Powers (6 page)

“Well, no offense, Mom, but I think Dad needs to let go a little. Stop taking on everyone's problems.”

“He can't, Adrian. Every gift has a price.”

A price? Yeah, I can see that. Like the pain in my head when Gwen cracked it open. But, man, the rush was great. And imagine how I can use this. Knowing what people are thinking? What could possibly be the drawback in that?

*   *   *

My thoughts return to the present as I pull into the parking lot. Walking into the school is like walking into a beehive. There's buzz all around me, and only I can hear it.

—and then she sat down and I could see her thong, like oh man and

—equal to the sum of the square of the other two sides, equal to the

—1867, no wait, or was it 1876? Or maybe

—and then I said to him, I said

—only three days late, been that late before but

I go into English class, sit down, try to ignore the voices in my skull. Suddenly it's like someone turned up the volume.

This girl walks in. Melissa? Same color hair, only shorter. Same kind of clothes, tight jeans and a low-cut top with spaghetti straps.

Uh, oh. He's checking me out.

The voice appears in my head, full-blown, so much louder than all the other voices.

Gwen?

I can't believe it. She looks totally different. What has she done to her hair? But, man, the way she fills out a top is amazing.

“Hi,” she says, sitting down beside me.
Oh, please, please let him say he likes my hair.

“I love your hair,” I say, lying through my teeth. I hate the hair. It's so
red.
And the contacts, so obviously fake, make her look cheap. But that's not what she wants to hear.

“Now your beautiful eyes are even more beautiful,” I say, and feel a warm flush of pleasure from her.

When English ends, we go our separate ways. We meet again at lunch, and sit at our table. Jo walks in. When she sees Gwen, she squeals, loud enough that the whole cafeteria hears.

“Omigosh!” she gasps, sitting down. “Wow! I didn't believe it. I mean, everyone's talking about your hair, but I never thought you'd ever do it.”

What Jo is thinking is:
everyone was right. It's hideous. Totally the wrong color for your skin tone. Whatever possessed you?
“I mean,
wow!
” she says again.

Tone it down already. People are staring,
Gwen thinks.

“Let them stare,” I say.

“What?” says Gwen.

Think fast.
“Everyone's staring, Gwen,” I say, trying to cover up my mistake. “You're beautiful.”

She flushes.

She looks like Melissa,
Jo is thinking.

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” I say.

Gwen looks at me with suspicion. I'm screwing up big time.

I drop my voice down, bedroom-soft, and capture Gwen with my eyes. “That's what I always thought, Gwen, that you would be very pretty if you wore contacts.”

Gwen's thoughts muddle.
What just happened?

I take her hand, and her thoughts become even more jumbled. Then something weird happens. Gwen feels a momentary sense of vertigo, like the world shifted on its axis. A vision comes to her.

We are in my bedroom, backlit with candlelight. I'm standing behind her, my arms wrapped around her. She shivers, leans back so our bodies touch. We're facing the full-length mirror in my wardrobe. I could swear our eyes are glowing.

The vision ends. Gwen won't look at me. I feel her emotions. Fear and amazement and hope in equal parts. She's wondering,
what was that? A waking dream? A vision? I'm getting visions now?

Yes, you
are
getting visions now, I want to tell her. Just as you opened a door in my mind, I have opened a door in yours.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 11

Gwen

Last night, over and over, I had the same dream. Us, in his bedroom, dozens of candles burning, his arms around me. It was the same as the vision I had when he touched my hand. Each time I awakened, not knowing what would happen next. But from the pounding of my heart, I could guess.

Was Mom right about the future? That it's set in its course, like an avalanche, rushing to its natural conclusion. But what conclusion is that? I think I already know.

*   *   *

This morning, right after dawn, I had a new dream. A grubby old guy had passed out in an alley.

I showered, then went downstairs and reached for my usual low-fat cereal and skim milk. The first bite made me retch. I tossed it out and made bacon and eggs instead. Now that my appetite was awake, it demanded to be satisfied. I topped off my breakfast with two pieces of toast and jam, then called Joanne.

