Powers (5 page)

Like me. He's a Watcher like me? Reads body language. It's possible.

“Why? Why the act?”

“Why not?” I shrug. “Girls usually fall for it. Besides, it's easier than being myself.”

Like me. Like Gwen-the-Photographer.

There's just enough truth in my statement that she believes me. Man, but I'm good!

“Could we start over again?” I give her my best puppy-dog look and she melts. I can see, in her mind, that she likes the fact that Melissa is staring at us. It's working!

I lift an eyebrow, tilt my head, and smile. I've practiced that move in the mirror. It never fails.

Another act? But he is cute.

Good. She's half mine already. Now, pay her a compliment.

“You have beautiful eyes. Don't hide them,” I reach out and remove her glasses. Touching her, I feel the world come into sharper focus. Sounds louder. Colors brighter. Emotions more intense.

She hesitates, wondering if she can trust me.
He's flattering me. What does he want?

And then it happens,
blam,
like a door opening in my mind. I'm suddenly hearing voices, like Gwen's mental voice, only not as strong. They rush into my head, competing for my attention, turning into shreds of sentences, dislocated phrases, half-heard words:

—what's with the plant

—so intense, like they don't care they're in the cafeteria or

—what's he see in her, anyway?

I let go of her hand, but the voices are still there.

—Math test next period didn't study so screwed

—ooh nice nail color wonder if it's

“What's wrong?” Gwen asks.
Looks like he's going to faint.

“Migraine.” I get up, nearly fall over.

“Maybe you should lie down.” Gwen says.

“Good idea.” I need to get away from her.

I stagger out of the cafeteria. Away from Gwen, the voices aren't as intense. But they're still there. I stumble down the hallway, heading blindly for the first-aid room. Along the way, a girl passes by. Her perfume jangles my nerves like loud music. I see a poster on a locker and it screams like a set of brakes worn down to the rotors. I hear a door slam and my vision fragments into broken glass.

My brain circuits are scrambled.

I find the first-aid room, babble “migraine” and “ice packs.” An older woman takes my hand, leads me to a bed, brings ice, and draws the blinds.

The last thing I hear before I pass out is,
“Poor kid. White as a sheet.”

Only I hear it with my
mind.

Gwen

In my dream, he gave me a rose—deep red, delicate, its petals barely beginning to open. But there I was, staring at a, what did he say it was? A purple hyacinth?

I turned the pot of green shoots around, looking more closely. In the middle of the clump was a knobby thing, like a small artichoke. I stared at it, struggling with my mixed feelings.

I can't trust him. He's a phony and a liar. He admitted it himself.

On the other hand, that way he has of tilting his head and smiling. Does he know what effect he has on a girl?

Get a grip. Of course he knows. He probably practices in the mirror.

But the way he'd looked at me, with hunger in his eyes, gave me shivers. And I had to admit, I loved the way Melissa gaped. Like why's the new hot guy talking to Gwen-the-Loser? Maybe Gwen's not a loser. Ha!

Your eyes are beautiful. Don't hide them.

Is that what I've been doing? Hiding? Behind my glasses, behind bulky sweatshirts, behind my camera?

After school, I stopped at the optometrist's office and left with a trial pair of green-tinted contact lenses. Next, clothes. Jeans, slung low on my hips. Tops, slinky, clingy with plunging necklines. Then, the big one. My hair.

“Chop it off,” I said to the hairdresser. “Chin length. Give me bangs. And let's do something about the color.”

An hour later, I examined the results in the mirror. Short, bouncy, and very red. A perfect match for my green eyes.

I headed for the bakery to show Mom. She was placing a tray of apple strudel in the display case when I walked in. She brushed her hands on her white apron, and said, “May I help you?”

Then, “Oh, my gosh. Gwen? Your hair! Oh my goodness. Your eyes are
green!
”

“What do you think?”

“Well, it's quite a change,” she said, frowning.

