Alison Kaine: Tell Me What You Like Part 1

Alison Kaine Mystery.

Tell Me What You Like.

Kate Allen.

Alison Kaine, lesbian cop, enters the world of leather-d.y.k.es after a woman is brutally murdered at a Denver bar. In this fast-paced, yet slyly humorous novel, Allen confronts the sensitive issues of S/M, queer-bashers and women-identified s.e.x workers.

Review.

A book in which you don't have to pick out just the good parts - because the rest of it is a must read, too. --Marie Tharp, Bad Att.i.tude.

What drives this book is Kate Allen's excellent writing. She creates powerful, pa.s.sionate women... --Mary E. Bradish, The Was.h.i.+ngton Blade.

Allen's well-written murder mystery sports a heart-pounding ending. --Marie Kuda, Booklist.

About the Author.

Kate Allen writes about the complexities and contradictions of lesbian life with a unique and wonderful style. The perfect writer for readers who are hungry for something new, for something humorous and erotic.

One.

The foyer of the bar was plastered with fliers explaining how d.y.k.es could take square dance lessons (poster hand drawn and photocopied), see a Motherlode concert at the old Ogden theater, or come watch an all female strip review right here at Denver's Blue Ryder in two weeks. (This poster was die slickest.) Officer Alison Kaine paused as she entered the double doors, still amazed that such shows happened. An event like that would have been picketed when she was nineteen, and she would have been right on the front lines protesting it as degrading to women. She didn't know if it was a sign of more diversity and tolerance or if they were all just going straight down the tubes. There had even been drag queens lip-synching I Am Woman (talk about a blast from the past!) on the main stage of Gay Pride this year, and women who would have rioted twelve years ago just lay on the gra.s.s with their artificially inseminated babies and clapped.

Alison had lost herself in musing for a moment too long, so Officer Robert Ellis, her partner of two years, was giving her just the smallest of nudges in the back. Just a friendly little 'We have things to do' nudge, not a 'let's get the h.e.l.l in and out' nudge, which is what she suspected that he really felt during these routine walk-throughs of the bar. Not because he ever said anything, but because even she felt uncomfortable, for G.o.d's sake, and she belonged, at least in the generic sense.

It would only take ten minutes to make sure that none of the cowboys from the Mile High Rodeo next door had spilled over looking for trouble or, worse to most of the d.y.k.es' thinking, to propose a s.e.xual adventure. Both things had happened several times in the three months since the Rodeo had opened, which was why this swing-through had been added to begin with. The sergeant in charge of the s.h.i.+ft had not come right out and said, "Let's a.s.sign Alison because she's queer," (it was always a bit unclear who at the station knew and who didn't,) but she suspected something like that had gone on and Robert had just been stuck on because he was her partner.

In response to Robert's nudge she finally swung into her Barbara Stanwyck walk. She could handle most of the Blue Ryder's weekday theme nights. She could handle Old d.y.k.es' night. (There was another, more official name, but that was what everyone called it, including women who attended and yet complained bitterly about anyone else using the term.) She could handle and even crack an occasional smile at Country/Western night. It was only Leather Night that made her freeze at the door, and she hadn't found anyone-not her best friend, Mich.e.l.le, and certainly not Robert-to talk about why yet.

Well, Rob might feel out of place, but at least he didn't have any of his own hissing at him under their breath as he walked by. Why did so many d.y.k.es feel compelled to make comments about woman cops? Was it because they a.s.sumed she was straight, or had somehow sold our, or was it just that general f.u.c.k-the-cops-till-I-need-them att.i.tude held so dear by middle America?

She sucked in a huge breath to fortify herself. It was a bad move. The air was heavy with smoke and the cough she couldn't choke back sent her gum flying onto the floor. Hastily she wrapped it in her shopping list, trying to look as if it had been planned. Smooth move there, Alison. No wonder you can't find a date. Robert was already halfway through his tour of the bar and dance floor area, and she was still having an obsession scene in the doorway.

She Barbara-Stanwycked her way back towards the bathrooms, keeping her face blank as if she were not hearing the comments following in her wake. The girls in leather were the worst of all her lesbian sisters about using s.e.xuality as a weapon. She scanned the crowd as if they were any old bar crew and not one that tugged at her with conflicting emotions; she never got propositioned anymore anywhere but here, and here it didn't count because it was meant only to embarra.s.s her.

