Powers (10 page)

She visits the restroom while I pay the bill. I happen to glance over into a booth and see Jo and Conrad sitting together. What? They'd broken up, so what was he doing with her? I want to go over and ask. Maybe pound him in the face while I'm asking. But Melissa returns, links her arm through mine, and the opportunity passes.

When we get to the theater, I ask Melissa where she'd prefer to sit.

“Anywhere,” she says.

I touch her thoughts. She likes the back row, in the double seat. The make-out seat. Fine with me. We get comfortable, my arm around her, her head resting on my shoulder. With my free hand, I stroke her hair. She makes a contented humming sound and rests her hand on my leg.

I'm suddenly struck with the weirdest craving. I want an anchovy pizza. What? I hate anchovies.

Click.

Gwen. She loves anchovy pizza. Double anchovies. Her craving, not mine. She's picking up the phone. Ordering a large.

I disconnect from her mind and put up a block. Only it doesn't work. I still want anchovy pizza. I can't escape. She's in me, deep inside my mind. I can't shake her.

I try to watch the movie. Melissa snuggles closer. I slide my hand down to brush against her breast. She murmurs, slides her hand farther up my thigh.

And then I break out laughing.

“Shhhh,” warns a girl sitting two rows down.

I laugh harder. Melissa wonders if I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. I hold it in until I reach the men's room. Then I let loose.

Gwen's watching a funny movie. She's laughing so hard her abs ache. I lean against the wall, holding my gut, and laugh until tears stream down my face.

Some poor guy comes out of a stall, gives me a look of pure disgust as he races out. That sets me off again. It's a few more minutes before I get control. This isn't funny. What is she doing inside my head?

I return to my seat and Melissa. Dear, sweet, uncomplicated, wants-to-get-laid Melissa. The movie ends, and I realize I can't remember a single thing about the plot.

“Want to come back to my place?” I suggest.

“Sure.”

We get into my car. I read her mind. She figures if I don't start things, she will. She imagines, in detail, exactly what she'll do.

I nearly drive off the road.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice kind of husky. I start a conversation about school, about the teachers, anything to distract her. It works. She spends the rest of the ride complaining about our English teacher. I do a lot of nodding and “uh huh-ing” and that satisfies her.

We arrive. I hang up her coat, show her around. We're in the kitchen.

“Would you like something? A Coke, maybe?” I ask.

“How about a drink?” she says.

“Uh, we don't have much selection, Melissa.”

“Don't you drink?”

“All the time.” My one experience was getting drunk with some guys from school back in Milwaukee. I hadn't liked the loss of control. Or the puking.

I open the pantry, hunt around. “How's this?” I ask, holding up a bottle of bourbon.

“It'll do.”

I get her a glass. “Ice? Maybe Coke with it?”

“Straight.”

I pour an ounce or so into the glass, set the bottle down. She chugs back the bourbon in one gulp, then half-fills the glass. Some splashes onto my mother's prized kitchen counter. I grab a paper towel and wipe it off.

“Where's your room?” Melissa asks.

We go downstairs, but I lead her to the couch in the family room instead. I throw a few logs into the woodstove. The fire crackles. Melissa's hair shines red in the firelight, reminding me for a moment of Gwen's eyes with The Power shining in them. I push away the memory and join Melissa on the couch.

Her drink is half gone. That bugs me. Does she have to drink to make out with me? But then her lips are on mine, and her tongue is in my mouth.

She tastes like bourbon, smooth and harsh and hot. She kisses me, hard, demanding. I pull off her top, reach around to undo the clasp of her bra.

“Wait,” says Melissa. “Where's the bathroom?”

I point. She leaves, comes back a few minutes later. I know she's put in the diaphragm. I've set a selection of condoms on the coffee table. She checks them out, grabs a scented one.

We move into my bedroom.

“Oh, wow,” she says, seeing the sword on my wall. She takes it down, starts to pull it out of its scabbard. I take it away from her.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

I don't know what's wrong. I just don't want her touching it.

