Powers (7 page)

Could I be hearing her from a distance? Still wondering, I walk the few blocks over to First Street. A police car drives by and stops. Two uniformed cops walk into an alley and reappear half-carrying some old drunk. They pour him into the back of the police car and leave.

Nice town.

I walk into a store advertising a sale. Everything's twenty-five percent off. One look tells me I've come to the right place. Jackets crowd the racks. One entire wall is overed with hats and gloves and something labeled “neck warmers.” They look like fleece tubes.

“Need some help?” asks a girl with a freckled nose and brown eyes.

“Yeah. I need some warm clothes.”

She gives my leather coat the once-over. “Come with me. I'll take care of you.”

I see in her mind that she'd like to take care of me in more ways than one. Before long, I'm looking at a stack of stuff beside the cash register—a parka and boots guaranteed to keep me warm to forty below, insulated gloves, and a neck warmer.

The girl, Mandy, rings up the sale. I whistle when I see the total.

“You could wait until next week,” suggests Mandy. “Everything's half off then.”

“How about giving me half off now?” I give her my best little-boy smile.

“I couldn't.”
Boss is on holiday. She'd never know.

“No one will know,” I push. “It'll be our little secret.”

She wavers.
She'd never find out. Never checks my sales receipts.

“I won't tell and you won't tell,” I say, dropping my voice down into seduction range. I slip around the counter, move in close. “Don't make me beg, Mandy.”

He's adorable. Wonder how he kisses?

I look around the store. We're alone. I lead her behind a rack of clothes. I draw out the moment, moving in close, leaning down so our lips almost touch. I pull back to give her time to say no.

I must be crazy,
she thinks.
I don't even know him. Oh, no. Don't leave. Do it. Do it, already.

I mean to kiss her lightly, a mere brush of my lips on hers, but she leans into me and gives me a long, slow kiss. I break away first.

“Wow,” she says.

“Yeah, wow,” I say. “So, about that discount?”

She hesitates, then, “Sure.”

I pay with Dad's debit card and tell her thanks.

“Wait.” She scribbles her number on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Call me.”

“I will,” I promise, as the door chimes on my way out.

But I know I won't. She got what she wanted. I got what I wanted. End of transaction; both parties satisfied.

Gwen

After calling the police, I left Joanne sipping a latte at Freshly Ground and headed over to the newspaper office, where Doug was on weekend coverage.

“Hey, kiddo,” Doug said. “Nice hair. So what brings you in on a Saturday?”

“I've been thinking about that fire. I'd like to do a background article about arson. You know, typical profile, motivation, common methods. That sort of thing.”

“What? A week ago, you said you were a photographer, not a reporter,” said Doug.

“Things change,” I said. “So, can I go ahead?”

“Hmm, I don't know,” said Doug, pushing his sleeves up. “We don't want to run anything that could be seen as sensationalism.”

“You could hold it until the guy strikes again,” I said.

“When?”

“
If
he strikes again.”

Doug cracked his knuckles. I held my breath.

“Okay. Go for it.”

“Thanks, Doug. You won't regret this.”

He shook his head as if bemused. “You know, kiddo, you've got good instincts. You'll make a fine reporter.”

I grinned all the way back to Freshly Ground.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 19

Adrian

A week passes. I learn something. There are pluses and minuses to reading minds.

On the plus side, it can be useful. When I don't know the answers on an English quiz, I borrow them from Gwen's head. In History, I'm zoning out when the teacher asks me a question. The answer is in his mind. On Monday, I see that my mother is planning to cook liver and onions for dinner. I grab a burger on my way home.

On the minus side, I have very little control over what comes into my head. It's like walking through an electronics store with every stereo, every television turned up at max volume. Working for Dad at the funeral home is killing me, no pun intended.

