It was a test, and I failed.

Almost 10 years ago (I can't believe I'm old enough to have crazy boy stories that I can start with, "Almost 10 years ago"), I was flying from New York back to California, where I was living. I was flying on Southwest, which I remember only because the man we'll be calling Chester (rhymes with tester) made a conscious and deliberate choice to sit next to me.

He told me so.


And as far as I know, you can only choose your seat on the one airline that's a whole lot like taking a bus in the sky.

So, Chester follows me on to the airbus. (Yes, I know that's an actual type of airplane, and yes, I know Southwest doesn't fly them. But this is my story. And I'm going to tell it the way I want.) He sits down across from me and opens his magazine to a specific page; he shifts so that he's holding the magazine like one might hold a picture book when reading to kids. He points to a photo on the page and asks if I recognize anyone. The picture is tiny, so I can't tell that one of the guys (presumably the backup singers) standing behind the band is Chester himself. I don't read Vibe regularly, and I'm not at all knowledgeable about the local hip-hop scene in Oakland, so Chester's not the only thing I don't recognize in the photo. Oops.

Okay, so the guy is proud of himself for getting his little corner of fame. Real proud. That's cool. I can kind of understand that. He tells me he sat next to me because he thinks I'm cute. I say thanks and turn back to the Algebra II tests I'm grading. It's the start of spring break, but I'm trying to get the tests graded so I have time to enjoy the break without the feeling of something looming over me.

Chester keeps talking. He tells me he'd like to get to know me better. I talk back. And it turns out that he doesn't seem so bad. I tell myself that some women are probably really excited about the music thing. I tell myself that some women are probably really interested in meeting someone they perceive as famous. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm not one of those women. I'm cute - and that's what seems to matter most to Chester.

We end up talking for a couple of hours. He tells me that when we get back to the Bay Area, he'd really like to see me again. He suggests that we meet up in a public place because his "mom always told [him] it's best to have first dates in public places so that the women are more comfortable." I'm young. And I think this must mean he's a pretty good guy. I mean, really! He wouldn't talk about having to show me that he's a good guy if he's not a good guy, right? Mmmhmm. Right.

The next day, we meet halfway between our homes (mine in San Jose, his in Oakland), and we have ice cream. He tells me again that I'm cute. I swoon a little. Hey - it had been a while since someone told me I was cute, so I was prone to swooning when it happened. We can't all be used to being complimented incessantly. We agree that we're enjoying each others' company, so we make plans to hang out again. And hanging out with Chester turns out to be kind of fun. In fact, it's fun enough that I am nonplussed when he tells me he used to be married and that he has a two year old daughter. When spring break ends, I ask my students if they've ever heard of the band he sings for. They have, and they're very impressed that I've met someone in the group. So even though fame doesn't impress me, I remain nonplussed when Chester tells me that he recently moved back home. From jail. For setting his ex-wife's house on fire.

Yes, okay? I said it. I decided I didn't care that this man was a convicted arsonist. I know what you're thinking. I think it, too. But I was young. And I was dumb. And I guess I was a little lonely. And, truth be told, I had a phone number that my dad gave me when I first moved to the Bay Area. It was a number I was supposed to use if I ever felt threatened or in trouble. All I had to do was call the number and say that I was my father's daughter. And if I called it, all my troubles would disappear. So you see, I wasn't scared.

Besides, the fact that Chester was an arsonist isn't the story I'm telling. I'm only telling you that because it adds color (and because it's true).

No, the real story is this:

One day not too long after we'd met, Chester asks me if I want to go to Dave & Buster's with him, his brother, and his brother's wife. He gives me the address, and I drive out to meet him at his brother's house. We're going to meet and say hello there before we go into the crowded, noisy Chuck E. Cheese-for-grownups. Almost immediately after introducing me to his brother and sister-in-law, Chester and the wife head into the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone. They leave me with his brother. I think "brother" is used loosely here, at least insofar as biology is concerned. Chester is Puerto Rican; his brother is black. That matters because his brother asks me if I've ever dated a black man. I'm not sure why it matters, as he's married and I'm here with his brother, but I'm not particularly private. I tell him that I have.

He asks me for my number.

I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.

He asks if he can give me his number.

I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.

His brother keeps asking. Chester and the wife return from the kitchen. We all prepare to leave. Chester and I are going in my car; his brother and sister-in-law are going in their own. In the car, I ask Chester what the deal is with his brother. Chester asks if I got his number. I'm surprised he'd know to ask and think that maybe his brother hits on all the women Chester brings around. I tell him no. Chester asks if I got his brother's number. I tell him I'm not interested in his brother; I'm interested in Chester.

Chester tells me I failed the test.


He and his brother share everything.
Everything.
They share everything.

I drop Chester off at Dave & Busters, and I drive away.

For the first time in my life, I don't want to pass a test.

I don't share well.