“Come here.” I sit on the bed. She climbs into my lap. I run a finger along the curve of her neck and feel soft, soft skin. I lean in for a kiss.

“Oh, wait,” she says. She reaches into her back pocket, brings out two pills. “Here.”

“What are those?” I ask, but I can guess.

“They'll make you happy,” she says.

“I'm already happy.”

“Aw, c'mon Adrian. It's no big deal.”

“No drugs.”

She pops a pill into her mouth, swallows it down with the last of the bourbon. She takes the other pill, tries to force it between my clamped lips.

And it's
wrong.
The whole scenario. There's no energy. No aura. Nothing. And much as I am desperate to get laid, I'm not
that
desperate.

I stand, dumping her to the carpet. She stares up at me with a mix of surprise and anger.

“Get dressed,” I tell her. “I'm taking you home.”

Gwen

The ringing of a phone woke me up.

“Hey, cuz. Wanna go for breakfast?”

“Not hungry,” I said, hanging up.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again.

“I'll be right there,” Joanne said.

“No.” Slam.

Ring. “Why are you so grumpy?”

“Why are you so obscenely cheerful?” I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and yawned.

“You know how Conrad kept calling me? Wanted to get back together? Well, I met him for pizza last night. I told him it's really, really over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So then he went into his I-can't-live-without-you-Joanne routine. So I told him he'd have to because I won't go out with a guy who tells me who I can and who I can't talk to.”

“Uh, huh,” I obliged her by saying.

“And I told him I didn't like the way he never talks about his feelings. Never opens up to me. So then he said he loved me.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. But I think he said that to get me back. So I walked out. I didn't even wait for the pizza. I simply walked out. Cool, huh?”

“Cool,” I agreed. But there was something in her voice. It sounded too cheerful. Too forced.

“Yeah. So what's done is done, right?” Her voice shook on
right?

I groaned. “Joanne? Why don't you call him? Give him another chance?”

“No way. He had lots of chances. Anyway, guess who I saw with Melissa?” She waited for me to respond. When I didn't, she said, “Adrian.”

“I'm sure they'll be very happy together.” My voice sounded bitter, even to myself.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Joanne asked.

“No.”

“Okay. I'll be over in ten,” she said.

I pulled the covers over my head. Exactly ten minutes later, Joanne yanked them off.

“Whoa, your hair! When did you dye it back?”

“Last night.”

“I like it,” Joanne said. “I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but I didn't think the red looked so good on you.”

“
Now
you tell me?”

She scrunched up her face. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Just go away and let me sleep.”

I burrowed back into the covers. Joanne grabbed my arm and pulled. I fell to the floor with a loud
thunk.

A bulldog, my cousin.

“Okay, you win,” I said, laughing. “Give me time to shower.”

I dressed in my baggy jeans and an old sweatshirt. I checked myself out in the mirror. The sweatshirt had a big mustard stain on the front. I looked like the poster child for low self-esteem.

I rummaged in my closet. I found my new jeans and pulled them on. Considered one of my new tops. Melissa-type tops, with low-cut necklines, short enough to show my midriff.

Forget that. I found a turtleneck, a creamy white knit. It fit snugly, showing off my best feature. Features.

“Wow!” said Joanne as I came downstairs. “You look hot. Hey, are those new glasses?”

“Yup. Went to the one-hour place at the mall last night. They're some new kind of plastic. Lighter and thinner than my old ones.”

“What was wrong with the contacts?” Joanne asked.

“They weren't me,” I said, shrugging.

I filled Joanne in as she drove us into town.

“Like wait,” Joanne said, turning to look at me. “You mean his eyes glowed? Like
glowed
glowed?”

“Yeah. Eyes on the road, Joanne,” I warned her. “His eyes, his whole body.”

I told her more, interspersing my story with the occasional, “eyes on the road, Joanne” and “hands on the wheel.” Joanne interrupted a dozen times to clarify a point or push for more details. We arrived at the Burger Barn in time for me to tell her the last part.

“You poured boiling oil over him?” Joanne asked, getting out of the car.