"Love a girl in uniform, babe," mock-whispered a tall blonde, seated not more than a foot from her path, and Alison almost stopped to tell her to get a new line. Three out of four women who tossed comments her way beat that old uniform theme to death. It didn't make her feel angry or turned on; it made her feel lonely, and like a scarecrow, a figure stuck up on a pole whose total essence was a suit of clothes.

She cut her eyes to the side without moving her head, wondering how smart it would be to break out of her role as bland and impartial guardian of the law, fantasizing about a brisk exchange that would make her look good, but what she really found herself doing, was looking at the blonde's outfit. Specifically looking for any sign that said what the woman did, or what she liked, or if maybe the comment wasn't just an ugly little bit of cop-baiting, but something that contained some real pa.s.sion....

Sucker! Worse, the woman saw her looking before Alison even realized what she was doing, and was delighted to have caught her. "Hey, baby," the blond said in that throaty whisper that she managed to project like a shout through the bar noise, "you're a lucky girl. I'll go either way." She clasped her hands together over her head like a prizefighter, showing that both wrists sported several studded leather bracelets.

Alison's face burned with a blush that spread down on her chest. She could hear laughter behind her as she moved stiffly away. She was going to start wearing sungla.s.ses in the bar, dammit; she was going to get neutered; she was going to go straight; she was just going to f.u.c.king shoot herself so that she didn't have to go through this c.r.a.p once a week.

She stiff-armed the door of the women's bathroom, hoping that the dopers had all gotten the word and she wasn't going to have to bust someone for toking in the can. That would be the icing on the cake-to have to write up a ticket for something that was not only barely worth her time in court, but that she didn't think should be against the law. If there were any smokers she was just going to shoot them down and then turn the gun on herself.

The door, which she knew from a hundred walk-throughs should just swing wide, was sticking, so she hit it again grumpily. It gave suddenly and she went flying through, barely saving herself from landing on her hands and knees.

She didn't understand, at first, what she had fallen into. Sure, she'd read Coming to Power and all the back issues of On Our Backs and Bad Att.i.tude, but they hadn't prepared her for two women doing a quick scene in the bathroom of the Blue Ryder.

She was really slow tonight-it wasn't the outfit of the top woman (very butch, all in black, slicked back hair, leather vest and studs up the a.s.s) or her att.i.tude (a f.u.c.k-you-and-everything-you-represent look) or even her position (one hand wrapped in the medium length hair of a woman in a purple sweater and the other down the front of her jeans) that finally clued her in. It was the look that crossed the face of the woman in the purple sweater when her eyes fluttered open-that 'dammit-I-was-going-to-come-and-now-I-can't' look that Alison had become familiar with on the face of her last lover, Lydia. That was what made her realize that the two had been standing against the door going for it and she had knocked them down to the ground and was about as welcome as your mother walking in on you in high school.

"So do you like to watch, or what?" hissed Leather Vest in a nasty voice.

That was all it took. Alison went straight from a feeling that could be described as apologetic to full force rage. f.u.c.k these women and their s.h.i.+tty att.i.tude and their judging! She wasn't the one who couldn't wait till she got home, and she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to be made to feel in the wrong. Normally, consensual s.e.x in public was handled, by all but the most zealous officers, by asking the partic.i.p.ants (who were usually a straight couple with a few too many, getting carried away in a parking lot) to pull themselves together and then giving them a little lecture. It was like the one-joint bust; unless one of the parties was really determined to be an a.s.shole it wasn't worth wasting anybody's time.

But this woman obviously was going the a.s.shole route. "So what are you going to do," she sneered, "arrest us?"

The woman in the purple sweater, who after that one little flicker had kept her eyes firmly shut, made a distressed sound.

"Oh, my," another voice said.

Great, thought Alison, just what we need-more d.y.k.es in the bathroom. n.o.body in the world was more willing to b.u.t.t in than d.y.k.es. They had opinions and convictions on everything. (A woman in the food line at Michigan last year had, with no encouragement at all from Alison, gone on for ten minutes about renaming d.i.l.d.os.) If she was really p.i.s.sed enough to make an arrest she'd better do it quick before the whole thing turned into another Stone-wail.

But when she turned to give the woman coming out of the stalls a quick look (no sense getting shot in the back by a crazy) she felt her anger dissipating as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by a kind of rush-of-pleasure, thank-you-G.o.ddess-for-not-letting-me-miss-this-one feeling.

