hm."

"Don't 'hm' me," he mock scolds, poking me in the shoulder with his free hand. "You can pay me back if you really want to."

There is a short line for tickets, but as he correctly pointed out, this is the locally run theater and a far cry from the Edwards that most teenagers frequent.

Xio-Xio makes eyes at the man behind the plexiglass, who hands us our tickets without batting an eyelash. He must be used to boys like Xio-Xio coming and drooling over him. Poor guy. The traditionally handsome ones always have a hard time. "Xio-Xio," I say as we approach the consession stands, "what's it like?"

Xio-Xio disregards the question entirely and puts a ten-dollar bill down on the glass counter. "A large popcorn and two large Cherry Cokes, please," he tells the tall girl behind the cash register.

She takes her time getting it, dragging her feet and slouching along as she fills a huge tub with popcorn. One of her coworkers takes over getting us the Cokes, doing it with professional neat speed. I take the Cokes, and Xio-Xio waits, tapping his foot, while the girl finishes and returns to hand him the tub. "Thank you," Xio-Xio and I murmur in tandem. He flashes them a small smile, nowhere near his best, and we high-tail it into the theater just in time for the trivia to end and the previews to begin.

I love previews, almost as much as I love seeing movies themselves. I can't explain why. Xio-Xio attributes it to the fast-paced way I live my life. I attribute it to genetics. My mothers love previews beyond all reason. Mom gets out a paper and pencil and will write down the names of the movies she finds worthy of renting. Mother laughs at her, but agrees that many times, the previews are more fun than the movie. "Movies are like overdone previews anyway," Mother told me once, when I asked her why they loved previews so much. "At least the previews end on an interesting note. Movies don't always do that." She nodded, as if that concluded her statement. I'll remember that, and someday, if I have a pesky kid to ask me the same question, I'll give him or her the same answer that Mother gave me.

Xio-Xio is already fidgeting in his seat by the end of the first preview. "I want to see the movie," he remarks.

I elbow him lightly. "Be a sport and watch the previews quietly," I smile. When Xio-Xio makes his pouting face, I add, "For me?"

"Fine, fine. Only because I love and respect you, Sky."

"Not like that, I hope."

"I wouldn't dare taint your straightness," he says. He makes sure to lower his voice at the last part, so as not to cause any trouble with our fellow audience members. That can come later, after Xio-Xio has to take me out because too many people are fondling themselves or making out audibly. I hate those kinds of things in movies, but that's a different story. "Ooh, that one has Brad Pitt in it!" He is effectively silenced for the rest of the previews. In fact, by his standards, he enjoys them. Probably thanks to Brad Pitt running around shirtless in whatever-movie-it-is-they're-hyping. Sex appeal does wonders.

The actual movie flicks onto the screen and we go through the obligatory 20th Century Fox theme song before anything interesting starts. The only thing that I find initially intriguing is the soundtrack. Unlike the rest of the theater, I'm unimpressed when Heath Ledger slides out of bed and gives a view of his ass that only a fanboy could love. "I think I liked Romeo and Juliet's butt shot better," Xio-Xio whispers to me.

I can't help the laugh that bursts out of my mouth. Some people in front of us turn to look, one of them pretty cranky looking, like a grumpy bulldog daring me to try laughing at a hot guy again. I shut myself up and try to enjoy the movie. By the time the tasteless sex scene rolls around, I'm bored and leaning my head on my palm. The only reason I'm still awake is the Coke coursing through my system, and the-guy-who-is-with-Heath-Ledger (as Xio-Xio accurately put it, no one cares what his name is) moaning and groaning deafeningly. I find it frighteningly unrealistic that the people living in the nearby apartments don't tell them to shut up. I keep my commentary to myself. It is funny, at least, near the end. Although I have to admit that I still fully agree with Mother.

This movie was not worth its previews.

"Soooo?" prompts Xio-Xio as we leave the theater.

"Soooo what?"

"Soooo," he laughs at the ongoing pattern of conversation, "was thinking about Leonard Whiting's ass funnier than that entire movie?"

"Yes. And I'm not even interested in Leonard Whiting's ass," I reply. I gulp down the remains of my watery Coke and dump the cup in the overflowing garbage cans. Theaters should start keeping dumpsters outside the doors when you walk out. It would prevent popcorn and soda from spilling over the edges and landing on the lobby carpet. "Are you staying the night tonight?"

"Can't." Xio-Xio looks gloomy now. His eyes, which were jubilant little crescent moons just seconds before, are now downcast and turned toward the thin carpet beneath our feet. He stops to tie his shoe, taking a long time to double knot it. "Baba and Mama want to go see Shihao, and I'm going along. They want to show me what God looks like in person."

As he straightens up, I reach out and pull a lock of his hair. It's thick in my hands, heavy ink black hair that gleams a strange color of white-gray in the fluorescent lighting. I have always envied Xio-Xio for this particular aspect of his hated Chinese genes. "I hate it," he told me once, as I waited for him to comb his hair before going out. "There's too much, and it's so straight and...blah." He made a face for effect, turning the corners of his mouth down, rolling his eyes up, and sticking his tongue out briefly. "That's why I cut it." Xio-Xio used to have the coolest hair ever, and this is coming from a relatively nonbiased source (as his friend, I am biased, but I am also straight, so I don't say this out of finding his hair attractive). He used to wear it long, past his shoulders, and he would braid it or tie it in a ponytail. Then he got fed up with it, and his father chewed him out about Shihao not wearing his hair like the little girls did. He succeeded in crushing Xio-Xio into his perfect son mould for a little while. Then he let his conservative, neat cut grow out a little. It's shaggy now, hanging past his chin in places. In some places, it's so short that it sticks out a little.

I guess Xio-Xio still has awesome hair. "Look, kid," I say, wrapping my arm companionably around his shoulders.

I would say more, but Xio-Xio begins giggling madly. "Are you sure you're straight?" he hisses.

"Yes!" I flush a little, a quick rush of blood to my cheeks before the embarrassment fades away. "Anyway, Xio-Xio, look at it this way. God isn't real."

Xio-Xio stares at me and then, miraculously, like the church bells tolling all of a sudden, he laughs.

All is right with the world when I hear that sound. It really is like church bells.

Holy.

Friends are holy. I smile at that.