When You Don't See Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

artistic. A year ahead of Roberto, Pete, and me at BHSA, he’d gone there only because the tuition was free. His uncle was the headmaster. He’d sneered at the school’s creative programs. Fred’s classes focused on the technical: set design or sound or lighting. He managed BHSA’s photo lab, although he had no interest in photography.
    Now Fred worked at Starbucks, which in itself wouldn’t disqualify him as a boyfriend—after all, I bleached people’s bathroom grout—except that he enjoyed brewing java for the evil empire. He said the benefits rocked. He liked leaving the job when his shift was over and not thinking about it again until he went back. And if he felt like it, he could abuse the customers. Fred said they expected it, because most Starbucks employees were miserable and looking for a gig as an actor, musician, model, writer, illustrator—anything, it seemed, as long as it was creative and far from the grind of coffee beans.
    Fred’s disinterest in all things artistic could be conversationally limiting. And he didn’t atone for it by having a flawless face or a great body. He wasn’t ugly, by any means. Just an average guy, the kind who played the sidekick in movies or was friends with your girl cousin.
    But Fred had one habit that turned me on, even when it wasn’t directed at me. In a place where you could see or hear anything, so you tended to tune out everything, Fred paid attention. No cell phone, headset, or handheld anything ever got between him and another person. When he spoke to you, he looked at you. When you spoke to him, he heard you. His ability to completely focus on someone was erotic in a way that was beyond sex.
    I never made the mistake of thinking he was flirting with me. Fred was my friend the same way Roberto was. I’d never tell Fred or anyone else how much time I spent thinking about the way his hair sort of curled against the back of his neck when he needed a haircut. Or how sexy I thought it was when he was mixing a Venti-whatever-latte and bit the tip of his tongue in concentration. Or that I once lied for three weeks and said I couldn’t find a jacket he left at Uncle Blaine’s apartment. I liked having it in the room with me. Maybe that was obsessive, but it was my little secret, and it hurt no one.
    After the day Sister Divine accosted Fred, she seemed to pop up everywhere. I saw her outside Lincoln Center. At Seventy-ninth and Broadway. Skirting Columbus Circle. I wasn’t sure whether or not Sister Divine was homeless. Maybe she was just crazy. Whenever I saw her, she was skulking along, the same layers of black cloth shifting and settling around her. Until she’d go rigid and fix her gaze on some unwary tourist. Or anyone moving slowly—like a predator assessing the weakest potential prey. Then it would happen.
    â€œForty-two generals and six thousand lieutenants of Satan are in your body…. two hundred field generals…. five hundred captains…Repent! Cast out your demons! Do God’s work!”
    Most people ignored her. I regarded her with affection, because she gave me a reason to call Fred. He enjoyed the Sister Divine updates. He’d picked up a transit map and map pins to mark my Sister Divine sightings, sure that a pattern would eventually emerge. Friends began placing bets on it. So far, the face of Jesus was losing to the face of Donald Rumsfeld two to one.
    I was a few blocks from Mark’s when I saw Sister Divine. Or worse, when she saw me. She stopped, pointed at me, and shouted, “Legions of demons inhabit your body! Drive them out! Find the silver cord. Get inside yourself before it’s too late. Do God’s work!”
    No one paid any attention to her, and I whipped out my cell so I could brag to Fred that I was possessed by more demons than he was.
    â€œOh, good,” he said. “I was starting to worry about her. Where are you?”
    â€œI