The woman was a sight to behold. She didn't have that unfortunate air of having raided her big brother's closet that trailed so many leather girls. Everything she wore was new. Everything she wore was hers. Her black leather jacket and matching mid-calf skirt had come from an expensive women's shop. Separately they could have made it at any office party- possibly even with the spike heeled boots, black suede with a tiny touch of gold on the toe and strap-but not with the ma.s.s of gold chains she wore around her neck, beneath a red silk blouse that was unb.u.t.toned just one notch too far for the office. Not with the black beaded gloves she carried in one hand. She had enough accessories to blow herself right out of the mainstream and into a walking fantasy.

"Oh, my," she said again, looking at the three of them. "This is kinky." She maneuvered herself delicately around them as if they were a dog mess. She had one hand on the handle of the door before she paused to lean down and pat Purple Sweater on the shoulder. "If I were you," she said in a cone of motherly advice, "I wouldn't pay full price on this one." Straightening from the pat she looked Alison full in the face for the first time and added, "Nice props, though."

That did it for Leather Vest. She jerked both hands back. Anger rose off her like steam as she glared at the door.

Alison was quick to jump in. "How about if we zip our pants up and discuss this?"

"b.u.t.t out!" Leather Vest was not so p.i.s.sed at the woman in red that she was willing to give up being a last-worder. Robert's theory on last-worders was to run them in every d.a.m.n time, see if they still felt so smart-a.s.sed after a couple of hours of paper work. Alison was not a total convert, but maybe it was warranted in this case.

"Well, then," Alison drawled, "we have option number two, which is going downtown to talk about lewd and lascivious behavior."

"We choose door one." Purple Sweater leapt up with a suddenness and agility that surprised both of them. "Come on, Dominique." She tugged on Dominique's hand, but was obviously not surprised when the other woman set her heels belligerently. Oh, well, she motioned to Alison with one raised eyebrow and a shrug, I tried, time to cut my losses, she's not my girlfriend, can I go now, Officer, please? She was out the door before Alison had time to finish her nod.

"I hope you got off," sneered Dominique, obviously determined to top the scene to the very end. Alison considered telling her that the stage name was over used by every other woman who considered herself a dom. Maybe that would take the wind out of her sails.

It was a power play now, and Alison didn't see how she could afford to lose. She said, "Well, that remark just added tricking on the side."

"You can't prove that!"

The door swung open again. Alison felt as if she were in a gay Neil Simon play. This time, however, the new cast member, whom she recognized as the owner, was someone she could use to gain the upper hand.

"No," she answered, "I can't. But I can make sure that everyone pays real close attention to you just in case. How do you think the nice woman who owns the bar is going to feel about you if she knows that every time you're here, and lots of times that you're not, there are going to be cops swinging through three times a night just to make sure you're not turning a quick one in the can?" Fat chance, she thought, but enough to shake up the owner. No bar could hold out under that kind of surveillance. You could always find something if you wanted to get ugly.

"You're out-eighty-sixed!" The owner played to Alison as if to a script.

"Oh, come on, Jenny." Dominique was trying not to whine, but she couldn't quite keep the edge out. For a moment Alison felt sorry for her. Perhaps this bar was her only social outlet. But it was too late to back out.

"Out. Period." Jenny had a frantic look in her eye, and Alison knew that she was trying to figure out how to call her off. I'm just a poor working woman trying to make it, don't screw me!

The door again. This time it was Robert, holding himself in that tense but determined way Alison had noticed on all male cops in women's bathrooms. He fixed his eyes firmly on her in an effort to avoid everything else. Sometimes Alison thought that her partner would rather get shot than see a woman peeing.

"Alison?" said Robert.

"Out!" said Jenny.

"f.u.c.k you!" said Dominique.

"Let's go," said Alison. Time to let the girls handle it themselves. She gave Jenny another nod and a thumbs-up, good-job sign. Dominique tore out the door as if she were going to go right through Robert, who was so busy not seeing the women's bathroom that he danced out of the way only at the last minute.

Alison followed, and he followed her without comment, pausing a moment to touch his hat to the owner, in one of his curious, older generation gestures.

