Free Seers by Kristine Bowe

Patrick is wide-eyed and impressed.
    “Northern Liberties.”
    “And you live here?”
    “Nearby.”
    Oh, God, please don’t ask to see my place. Hurry. Have an excuse ready.
    “It’s nice.”
    Good. Okay. Patrick has manners. He knows it’s rude to invite yourself over to someone’s house. He’ll wait to see if he’s asked, which will
not
happen. I just hope the others show the same restraint.
    “The diner’s this building here,” I say, pointing across the street toward Second. The diner’s back is to us, but we can see the wrought-iron tables to the side and the orange and teal décor through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing us. We form a lateral line and head toward it like a pack of wolves.
    “You guys want to sit outside or in?” I ask trying to avoid the fumbling that will take place if I allow the host to ask that question once we’re already inside.
    “Let’s sit outside. I want to see the neighborhood,” Frances says. She’s been quiet since the race. She probably wants to go home. I know she’s got homework. We all do. At least that means they won’t linger. They’ll eat and go back to Jersey. And I’ll be able to sort my brain out before I have to go back to them tomorrow and jumble it all back up.
    The host with the big gauges, earrings that are more like space savers or hollow saucers creating a hole in each earlobe the size of a penny, and a merman tattoo on his forearm seats us facing the Piazza. It’s the center part of the neighborhood, where most events take place. It’s great for people watching. I come to the diner every couple days at least and sit by myself out here. I see it as part of my job. I have to be able to read people. I have to be able to make split-second decisions based on people’s verbal, nonverbal, and facial cues. Plus it’s fun. City people are especially fun to watch. They tend to use their bodies as extensions of their personalities more than suburbanites. There’s hot-pink-hair guy, face-tattoo girl, and tons of people dressed so funkily that you know it has to be part of who they are and not just for attention.
    It turns out the group enjoys people watching, too. That coupled with the fact that we have been together going on twelve hours has extinguished the need for constant conversation, thankfully. Even Eri lets up and concentrates on the short stack of pancakes she has ordered.
    I fumble with my veggie wrap. I ordered the dressing on the side, but I can tell the cook forgot or missed the message, because the wrap is soggy and the sprouts are drenched. I’d send it back, but I don’t want to mess up the relaxed feeling at the table. It’s the second meal we’ve shared in one day. Because I spend so much time alone, the communal importance of eating with other people is not wasted on me, and I begin to feel, despite all the questions I have about Luke and Eri, like I am a part of this group. More than that. Like I
want
to be a part of this group.
    I look from one member to the next. Frances and Daisy are talking and giggling. I follow their gaze and realize their eyes are following a guy wearing nothing but dangerously low-riding cut-off sweatpants. He is jogging through the Piazza as a glistening, muscle-bound thing of beauty. Wow. I tear my eyes away and look to the other end of the table. Patrick is making eyes at the cute blonde two tables away. Everywhere he’s a star. Across from me Eri is treating butter and syrup as mediums in an art project as she readies herself to polish off the second half of her pancakes. Even Luke, sitting next to her, seems to have relaxed. The beef patty melt must be good. He is dipping fries into the juices left by the caramelized onions. He isn’t watching me or frowning. And suddenly I am back to our first conversation in the hallway at school. The one where I couldn’t speak calmly because his classic good looks threw me for a loop. All at once I am caught up in them again. His square jaw, his straight,