“Hey. Were you asleep?”

“Of course not,” she yawned.

“Good, I'm on my way,” I said.

I hopped on our snowmachine and drove down our snow-covered lawn to the lake. Once on the ice, I cautiously puttered along.

Cautious. Like Mom.

I twisted my wrist, gunning the gas. The engine roared and the machine leaped forward. The wind, fiercely cold, whipped past me. I arrived at Joanne's to find her sitting at the breakfast counter, eating sausages and pancakes. Aunt Grace set down her pancake flipper and gave me a bear hug.

“Let me take a good look, Gwen.” She walked around me in a circle, fluffing my hair with her hands. “Fabulous.”

I couldn't be sure, but I got the feeling that she didn't actually like it, but didn't want to hurt my feelings.

Aunt Grace handed me a plate of pancakes and sausages, then left, saying, “I'll leave you two girls alone to gab now.”

“So, why the change, Gwen?” asked Joanne, once Aunt Grace left the room. “Adrian?”

I drowned my pancakes in maple syrup before answering. “No, of course not. It was just time.”

“Ha. Right.” Joanne ran her finger over the syrup on her plate and brought it, dripping, to her mouth. “There's something weird going on, you know? Like you two are magnets, first repelling, then attracting.”

I'm thinking of my vision, of us in his bedroom, his arms around me, our eyes glowing in the candlelight. I haven't told Joanne yet. I barely believe it myself.

“Um,” I hesitated. “Joanne, do you like him?”

“Of course I like him. That's not the point.”

“What is?”

“You got the dream. He came to you,” Joanne said, for once completely serious.

That's ridiculous, I thought. Or was it? I finished my second breakfast, then said to Joanne. “Speaking of dreams, I've had another one. Some old drunk passed out in an alley.”

“Whoohoo,” said Joanne. “What are we waiting for?”

Adrian

Saturday morning, I wake up alone in my own head. Or almost alone. I feel a whisper of thought from my mother, downstairs, reading the paper. Dad must be at work already. I shower, gulp down a protein shake and tell Mom that I'm off to work at the funeral home.

First job, clear the walks. A foot of snow fell overnight. It's fresh powder with the consistency of dust. I dig a shovel in, lift, and throw. It slides sideways off my shovel, right back onto the path. After an hour, I'm soaked through with sweat, shivering in my leather coat, and cursing my father all over again.

I carry the shovel into the office, where Dad sits at his desk looking over a stack of files.

“This sucks,” I inform him. Okay, maybe that's not the best way to say “good morning, dear father,” but I'm not in my happy place.

He looks up. “You're dripping on my carpet.”

“I need a snow blower,” I reply.

He rifles through the newspaper and pushes a section toward me. “Can't afford it. Buy this instead.”

This
is a gigantic aluminum shovel called a “snow float.” I'm not amused.

“And while you're at it,” Dad goes on, “pick up a gallon of paint in this color.” He reaches into his suit pocket and slides a paint chip across the desk.

“You're painting the bathroom?” The bathroom off the master bedroom is, in Mom's words, a “bilious yellow.”

“Nope. You are.”

“What?
No way!
”

“And who paid for your block heater?”

“When are you going to stop throwing that in my face? Look, I'll pay you back.”

Stalemate. We face off, glaring, arms folded.

Dad breaks first. “You hate it here, don't you? I feel it. Your anger, your resentment.” He uncrosses his arms, leans forward, clasps his hands together. “I lie awake at night, Adrian, wondering what got into me. What was I thinking, uprooting you without a good reason?”

I realize something. It's not his fault. I think back to my mother's words:
your father felt compelled to move here. He felt you belonged here.
It had sounded bizarre at the time, but that was before I'd met Gwen.

“Uh, look, it's fine, Dad,” I say. “It's working out.”

He doesn't seem convinced. “Are you sure? You could go back to Milwaukee, live with Joel.”

I just look at him. Joel, my older brother, is married with a baby on the way.

