When You Don't See Me by Timothy James Beck Page A

now, someone was going to knock on our door and inform me that I was being recalled.
    â€œRoberto!” someone yelled from below. “Open up!”
    â€œWhy can’t he use the buzzer,” Roberto asked while crawling through the window, “like a normal person?”
    A few minutes later, Roberto’s brother JC was in our apartment. I watched through the window as they playfully smacked each other around. JC—Juan Carlos—was an even beefier version of Roberto. He was five years older, solid, and almost menacing looking. Except when he smiled; his dimples made him look like an angel on steroids.
    After a few minutes, I crawled back into the apartment. JC pointed at me and said, “You still hanging out with this piece of trash?”
    â€œHe keeps following me around,” Roberto said. He shrugged, as if to say, What are you gonna do?
    Suddenly I was being crushed by JC’s arms and lifted off the floor. I gasped for breath, and all I could smell was cigarettes, sweat, and cheap cologne. None of which smelled bad on JC. He put me down, pushed me away, and said, “Punk.”
    â€œAsshole,” I muttered.
    Roberto and JC locked eyes and both said, “Ooh, snap!”
    JC threw his jacket on a chair, looked around, and said, “This place isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be.”
    â€œIt’s worse, right?” Roberto said, grinning.
    â€œYou got that right. Your mom would go apeshit if she saw this place.”
    â€œAt least I don’t still live with her,” Roberto said.
    In a flash, they were rolling on the floor. I sat on the windowsill and watched them wrestle. I wondered how much money I could make if I videotaped them. If only Morgan had a camera. When JC put Roberto in a headlock, I said, “If you guys need it, I’m sure I have some lube.”
    JC pushed Roberto away. They both lay on the floor panting for a few minutes. JC reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded-up brown paper bag, and tossed it to Roberto. It hit him in the middle of the chest. Roberto’s eyes lit up. He opened the bag, peered inside, and grinned.
    â€œMy brother’s the bomb, yo,” he said to me. “Didn’t I tell you?”
    I’d never been one of JC’s biggest fans. He was pigheaded, overly macho, and sometimes rude. But he always scored the best weed in the city. From what I’d heard, most cops did. We passed around a tightly rolled joint, and JC filled Roberto in on their youngest brother’s latest exploits at school. I tuned them out and followed the cracks in the ceiling with my eyes. They formed a spider-web around a dusty glass light fixture, which looked on the verge of giving in to gravity. Maybe one day it would fall on Morgan’s head.
    â€œWhat are you giggling at?” Roberto asked me.
    â€œNothing,” I said. I hadn’t realized I was laughing.
    JC pointed at me and said, “This kid’s crazy. One day, he’s gonna snap.”
    I snapped my fingers and flipped him the bird. We all started laughing, until we heard the apartment door open. Kendra walked into the room and said, “Why does it smell like my grandmother’s house in here?”
    â€œIt’s him,” I said, gesturing to JC.
    â€œUh-oh,” JC said. “Mom’s home.”
    â€œYour brother?” Kendra asked. Roberto nodded. She turned to JC and said, “Nice to meet you.”
    JC stood and took Kendra’s hand in his meaty paws. In a low voice, he said, “Hello.”
    â€œHey, Kendra, I forgot to tell you about something earlier,” I said and dragged her into the kitchen.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, pulling her hair behind her ears.
    I looked around the room, then took a jar of mayo from the refrigerator. “Is this yours?”
    â€œNo.” She pointed to the label. Hellman’s was crossed out and replaced by Morgan’s. “Are you stoned?”
    â€œWhy?