She didn't like it. I hadn't expected she would. Mom hates change. If the grocery store is out of her favorite tea, she'll spend ten minutes trying to choose another one. Sometimes she'll simply leave, too overwhelmed to decide.

“I was about to take a coffee break,” Mom said.

“Okay.” I followed her into the staff room. She put on fresh coffee, set out cream and sugar.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“No.” I always said no. Then, “Wait, Mom. Yes. An éclair, please.”

“Are you sure, honey? They're rather fa—uh, filling.”

“I'm sure.” Fattening, she was going to say.

She returned a second later with the éclair. Defiantly, I sank my teeth into the puff pastry, dark chocolate icing and rich cream filling. Ten seconds later, it was gone, leaving only sticky chocolate that I licked off the tips of my fingers.

“Goodness,” said Mom. “What's come over you?”

“A zest for life,” I said.

Mom smiled uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure about
zest.
She brought over two coffees. I stirred cream and sugar into mine. Mom left hers black and sipped carefully. She squinted at my hair.

“Why don't you come out and say it?” I said. “Tell me you hate it.”

“Oh, honey, I don't hate it. It's just rather dramatic, don't you think?” she asked, smoothing back her own hair, now more gray than brown.

Well, if she thought that was dramatic, she certainly wouldn't like my new clothes. I kept my coat zipped up.

Mom took out her knitting and filled the small room with the chattering of her needles. I'd grown up with that sound. She must have knitted a hundred child-sized blankets for Emergency Services. Every cop car, ambulance, and fire truck in town carried a stash of them.

“Mom, why do you keep making those?” I asked, to make conversation. It was clear we wouldn't be talking about my transformation.

“Keeps my hands busy,” she said.

My Watcher's instincts kicked in. Had there been the slightest hesitation in her voice, the briefest stutter in the smooth motion of her hands?

“Is that the only reason?”

Her hands stopped in mid-click. “Gwen, have you been talking to Aunt Grace? What did she tell you?”

Aunt Grace was Joanne's mother; my mom's sister.

“Oh, stuff,” I lied. What was this? My mother had a
secret?

Mom dropped her knitting. “I told her not to tell you. What's done is done. Unless, oh, Gwen, tell me you're not getting them?”

“Getting them?”

“The dreams. Please tell me you aren't having them, too.”

Too?
My mother had the dreams? Is that why she's so timid, always looking back over her shoulder?
She
had the dreams?

I hesitated. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't want to worry her. Ever since Dad died, she'd been so fragile. In fact, she was fragile even before Dad died, leaving every decision up to him, even the little ones, like what to make for dinner.

“I don't know what you mean,” I said. “What dreams?”

“So Grace didn't tell you. I made her promise.”

“Mom,
what
dreams?”

“Ones that predict the future,” Mom said.

“You had dreams like that?” I prompted.

“Oh, goodness. I guess you're old enough to know,” Mom said. She picked up her coffee in both hands and gulped it down. “I was about your age. I'd met this boy, Matthew. He, oh, I'm sure you won't believe this, but if he touched something that was yours, he could tell things about you.”

“Psychic,” I said.

“Yes, I guess that's what you'd call it. And after I met him, I started having these dreams. Awful dreams. People dying. Accidents. A young girl, drowning out at Lakefront Beach. The mother asleep in the sun, the girl out on her air mattress. It had a leak, you see, and deflated. Matthew and I swam out, and brought her back to safety. The town gave us plaques for bravery. I still have mine.”

“But, that's wonderful,” I said.

“No, you don't understand. The girl died. Two weeks later. Pneumonia.”

“The blankets,” I said.

Mom gave me a knowing look. “The blankets. I couldn't save one child, but maybe I can comfort another.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, not sure what else to say. “Did you try to save anyone else?”

“There was no sense in trying. You can't change fate,” Mom said. “The future is set in its course. It has its own momentum, like an avalanche. Once the snow breaks and starts to slide, there's nothing you can do until it's over.”

Her voice trailed off. She stared into her empty cup as if it held an answer.

