Powers (17 page)

“We were already linked,” I said.

“Wait a minute. What were you doing that first day of school? You left for the newspaper.”

“Taking a picture of the house that burned down.”

“What kind of picture?” he asked.

“There was a poster, a skull. Oh, your key ring.”

“Yeah. My key ring,” he said. “I was already reading your mind.”

“I'm sorry. I misjudged you.”

“Prejudged me, you mean,” he said. “Thought you knew everything about me. Thanks for calling me a jerk, by the way.”

“Hey. That's not fair. You were mucking around in my mind.”

“Yeah, like you don't muck in mine.”

“What do you mean? I can't read your mind.”

“Read it, no. Control it, yes. I can't block the visions you send me. Can't block your emotions. Can't block your pain or hunger or fear. And do me a favor, okay? Take something for your period next time.”

“Hey!” I pulled a tiny portion of The Power to me, a scratchy ball of energy, and held it in my hand.

“Go ahead,” he said, jutting out his chin. “Bully!”

I grinned, but tossed the crackling, spitting ball of energy harmlessly aside.

“So, why does it only work part of the time?” I asked, getting back to what we'd been talking about. “Why did Dean and Fogerty die after we saved them, but the little boy and the old drunk live?”

For some reason, the color drained out of Adrian's face. “How about I make you that tea now?”

He jumped up and started back up the steps.

My stomach twisted. “Tea? Why? What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“You're lying. I can read you like a book.”

“You won't like it,” he said, sitting back down.

“I'm a big girl,” I said.

“Patterns,” he said. “Don't you see the pattern?”

Adrian

I wish I couldn't, but I feel her reaction. Heart speeding up, mouth going dry.

“Go on,” she says.

“Mr. Dean made the front page, right? He died. Then we saved Mr. Fogerty. You printed it in the paper. Dramatic rescue. Only, he's dead, too. You published Celina's story, pictures and all. She died in the fire.”

“So?” she croaks.

“The little boy is okay. You didn't print his story. Didn't develop the photos. Remember? I erased your pictures. Did you print a story about the drunk?”

“No. Joanne wouldn't let me.”

“So, they only die when you print the story in the paper,” I say.

Her mind refuses to go there. Refuses to confront the truth.

“But, wait. What about that woman. Celina? She died before the story appeared in the paper. We couldn't save her.”

I choose my next words carefully and say them as gently as possible. “Gwen, how hard did you try to save her?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

Yes, she does, but she doesn't want to face it.

“I repeat, how hard did you try to save her? To pull the vision in closer, to figure out the time and location, maybe contact the police?”

She looks at me in alarm.

“You went to that fire to get a story,” I say. “Not to save a life.”

She gets a sharp pain in her stomach. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

She's not kidding. I rush her to the bathroom and she sinks to the floor beside the toilet. I run the cold water, soak some washcloths, put them on her neck and forehead.

“Take deep breaths,” I say.

“Why are you being so nice?” she gasps.

“I hate throwing up,” I say.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Feeling better yet?”

“You should know,” she says with the shadow of a smile.

“Yeah. C'mon. I'll bring you a soda. Help settle your stomach.”

She lets me lead her to the couch.

I dash upstairs. I grab diet ginger ale, add ice, then rush back down.

She's crying the way a small child cries: out loud, sobbing, gasping for air. I try to put my arm around her, but she flinches and pulls away.

“How can you even look at me?” she says.

“We all make mistakes.”

“Yours don't kill people,” she says. “It all makes sense. Checks and balances. We do a good deed, but if we benefit, the good deed is erased.”

“We didn't know. We'll do better next time,” I tell her.

“Oh, Adrian,” she says, starting a fresh flood of tears. “Last night. If I'd printed their story—”

“Shhh,” I tell her. “You didn't.”

“Only because you stopped me.”

I want to hold her, but my hands hurt too much. I grab a box of tissues from the bathroom and hand them to her. She yanks out four or five, dries her eyes, blows her nose.

“My mother had the dreams, too. She saved a child, but the child later died. She figured it was preordained. But, it's because she received a medal from the town. For bravery. The dreams don't bring death. We do, my mother and me.”

“That's not true.”

“The worst thing is,” she goes on, “I can't even tell her. I think she'd have a nervous breakdown.”

“You can tell me,” I say.

She sniffles, blows her nose again. “I thought you were dangerous. Someone who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. I was so wrong about you.”

I tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “You were entirely right about me. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I was just as bad. Even worse. Socking you with energy balls. That first time, it was purely instinctive. But you're right. It's addictive. It makes me feel so strong, so powerful. Like today. I
wanted
to hurt you. And, I
did
I hurt you, didn't I?”

“No, not so much,” I say.

“Liar. You asked if I was trying to stop your heart. Everything I accused you of doing, I did. Only worse.”

“Shhh.”

