When You Don't See Me Read Free

one of my tormentors.” She cocked her head. “My uncle and his friends,” I explained. “My friend Blythe calls them my gay mentors. I call them my tormentors.”
    â€œLike bondage or something?” Kendra asked, her blue eyes huge.
    â€œEw. No. Uncle Blaine, his boyfriend, their housekeeper, all their friends. They’re always giving me advice and warnings about the dangers of living in a big city. How to avoid being bashed, mugged, or otherwise assaulted. How to have safe sex. I’m sure one of them dropped those in my pants when I was at my uncle’s.”
    â€œIt’s sweet that they look out for you,” Kendra said warmly, as if I’d restored her faith in humanity.
    I was still staring impatiently at the kettle when Kendra’s friend Morgan showed up. I stayed in the kitchen while Kendra let her in. I tried to ignore the furious whispers that indicated that Morgan, too, might be finding the place less than luxurious. Then her voice went from whisper to bitch in ten seconds as she condemned her last landlord to eternal damnation and declared that her moving men were know-nothing pigs.
    My anxiety about Morgan’s desirability as a roommate boiled a lot faster than the kettle of water when she stepped into the kitchen and I saw two snakes wrapped around her arms.
    â€œUh…” I said, trying not to back away.
    Morgan was short and dumpy. Her uneven hair was black—definitely an unprofessional dye job—and her skin was pale and doughy. Her eyes were like little black currants set deep in her face, and their expression was hard and challenging, as if the snakes were some kind of initiation I had to pass.
    â€œLucifer,” she said, holding up one arm to better display a yellowish snake. It eyed me with a look that made me remember a fifth grade teacher who’d been pure evil. “Hugsie,” she added, pointing a black snake at me. That one began to writhe as the kettle shrieked at us.
    I was grateful to have a reason to turn away and said over my shoulder, “Nick Dunhill. I guess you’re Morgan.”
    â€œBrilliant. If you ever enter my room without my permission, you can kiss your ass good-bye. Which will be easy, because I’ll make sure your head’s stuffed up your ass, just like every other man in Manhattan.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure not every man in Manhattan has been stuffed up my ass,” I said, turning around and locking my eyes on hers. It almost seemed like she was going to smile, in that Wednesday Addams if-I-smile-I’ll-die way. Then she left the kitchen as abruptly as she’d entered, snake bodies trailing behind her like feather boas. Maybe they were actual boas. I had no idea.
    When Kendra came back in, looking a little fearful, I hissed, “What did you say she does?”
    â€œShe works for an animated children’s program,” Kendra whispered hesitantly, as if she knew the probability of that was highly questionable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about the snakes.”
    â€œYou’re the one who has to sleep with them,” I said, adding with sadistic satisfaction, “behind a closed door.”
    Â 
    Roberto finally showed up with the clothes on his back, two milk crates full of CDs, and furniture he’d found on the street: a futon, a tiny café table, and two rickety wooden dining chairs. I tried to cover up how lousy I felt when I helped him haul his loot into the apartment. Not that he was paying attention. He answered three calls on his cell phone while we trudged up and down stairs. If it were anyone but Roberto, I’d think he was dealing drugs. But I could tell from his side of the conversations that he was fielding calls from one or more of his brothers. He had four.
    I knew Roberto from high school. Although he grew up in the Bronx, we had a few things in common. Mostly our exasperated families. Roberto’s mother had hoped that art school