“No. I
imagined it.
He was reading my mind, Joanne. He lied to me all along. It was his own fault.”

“Yeah, but boiling oil? Isn't that a bit extreme?” Joanne led the way into the Barn, ordered two Western omelet bagel breakfasts. We found a table at the back, one of the roughhewn oak tables the Barn was famous for, and sat down opposite each other on the wooden benches.

“So, then what happened?” she prompted.

I continued the story. About him grabbing me, throwing me down on the couch.

Joanne mashed a hash brown into her mouth. A small piece stuck to her lip. I reached across and brushed it off.

“So, you socked him with a fireball?” she asked.

“I guess. Some kind of energy ball,” I said.

“Whoa. Did you hurt him?”

“I don't know. Sort of. Maybe. He deserved it, Joanne. The whole thing was a setup. The music, the candles. Everything. He brought me there for one purpose.”

“To make love to you,” Joanne said.

“To screw me,” I argued. “He thought having sex with me would increase his powers. He's a psychic vampire. He's been using me.”

“Really? I thought it went both ways.”

“What?”

“Your power has grown, too. First the dreams, now the visions. It's mutual.”

“Mutual? If it's so mutual, why did he prevent me from leaving? Why did he pin me down?”

“You were attacking him. He was protecting himself.”

“Why are you taking his side? Because you dumped Conrad? Is that it? Do you want Adrian? Well, you can have him.”

“It'd serve you right if I did go after him!” Joanne exploded.

“It's what you've wanted all along,” I said.

“No. What I wanted, all along, was for you to be happy. But, oh, no, not you. What are you afraid of? Letting someone into that fortress you've built around yourself?”

“That's better than you,” I retorted. “A new boyfriend every month. You're as bad as Melissa.”

Joanne's mouth dropped open. “How can you
say
that? I've never slept with any of them. It's called
dating.
That's what you're supposed to do in high school, Gwen.
Date.
You know, like go out, have fun?” Her voice faltered and her eyes filled with tears.

“I'm sorry, Joanne,” I said. “I didn't mean it. It was a stupid thing to say.”

Her tears overflowed, landed in wet splotches on her half-eaten bagel. I dabbed at her face with a napkin.

“Look,” I said, “ever since Stone—”

“Gwen,” Joanne interrupted. She sounded worn out. “Let it go already. He apologized. He even asked you out. And you turned him down.”

“I don't accept charity,” I said, bristling.

“What do you mean? Charity?”

“You think I didn't find out? About you paying him? Twenty bucks to take out your loser cousin? How do you think that made me feel?”

“Paid him? Are you nuts? Who told you that?”

“Melissa.”

“And you believed
her?
” Joanne asked quietly. “You didn't even come to me? You didn't ask me if it was true?”

“Oh, Joanne…” She was right. I should have asked her. Should have trusted her. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Water under the bridge. Uh, you finished eating?”

I'd only left a small bite of bagel. “I'm done. You going to finish yours?”

“Nah. I'm not hungry.” She threw away the rest of her breakfast and headed out of the restaurant.

I followed. “Joanne? I really am sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I'm not mad at you.”

But she wasn't smiling, either. And when she came to a frozen chunk of snow in the middle of the path, she gave it a vicious kick, sending snow chunks flying in all directions.

MONDAY, JANUARY 27

Adrian

I'm sitting in English, surviving the icy blast of emotion that Gwen throws my way. She's wearing a suede skirt, boots, and a brown turtleneck that matches her hair. She looks classy, like a sexy eyeglasses model. She catches me staring. She thinks, very clearly,
you could have had me, but you blew it.
Then she shuts me out of her mind. Recites the alphabet in French. Conjugates verbs, also in French. Sings
Frère Jacques,
every last verse.

Her stomach contracts with hunger. She had skipped breakfast. She's punishing me. She remembers how I reacted the day she was suffering cramps from her period.
Probably something I ate,
I'd said. She's put two and two together. Knows I was reading her mind. Figures if she's hungry, there's a good chance I'll be hungry, too.