“Okay, not my best idea,” Dad says. “Look, do you think we could get back on speaking terms?”

I nearly spill my guts, right then and there. Hey, Dad. Guard your thoughts, okay? I can read you like a book.

Bad move. So, what I say is, “Sure.”

Then we look at each other. After thirty seconds of silence, we both break out into goofy grins.

“So, what's new?” Dad asks.

“Not much. What's new with you?” I reply.

We grin a bit longer, then Dad says, “Well, if you don't mind picking up that paint, I'll give you my debit card.”
I should tell him to buy a winter jacket and warm boots. He must be freezing in that leather coat.

“Hey, thanks,” I say.

“Thanks?”
What just happened? What did Helen say? That he was asking her about ESP?

“Uh, yeah. For the debit card.” Oh, man, that was lame. Will he buy it?

“Oh,” says Dad.
Nah. Mind reading's impossible.

I suppress my sigh of relief. Don't blow it.

“By the way, why don't you look for a winter jacket and warm boots? You must be freezing in that leather coat of yours.”

“Thanks!” I leave before I give myself away.

Gwen

We found him in the narrow alley beside the coffee shop. He wore a ratty brown coat and a gray hat, exactly like in my dream. The deep lines in his face were fuzzed with beard stubble. Clutched tightly in his hand was a whiskey bottle, half-concealed by a brown paper bag.

“Is he dead?” Joanne whispered.

“Well, if he is, we aren't going to disturb him by talking out loud,” I whispered back.

“Funny, ha, ha. Go check.”

“Why me?”

“It was
your
dream.”

That was hardly logical, but I couldn't think of a good comeback. I ventured into the alley. Drifting snow partially covered the ground, along with chocolate-bar wrappers, fast-food containers, and broken beer bottles.

“Check his pulse,” Joanne said.

I crouched down. Even in the frigid air, I could smell him.

“Hey, Joanne,” I called. “Can lice jump?”

She grimaced and made an impatient “go on” gesture.

As I reached toward him, he blew out a loud, reverberating fart.

“He's alive,” I said, holding my nose. I grabbed my camera.

“What are you doing?” Joanne asked.

“Well, you see, when I push this button here,” I said, demonstrating, “I get this image of whatever I'm looking at.”

“Very funny. You can't print a picture of him. How would his family feel?”

“If they're that concerned, they ought to take care of him,” I argued. Just the same, I clapped the lens cap back on my camera and put it away. Maybe Joanne was right. I didn't need to exploit the old guy's misery.

I pulled out my phone instead and dialed 411. “Hi, I need the number for the Rocky Water Police, please.”

The operator gave me the number. “Should I connect you?”

I hesitated. The future is set in its course.
But not today.

“Yes, please connect me.”

Adrian

I drive through silence. Snow-covered road, empty woods. No voices in my head. This ends when I arrive in town. I walk into Canadian Tire, looking for paint and a snow float. It's Saturday and it's a big store and it's filled with people.

The mental noise deafens me. I grab a snow float, pick up a gallon of paint, and take it to the counter to get the color mixed in.

“You want this shook up?” asks the paint guy. He's about my age, with spiked blue hair and a tongue stud. He puts the paint can into a mixer. Above the racket, I hear his thoughts—
hurts to pee. Burns like
—

As if I need this. Then, another voice speaks in my head.

—morning sunrise or peach delight? Morning sunrise … better with the drapes … too pink … but the peach is too peachy … might clash with the rug …

I look beside me to see a middle-aged woman agonizing over two paint samples. Behind me, a baby, bundled up to its eyeballs in a snowsuit, hat, mittens, and a blanket, sits fussing in his car seat. His mental whining cuts through my head like a table saw.

I pay for the paint, say to the guy with the blue spikes, “See your doctor.” I turn to the middle-aged woman beside me and say, “Morning Sunrise,” then say to the mother of the fussy baby, “He's hot.”

Then I leave. I'm partway out of the store when I hear another voice.

Can lice jump?
It sounds like Gwen. I jerk my head around, looking for her, but she isn't there.