Powers (2 page)

Gwen

“So, this new guy. Adrian Black. Is he
the one?”
Joanne asked, plunking down her plate of poutine. The combination of French fries layered with gravy and cheese curds looked like a dog's dinner, but smelled fantastic.

“The one
what?”
I jabbed my fork into my so-called lunch, a salad with fat-free dressing. Why had my cousin inherited all the skinny genes? No justice, eh?

Joanne struggled to speak around her mouthful of fries.
“Him.
The man of your dreams.”

I stole one of her fries, slid it through half-congealed gravy, and devoured it before answering.

“The boy
in
my dreams,” I clarified.

“What does he look like?” Joanne finger-combed her sandy-blonde hair. It fell in layered waves, framing her delicate face and light brown eyes.

I shoved aside my own crap-brown hair and pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Ugly. Big yellow teeth. Acne.
Bad
acne.”

Joanne went into a coughing spasm. I leaned back as a shower of milkshake flew my way. “Not what I heard,” she said, once she stopped hacking.

“Well, you heard wrong.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Joanne asked.

“Him. I saw
him.
I saw houses on fire. Coffins. Skulls. It's all connected. Ergo, he's dangerous.”

Joanne sighed. “Honestly, Gwen, you are the only person on the planet who uses the word ‘ergo.' In my opinion, you never got over Stone.”

That stung. Oh, did it sting. Stone. Grade eight. Back then, I was fat, not merely heavy, like now. Add to that braces and glasses. So I should have been suspicious when Stone, the cutest guy in the school, asked me to our grade eight graduation dance. “My parents and I will pick you up at six.” He didn't show. You know what they say: if it seems too good to be true …

Later, Melissa told me that Joanne paid Stone twenty bucks to take me to the dance. He grabbed the money and ran. That hurt, to think my own cousin figured I was so pathetic that she had to buy me a date. My pride prevented me from confronting her.

“Joanne, I got over Stone a long time ago,” I told her. “Drop it, okay?”

Joanne wasn't listening. I turned around, following her rapt gaze, to see Adrian swaggering through the cafeteria. He was coatless now, his muscles bulging under butt-tight jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked like a movie star in a sea of extras.

“Oh, wow,” Joanne said. “I've got to meet him.”

“You have a boyfriend. Conrad, remember?”

“I'm thinking of breaking it off.” She glanced two tables over to where Conrad ate lunch with his hockey friends. “He's too possessive. And, he never opens up. I want a guy who can be real with me.”

“He's already latched onto Melissa,” I said, now desperate.

“What?”

“English class. Had his hands all over her.”

Joanne looked over to the table beside us. Sure enough, Melissa was standing up, her eyes on Adrian.

“She's moving in,” Joanne said.
“Let me go!”
She pulled free of my grasp and dashed to the front of the cafeteria. Adrian turned around, balancing a loaded tray, searching for a place to sit.

Melissa was fast, but Joanne was faster. From this distance, I couldn't hear what she said to Adrian, but it must have worked. He followed her back to our table. Melissa veered off, acting as if she hadn't been aiming for him after all.

Run. Run and hide.

“Adrian, this is my cousin, Gwen,” said Joanne, sitting down beside me.

“Yeah, Gwen's in my first class.” Adrian sent me a smile. A pity smile, to make the fat girl's day. What did he expect me to do? Swoon?

“So, Adrian, where are you living?” prompted Joanne.

“Eagle Lake Road.”

“You guys bought the Anderson place?” Joanne asked. “Hey, Gwen, you used to babysit for the Andersons, remember?”

I nodded.

“Wow,” Joanna continued, “we're almost neighbors. Go another two klicks and you get to my place.”

“Klicks?”

“Kilometers. Gwen and I are cousins. Did I mention that? Gwen and her mom live like five houses from me.”

Adrian raised an eyebrow.

“Gwen's dad is gone,” Joanne explained. “Died like, what, three years ago, Gwen?”

“Yes.” Three years and four months ago. Heart attack. The day before my fourteenth birthday.

“I'm sorry,” Adrian said, but it sounded like the automatic “I'm sorry” that people always say.

I shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

“So, Adrian,” continued Joanne, “tell us all about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” He spoke so quietly you had to strain to hear. Nice control tactic.

“Where are you from?”

“Milwaukee. Before that, Philadelphia, Chicago, other places.”

Milwaukee came out as Ma-wakee. His accent was a mix of eastern seaboard twang and midwestern drawl.

“Why'd you move around?” Joanne continued.

“My dad's work.”

“What's he do?” Joanne was a bulldog. Once she caught hold of a person, she didn't let go. Adrian's ears turned transparently pink.

“He bought the funeral home in town,” he said.

“Oh, so that explains Gwen's dr—”

I kicked her under the table.

“Her what?” asked Adrian.