Normally, my job is easy: greet people at the door, direct them to the right rooms, make sure there's always hot coffee, keep the walks clear of snow. But, one night, we have a visitation for the family of a suicide. He's young, only sixteen. His mother's grief is so raw that I find myself locked in the bathroom, my heart racing, my stomach churning. I turn on the tap, splash water over my face. I'm shaking so violently that I can barely grab a paper towel. I have to gain some control over this. No way will I turn into my father.

How do you control your own mind? Weight lifting helps, but only while I'm working out. So, feeling a bit foolish, I give meditation a try. I light a single candle and stare at the flame. I block out everything, even my own thoughts. After several nights, I achieve stillness. I try to remember that stillness at school, when Gwen's presence magnifies everything. I can't block completely, but at least I am able to lower the volume.

And so the week passes, each day revolving around Gwen. On Monday, she leaves for her newspaper job full of excitement. She's working on a story about the arsonist. One phrase repeats in her head,
you've got good instincts.
She loves the sound of it.

Meanwhile, she's still suspicious of me. Had I lied? Am I reading her mind? Invading her privacy? She tests me, imagining gross images and watching for my reaction. On Tuesday, I'm about to bite into a tuna sandwich when she thinks about maggots, forty or fifty fat, glistening, white maggots, crawling over the surface of my sandwich. I bite into the sandwich and smile. On Thursday, I pick up my carton of milk. She imagines sour milk: pale liquid filled with chunks. I drain the entire carton and continue on with our conversation. I can almost feel the chunks sliding down my throat; can almost taste the vile liquid.

It's a game with shifting rules. She's sneaky and underhanded. I respect that. I like a challenge. Besides, I have my own secret weapon.

Flowers.

On Monday, I bring her a yellow rose. My florist guy gives me a card, and I write a single word on it: Friendship.

On Tuesday, I give her Baby's Breath: For Innocence.

Wednesday, I bring a yellow daffodil. I write on the card: The sun shines when I am with you.

Thursday, a pink camellia. I am longing for you.

And on Friday, phlox. I don't even know what phlox is, but I'm going on the advice of my new friend, the florist. I write on the card: Our souls are united.

Gwen smiles.

Gwen

I think he was telling the truth about not reading my mind. I tested him a few times by imagining the grossest images I could imagine. He didn't react. Not even an involuntary shudder. I imagined maggots on his sandwich and he bit into it with obvious enjoyment. Sour milk, and he swallowed it without hesitation. No one has that kind of self-control. As a Watcher, I'm sure of this. There would have been some small sign if he'd seen the images in my mind.

We sit together in English and in Psychology. He has lunch with me every day. When Joanne joins us, he is polite, but he gives his attention to me.

I discover things about him. I'm pop or soft rock; he's alternative rock. I'm Russian novels; he's classic cars and body-building magazines. I'm quiche and spinach salad; he's steak, rare, with a Caesar salad on the side.

But we have some things in common. Movies set in the Middle Ages, knights and chivalry and stealing from the rich to give to the poor. And anything supernatural—movies, TV shows, even books, though he reads only graphic novels.

And then, there's the flowers. I thought it was dumb that Conrad brought Joanne flowers, but now I'm waiting to see what each new day will bring. I love the way he writes a message for each one, love the way he brushes against me as he hands me the flower. Love the intensity of his blue eyes and the way he looks into mine as if he has nothing else in the world to do.

The weirdest thing happens when we touch. I feel that warmth, that tingle, running through me. Everything seems sharper, clearer. Often a vision comes to me.

The arsonist will strike again. That's a recurring vision. Where or when, I don't know, but it feels like it might be soon. And when it does, Doug will run my background article. He's already read it and pronounced it, “Excellent work. Good, objective reporting.” I'm hoping, if I can impress him, that I can land a summer internship at the paper. How cool would that be?

Adrian

On Sunday, I'm painting the master bathroom when I learn another price of my gift.

Dad pokes his head around the corner. “Hey, guy, how's it going?”

“Fine.”

“Missed some.” Dad points.

I slide the roller over the spot. Paint speckles fly through the air, making a splatty sound.