He gave her one tiny little nudge when they were halfway across the floor. True to fas.h.i.+on, half the d.y.k.es in the bar were rallying to one side of the cause or the other. Dominique, being herded to the door by the bouncer, was surrounded by cajolers and supporters. Satellite groups had broken off and were heading determinedly to the bar to either confront Jenny on her internalized h.o.m.ophobia or congratulate her for weeding out women who promoted violence against women. So do we mix into this? Robert was asking. He didn't push it when she shook her head no; they both had their field of expertise and this was hers. Jenny had responded hard and fast. Alison had faith that she would keep her word for her own sake. Which was just as well-there were cops down at the station who would love a chance to drag a butch d.y.k.e in to see if they couldn't rewrite the sodomy laws. But she tried not to talk bad about cops w d.y.k.es the same way that she tried not to talk bad about d.y.k.es to cops.

"Vacation all set up?" was the first thing Robert said once she had settled behind the wheel of the cruiser.

"Oh, f.u.c.king in the bathroom," she answered before she took in what he had said. In two years she had never gotten used to the way his mind darted off onto restful little by-ways while hers always plodded (obsessively, her ex-lover, Lydia, had said) ahead in a straight line. Something about Dominique had unnerved her, and she didn't like the way she had handled the situation. Why, she had fallen right into the power play, as though the woman had seduced her into it knowingly. Something about the whole situation did not set well, but she couldn't move beyond the simple feeling.

"Must be a h.e.l.l of a vacation," he observed dryly, and she had to backtrack before knowing why she was laughing and blus.h.i.+ng. He took advantage of her confusion to hit another weak spot. "Talked to your dad yet?" He thought, sometimes, that he was her conscience as well as her big brother.

"No! Give it a rest! Let's talk cop talk! Don't you want to know what was happening?"

"Alison, I don't need you to tell me what was happening. I can tell you what was happening. f.u.c.king in the bathroom. Maybe tricking. She didn't want to cooperate. You should have brought her in, but you didn't because people should solve things themselves if they can and you want to be extra careful because you have power issues. Same song, different verse. You should work on a playground, Alison. 'Did you talk to Johnny about how it made you feel when he threw sand in your face? Let's try that.'" She gave him as much of a withering look as she could spare from Colfax Avenue on a Friday night. "Yeah," she replied, "well, you smoke."

As she hoped this retort reminded him that it had been a while since he'd lit up. "Which distracted him from the next part of the 'You-should-have-been-a-playground-teacher lecture.' Which was 'What ever made you decide to be a cop anyway?' Which lead right back to 'Have you told your dad you're thinking about quitting?' Better second-hand cancer than that. She was glad her vacation started the next day.

The upstairs apartment, though it had its own outside exit, also had a door on the landing that came directly into Alison's kitchen. Through her gloom Alison could hear someone pounding on it, but she did not bother to get up and answer. It would be Mich.e.l.le, and to Mich.e.l.le, knocking was merely a polite ritual that was not to be taken too seriously. Her lover, Janka, who was a bit more socially skilled, gently tried from time to time to persuade her to see the error of her ways, but Mich.e.l.le's consistent answer was, "If she's f.u.c.king she should lock the door!"

Sure enough, after five impatient knocks Mich.e.l.le was across the kitchen and into the front room, still making knocking motions with her fist. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"How do you know anything's wrong?"

"Hank Williams. Whenever I hear 'Your Cheatin' Heart' I know there's been a crisis."

Alison could feel herself getting more and more depressed and did not answer. No problem, because conversation with Mich.e.l.le was similar to the door routine. It would go on whether one partic.i.p.ated or not.

Sure enough, Mich.e.l.le, surveying the room, continued just as if she had answered. "Nails, s.h.i.+ngles, cat carrier but no cat, boots-you should be packed and half way up to the mountains by now. The mountain d.y.k.es are planning on you giving them a hand on the new bunkhouse. Oh, s.h.i.+t. They cancelled on you, didn't they?" Mich.e.l.le's face became as fully dejected as Alison's. She sat down heavily on the couch beside her.

"Herpes outbreak," said Alison briefly. "And a storm put a branch through the chicken house. They're stressed. They're processing."