“You have to leave,” she says, abruptly.

“I'm staying,” I tell her. “We've been given a gift. That's why my father brought me here. We're meant to work together.”

“We're doing a lousy job so far,” she says, with a trace of her old sarcasm.

“We'll do better,” I say. “Drink your soda.”

“Okay,” she says.

“That's what I like,” I joke. “A girl who does what she's told.”

Gwen snorts, gets soda up her nose, coughs. “Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen.”

A log crackles in the woodstove, releasing pine scent into the air. The flames leap, red and gold, like Gwen's eyes when they glow with The Power.

“You were so beautiful,” I say. “The last time you were here.”

She gets the image in her mind of us in my bedroom, standing in front of my mirror.

“Not that,” I say. “Uh, though you were beautiful then, too. I meant when you knocked me down with those fireballs of yours. You were bathed in white light, like some kind of avenging spirit. You were so strong. So formidable. I liked that. But I didn't admit it. Not even to myself.”

“Why?”

“Because of the power it gives you over me,” I say.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” I say. “Look, I don't usually ask permission to kiss a girl, but considering our history, I think it might be a wise move.”

“You've got to be kidding.”
My face all blotchy, my eyes all puffy.

“Will you let me kiss you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The couch is only two steps away. It feels like miles.

I sit beside her. She turns to me, but she's thinking,
I don't know how to do this.

“Trust me,” I say, leaning in close.

The Power rushes through her, through me.

“No,” I say. “No Power.”

I'm not sure if she turns it off or if I do. But when I kiss her, there's no rush of Power. There's just her lips, soft and sweet.

I like that,
she thinks.
Like it very much.

I start to put my arm around her, but as I do, my hand hits the couch. I try to suppress my cry of pain, but I can't.

She gives me a suspicious look. “Let me see.”

“No. It's okay.”

“Now!” she orders.

“Yes, ma'am,” I say.

I wince as she unwraps the gauze on my right hand.

She gasps. “You said they were superficial.”

“I lied.”

I grit my teeth as she unwraps my left hand. It's the bad one. Deep red, blistered.

“I'm so sorry,” she says.

“Don't be. It looks bad, but it's only second degree. Mild second degree. Shouldn't even scar. I'll be good as new in a few weeks.”

“Did the doctor even treat you? Give you anything?” She's worried about me. I savor the newness and sweetness of that.

“Yes, the doctor treated me. Told me to stay hydrated, gave me a tetanus booster, antibiotics, and painkillers.”

“Are you taking the painkillers?”

“What do you think?”

She thinks I'm not taking them. She's right. I hate being fuzzy-headed.

“I had a dream last night,” she says.

“I know.”

“About you going away.”

“Yes.”

“If you did that, we'd lose The Power.”

“Yes.”

“But you were packing.”

“If I can't have you, I don't want The Power.” I know she's thinking about that night.
If you had to give up The Power to have me, would you?

“What if you can have both?” Gwen asks me.

“I'll take both.”

She looks at me for a long time, then puts her arms around my neck. She doesn't know much about kissing, but she's a quick learner. When we finally break apart, we're both a bit breathless.

“So, where do we go from here?” she asks.

“We could set a few rules. No manipulation, for one, I'd say.”

“No games,” she says.

“I'd appreciate no more fireballs.”

“No hiding,” she says. “Total, brutal honesty.”

“That's it! The price!”

“What price?”

“My mother said every gift carries a price. This is it. No hiding. Not from ourselves. Not from each other.”

“Big price.”

“Big gift.”

“It won't be easy,” I warn. “We'll argue every step of the way. We'll fight. We'll slip back into old habits.”

“I'm willing to risk that,” she says.

“You're on.”

She smiles. “Bet you can't kiss me before I throw a little sizzler at you.”

I smile back.

I love a good challenge, eh?

About the Author

DEBORAH LYNN JACOBS
says, “The most challenging aspect of writing this book was exploring how The Power changed both Gwen and Adrian. Some scenes, where they came to terms with the darkness inside of them, were hard to write. But to back away from the deeper issues wouldn't have been telling the complete story.

“I attempted to explore all aspects of power, including the concept of psychic powers. It was a fascinating journey for me, and I'd like to invite you along. Just warning you, though. These aren't nice people. They'll stop at nothing to get what they want!”

Deborah Lynn Jacobs lived in Canada, where the book is set, most of her life. She presently resides in Wisconsin with her husband. Her two children have left for college, probably to avoid the question, “Would you mind taking a look at this?” This is Debbie's first novel for older teens.

Copyright © 2006 by Deborah Lynn Jacobs

A Deborah Brodie Book

Published by Roaring Brook Press

Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings

Limited Partnership

143 West Street, New Milford, Connecticut 06776

All rights reserved

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].

First edition September 2006

eISBN 9781626723801

First eBook edition: March 2015