“Yup, this is going to look great,” says Dad. “Terrific house, don't you think?”

“Um-hmm.” I'm concentrating, trying not to get paint on the woodwork.

“Great bathroom, too,” Dad rambles on. “Great big Jacuzzi tub, huge shower.”

I freeze. I'm reading his thoughts. He's thinking of that nice big shower, big enough for two people.
Oh, man.
They went at it, last night, right there in the shower. I see the memory in Dad's mind. Sick. It's like watching porn,
only it's my parents.

“Uh, Dad? You have to leave.”

“Huh?”

“I've got to, uh, use the…” I motion toward the toilet.

“Oh! Sure! Catch you later.”

I drop the paint roller into the pan, lock the door, sink to the floor. The room spins. There are certain things I don't need to know, and this is at the top of the list. I leave without bothering to clean up. A moment later, I'm in my car, heading to town, driving on autopilot. I wind up at the school. The whole time I'm telling myself, I can control this mind-reading thing. Dad caught me off guard, that's all.

I'm caught up in my own thoughts. Then I hear a voice that isn't my own.
It's happening.

It's Gwen. I tune in on her and see the image of a train barreling down the tracks, smashing into a pickup truck. I focus, pull in the details. It's the tracks near school, a few blocks away.

Gwen

“Are you sure about this?” Joanne asked.

“Not totally sure. The dreams aren't that specific.” I'm thinking about the rose that became a hyacinth.

“Great,” said Joanne. “You drag me out of bed with some story about a train wreck, freeze my butt off waiting in your car for four hours, and now you tell me
you aren't sure?
”

“All I know is that a train will come around that bend,” I said, pointing, “at the same time as a red pickup decides to run the barrier. I don't know if it will happen in the next five seconds, or the next five hours, or the next five days.”

“Great. Meanwhile, we starve,” grumped Joanne.

“There's a granola bar in the glove compartment.”

Joanne grabbed it, ripped off the wrapper.

“Give me half,” I said.

“I liked you better before,” Joanne said, cramming her half of the granola bar into her mouth.

I ate mine quickly, before she could demand more than her share. I closed my eyes, remembering the details of my dream: the train, its brakes screaming, whistle blowing. It hits the truck, sending it flying off the tracks. The truck comes to rest in a tangle of crumpled metal.

Joanne brought me back to reality by pounding on my arm. “Gwen. Truck, truck!”

“It's happening,” I said.

Parked at the top of a hill, we could clearly see the scene below. The barrier arms lowered; the red warning lights blinked. The train rounded the bend, obscured by the ice fog that had collected in the valley. From our height, we could see the train. From the tracks, the driver of the truck would see only fog.

“Hey, we gotta warn him,” Joanne yelled, wrenching open the car door. She ran down the hill toward the tracks.

The air
shifted
around me. A new vision came.

The truck is thrown off the tracks, sails through the air. Joanne has time to scream once before it smashes into her.

“Joanne, no!” She was halfway down the hill.

From behind me, I heard footsteps. Adrian. He flew past me, reached Joanne and pushed her aside. A snowbank caught her fall.

“What the—?” she gasped.

Adrian took off his coat, waved it frantically at the truck.

The truck ducked under the first barrier arm just as it lowered. The train bore down, its whistle blowing, brakes squealing. The driver of the truck hit the gas and burst through the second barrier. The train roared by a split second later.

Safe.

I glanced down at my shaking hands, surprised to see I was holding my camera. When had I grabbed it? How many pictures had I taken? I ran down the hill to where Joanne was brushing snow off her coat and spluttering.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, thanks to Adrian,” she said, giving him a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet.

I suppressed a jab of jealousy and joined the hug-fest, wrapping my arms around them both. Over Joanne's head, Adrian gave me a big smile.

“You going to get his name or anything?” Adrian asked, nodding toward the pickup truck.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”

What was I thinking? I felt like my head was floating free.