“What happened to Matthew?” I asked.

Mom shrugged. “He left, took a job up north. The dreams stopped. They never came back. A few years later, I met your father.”

Did Matthew unlock some kind of latent ability in Mom? Is that what's happening to me?

“Gwen, are you okay?” Mom asked. “You are telling the truth, aren't you? You aren't having dreams like that, are you?”

“No, Mom,” I assured her. “I guess you didn't pass them on.”

“Thank goodness. Nothing good comes of them.” She reached across the table to pat my hand. “I have to get back to work. Be careful driving home, eh?”

“Yes, I'll be careful,” I promised.

Sure, be careful, Gwen. Don't take risks. Watch life go by from the sidelines. And when a totally hot guy gives you a peace offering, hang back because you are afraid.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 10

Adrian

I'm driving home from school, but I'm thinking about yesterday.

*   *   *

I wake up in the first-aid room, headache-free and wondering if I'd only imagined my head cracking open. But then the first-aid volunteer asks how I am, and I hear, in my head,
looks better now.

I'm buzzed, like I've eaten a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans washed down with espresso. I want a friend, someone I can talk to. But there is no one. Being yanked up by the roots every few years means you don't make close friends. No one you can trust, anyway.

*   *   *

I dump my backpack at the front entrance. A fire crackles in the fieldstone fireplace. I smell pot roast and apple pie. I'm about to walk into the kitchen, when it happens again.

Dad:
Mrs. Neal at seven, go over arrangements, will need a lot of support. Prepare Mr. Neal later—wonder what dye might work best? Awfully sallow, after the cancer. Wait until morning? Nah. Tired, but I can manage.

Mom:
He looks so tired. Shadows under his eyes. Taking on so much, running the place alone. Place called to him … so strange …

I walk in. Mom lifts the lid off her slow cooker, looks around uncertainly for a place to put it.

Might mark the counter. Granite, though, shouldn't mark. So pretty.

She sets the lid on the top of the stove instead.

Dad watches her with a bemused smile. The smile fades as he looks at me.

“Your car start okay this morning?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“You're welcome,” he says pointedly.
Never did thank me for paying for his block heater.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Does he really have shadows under his eyes? Not sleeping well? Maybe it's guilt at dragging us along with him on his Great Canadian Adventure.

I grab a juice from the fridge, drain it, and set the bottle down on the kitchen counter.

“So, how was school?” Mom picks up the bottle, rinses it, and places it in the recycle bin under the sink. She wipes up the dark ring of moisture it left behind.

“The same. I went, I learned, I came home,” I say. “I'm going down to do homework.”

“I'll call you when dinner is ready,” Mom says.

Dinner is quiet, with Dad not speaking except for “great roast” and “pass the potatoes.” He leaves soon after, saying he has an appointment at the funeral home. I nearly say,
yeah, I know. Mrs. Neal,
but I keep my mouth shut. I clear the table and load the dishwasher, lost in my thoughts.

“Anything wrong?” Mom asks.

“Huh?”

She opens the microwave. There's the carton of milk I've just put away.

“Oops,” I say.

Laugh lines crinkle around her eyes. Dad told me he married her for those eyes—clear gray and wide set. She places the milk in the fridge and waits.

“Do you believe in ESP?” I blurt out.

Mom wipes down the already clean counter and rearranges a bowl of fruit. I catch myself tapping my fingers.

“What makes you ask?” she says.

I'm about to tell her, but two things stop me. One, I'm too old to run to my mother for advice. And two, I don't want her to know. Not yet, anyway. So I lie.

“We were talking about perception in Psych class and someone mentioned ESP.”

Mom stalls, spraying and wiping off the appliances. “I believe some people may connect with the world in a way most people cannot,” she finally says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your father, for example. He has an uncanny ability to understand what other people are feeling. You could call it empathy, but it goes deeper than that. He can't separate himself from the pain of his clients. It takes its toll over time.”