"Oh, wow," said Mich.e.l.le in a voice that was fraught with disappointment. At thirty-three Mich.e.l.le was a tiny woman who had not grown appreciably in stature since she and Alison had become best friends in fifth grade. Her size, combined with her perfect little baby-d.y.k.e face and short, short hair, tended to inspire the reaction, 'Oh, how cute'- in the same tone in which one comments on puppies-from most of the d.y.k.es she met. Her response to this stereotyping had been to become super capable, a kind of miniature Wonderd.y.k.e who rarely needed to ask for help with anything. (Janka had confided that she had fallen in love with Mich.e.l.le immediately after listening to her discuss the ailments of her chainsaw, which was half as big as she was, with one of the mountain d.y.k.es.) She was perfectly suited for this role of Renaissance woman, for she naturally tended towards the hyperactive. The part of this 'overawareness'-as Janka politely referred to it-that was not worked out in gardening, roofing the house, fixing bicycles, her Sunday paper route and all the other odd jobs she used to support her real interest, stained gla.s.s, often expressed itself in little dramas-heightened exchanges with clerks, friends, people at the bus stop. She did not really even have to be involved in an exchange, but was fully capable of benefiting vicariously from another's woes or joys. So Alison knew that even though she was genuinely sympathetic about the crimp in her plans, she was also getting a little endorphin rush.

"Hey, is that 'Walking the Floor?'" Janka stuck her head in the door. "Is something wrong?"

"Alison's vacation got shot." Mich.e.l.le answered in a despairing tone, though slightly distracted by a ball-and-slot puzzle she had picked up from the coffee table. Anyone with whom Mich.e.l.le spent time quickly learned that readily accessible games and unfinished knitting were a good defense against having one's silverware drawers rearranged during conversation.

"Really? What a drag." Janka came in, Alison suspected, not so much to commiserate as to make sure that Mich.e.l.le didn't merge so far into her doppelganger role that she got depressed, too. Being Mich.e.l.le's lover took vigilance. Mich.e.l.le seemed within reason, so Janka turned to Alison. "So what are you going to do instead?" she asked, dismissing the whole tragedy in one sentence. A lot of Janka's life philosophy revolved around 'over and done with', something that Alison, who tended to h.o.a.rd slights and disappointments, had a little trouble with. She would have liked to have gone over exactly how disappointed she was and how much she had been looking forward to her break, and she knew that Mich.e.l.le alone would have let her do it.

"Oh, I guess I'll unload the car," she said grudgingly, wondering where she was going to put the bulk food she had been asked to bring. "Then I guess I'll do some work around here."

"Going to make sure you stay depressed, huh?" Janka ran her hand back through her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair. "Well, that ought to do it. Maybe you could do your taxes or balance your checkbook, too."

Alison fantasized briefly about smacking her. She decided not to, not because Mich.e.l.le, 110 pounds or not, would take her head off, or even because it was against her own personal politics to hit other women, but because it just seemed unfair to punish someone because she was right. "So what do you suggest?" she asked, still sullen at not being allowed to feel sorry for herself.

"Go do something fun," advised Janka. Mich.e.l.le's ears perked up like a dog about to be taken on a walk, or in this case, about to hear about a walk. "Look, I just picked up Westword and Outfront at the laundromat-they both have entertainment sections...."

Just in time Alison realized that if she didn't come up with something herself she was going to be sent off to a gla.s.s blowing demonstration or an exhibit on women archaeologists. "Cheeseman," she said hastily, naming the neighborhood park which had a large gay section. Janka appeared unsatisfied so she added, "I'll watch the d.y.k.es and work on my quilt."

"And come have dinner with us," Mich.e.l.le added.

"And come have dinner with you," she agreed, and because they were her dear friends, she made every effort not to show that it could in no way come close to replacing a week in the mountains.

Two.

The gay end of Cheeseman Park was usually good for a cheer-up, but Alison didn't feel her usual lift as she walked through the acres of gay boys tanning. Even the d.y.k.es splas.h.i.+ng topless in the fountain with their dogs failed to elicit a smile. d.a.m.n the mountain d.y.k.es! Colleen had been apologetic when she called, suggesting another week, but this was the week Alison had her vacation. What was she going to do now, spend the week visiting the Mint, the Capitol and the Coors brewery, as if she were someone's out-of-town grandparents?

A soccer field had recently been added to the far end of the park, and as far as Alison could tell, at any time of day or night and in any weather, there were twenty-two d.y.k.es on it. Occasionally when she drove through, Alison would see a forlorn group of men standing on the sidelines with a ball, looking longingly, as if they were the uncoordinated kids who hadn't been picked at recess, but the d.y.k.es weren't going to give it up, uh uh, no way. In a country where women earned seventy cents to a man's dollar and there were only two women in the Senate, there was at least one place where d.y.k.es ruled.

Alison plopped herself down by the field and opened her bag. It was as good a place to feel sorry for herself as any and, should she decide to switch modes, it was a better place than most for cruising. Of course, she reminded herself, with a pessimism that was so fierce as to almost be enjoyable, everyone on the field was probably married or dysfunctional.

Alison's mother had taught her to sew when she was twelve and it had not been the horror story that all of her friends had experienced in forced Home Ec. cla.s.ses. Alison, who could put on a butch facade that could stop women in their tracks, actually liked to sew. It had taken years to come to terms with this, as she had come out in a lesbian climate where fixing your own TV or car was highly honorable, but a traditionally female skill such as sewing was seen as only one step up from consenting to have ten babies while chained to the stove. But she was getting older, and everyone was getting mellower, and one day about two years ago, she had finally decided to h.e.l.l with them all and taken her quilting with her to a meeting. (It was also the day she had announced that she hated softball, had always hated Softball and was never ever going near a right field again no matter who had to forfeit.) She was currently working, with much referral to books, on a variation of a Bear's Paw quilt. She pulled a square out of her bag and jabbed at it angrily a few times with her needle, then laid it in her lap.

She popped one of the Diet Pepsis she had stuck in her bag (caffeine was, in Alison's mind, as much of a miracle healer as penicillin) and looked up at the game. She had only played soccer during one dismal semester of freshman gym, but it wasn't hard to sort out. There were a few idiosyncratic things going on that baffled her at first-the main one being that some of the players seemed to be playing for both teams, appearing first in a red s.h.i.+rt and moments later in a blue. The color of the s.h.i.+rts was the only common factor, otherwise advertising everything from Margie Adams tours to the local d.y.k.e garage. After a few moments of careful study she realized that somehow the two teams, obviously involved in a pick-up rather than a league game, had arrived at some agreement in which any player on the side-line-and there were never more than two out for brief rests-would be called in for whomever signaled first, regardless of team or position. Alison wasn't the only one confused by this; she heard more than one groan of self reproach as a ball was sent to an opposing player who had been an ally only ten minutes before.

As always when she came across a group of d.y.k.es, Alison was amazed at how many women in town there were whom she didn't know. Where did they hide themselves, and what did they do when she was at the Gay Pride March or a Kate Clinton show? Actually there were a few who looked familiar, the red center half, for example, and the sweeper. Neither had called for a sub during the time she watched so they were possible to identify by position. She had seen them both at the Blue Ryder on Country Western night. They were good two-steppers, obviously lovers. In fact, now that she thought of it-of course, she had seen a whole table of these women at the bar more than once, sweaty, tired-looking, wearing black and purple uniforms that said 'Blue Ryders' across the front.

Slam! The ball was suddenly down by the end line, and though there was a terrific sprint by the red backfield it was obvious that the goalie, a tall woman with dark curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, was going to have to go one on one with the current blue center forward. As she ran to the top of the box, Alison thought that she looked familiar too, but then dismissed the thought. She must have seen her at the bar with the other women, probably some night when she was in uniform and not at liberty to take second looks. She was a d.a.m.n good goalie though, not only challenging the lone opposer, but making three saves immediately afterwards as everyone from both teams converged on the ten yard line.

Finally the box cleared. The goalie stood alone, wiping her face with the hem of her s.h.i.+rt, which had a red and purple labrys on the chest where most goalies had a diamond. Alison bent her head back once more to look at her work. Maybe, she thought as she picked up her needle, this week wouldn't be too bad. Maybe she could go camping for a couple of days by herself. Maybe Mich.e.l.le could even be persuaded to take a day trip. Maybe...she stopped trying to fool herself and took a couple of resigned st.i.tches. Maybe, in fact most certainly, she would just stay at home because she didn't like to camp out alone, and Mich.e.l.le was always backlogged with work. She sighed, and looked back up towards the game just in time to catch an out-of-control ball smack in the face.

Both her vision and thoughts were blurred for a moment, and this might explain why she not only didn't recognize Stacy the dark-haired goalie who came over to retrieve the ball, but in fact dazedly agreed to go over to the Arvada Center with her to see a quilt show later that afternoon.