“Uh, nothing,” Joanne said, throwing me a dirty look. “So, your dad runs the business?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said, his accent turning it into two syllables. “I help out—shoveling snow, cleaning, greeting visitors, maintaining the vehicles. Dad does everything else. The arrangements. The embalming.”

“Gross,” said Joanne, then clapped her hand over her mouth. That's Joanne for you: speak first, think later.

Adrian leaned toward her. “Jo, I'll let you in on a little secret. The embalming? No big deal. Once they're gone, they're gone. They don't complain.” He leaned back, folded his arms. “It's the relatives who can be a real pain.”

“Very sympathetic, for an undertaker's son,” I couldn't help but say.

“It's a business,” Adrian said. “At the end of the day, my dad goes home like anyone else. No need to get emotionally involved.”

Wow, he was
cold.

He shot a sharp look at me, as if he knew what I was thinking, then turned his attention to his lunch. He'd bought two grilled chicken sandwiches. He removed the chicken from the rolls and set the rolls aside. He scraped the mayonnaise off the chicken, and cut it up into bite-sized pieces. He piled it on top of his salad, then ate precisely, chewing slowly and washing down each bite with part-skim milk.

“Fry?” Joanne offered him. A faint look of disgust crossed his face as he looked at her poutine, but he quickly hid it.

“No, thanks.”

Joanne stuffed in another mouthful, then mumbled around her food. “So, you like it here?”

Adrian held up a finger, indicating he was still chewing. Then he leaned forward. I knew his next words would be something slimy like, “I like
you
very much, Jo.”

Maybe he caught my expression. He stopped, pulled his hand back. “It's cold,” he said. “My car wouldn't start at first.”

“Didja plug 'er in?” Joanne said, chewing.

“Sorry?”

Joanne swallowed. “Did you plug in your block heater?”

“Uh, no,” he admitted.

Ha! He had no idea what a block heater was. Even Joanne caught it. “You don't know what that is, do you?” she asked.

“Sure, I do,” he said, not very convincingly.

“It's a heater that warms your engine block,” said Joanne. “You plug your car in overnight. You'll need it if the temperature goes down to thirty.”

“Thirty? That's barely freezing,” he said.

“Thirty
below,
Centigrade,” Joanne said. “In Fahrenheit, that's like, uh, what is it, Gwen?”

“Twenty or twenty-five below, Fahrenheit,” I estimated. “Forty below is the same on both scales.”

Adrian deigned to look at me. He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Trust her,” Joanne said. “Gwen's a genius.”

Thanks, Joanne. Fat and a genius. I wonder why the guys don't flock to me.

Adrian turned his attention back to Joanne. “So, where can I get a block heater, Jo?”

“Canadian Tire,” she said. “Hey, how's about I meet you after school. If your car doesn't start, I can give you a lift.”

“Okay.” He was all smiles now.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” said Joanne.

“We have that thing after school.”

“What thing?”

I kicked her. “
That
thing.”

“Oh.
That
thing.” She gave me a look that said we'd have to talk about this later. “Uh, sorry, Adrian. Another time?”

“Sure.” Big smile, showing perfect white teeth. I bet he bleached them.

Joanne checked her watch. “Oops. Forgot. I have a meeting before the next class.”

“Let me guess,” Adrian said, still smiling. “Cheerleader?”

“Debate Team,” Joanne said, with a perceptible edge to her voice.

Adrian's head jerked back, a bare millimeter, but enough for a Watcher to notice. “See you later, Jo,” he said, recovering.

No way. Not while I was around. What a predator. He was
not
getting my cousin.

Once Joanne was gone, I said, “Her name's Joanne, by the way. Not Jo.”

“I'll try to remember that,” he replied, eyes narrowed. Then he turned his attention to his food. I had been dismissed.

Jerk,
I thought, getting up to leave.

I looked back to see a half-puzzled, half-angry expression in his big baby blues. It was almost as if I'd spoken out loud. But I hadn't. Had I?

Adrian

What's with her, anyway? Telling me in that stuck-up voice, “Her name is Joanne, not Jo.” Then she calls me a jerk. If this is Canadian hospitality, I can do without it.

I finish eating, then go out to the parking lot to run my car for a while to keep the engine from freezing. While it's warming up, I call home.

“Hello,” answers a male voice. Great. My father.

“Is Mom there?”

“She's busy.” I hear Mom in the background, rattling dishes.

“Tell Mom I'll be home late. I'm going to Canadian Tire to get a block heater.”

“Good idea,” says Dad. “I'll reimburse you.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Since you're the reason I need one.”

That meets with hard silence. Dad's not one for pissing matches. He lets the silence sink in, then says, “I'll let your mother know you'll be late.”

His voice is as subzero as the wind that whips off the lake, freezing my fingers before I reach the warmth of the school.

Gwen

Had I called him a jerk out loud?
That wasn't like me. Maybe I'd muttered it under my breath. He made me so furious. The way he moved in on Joanne, repeating her name like some smarmy used car salesman, calling her “Jo” like they'd been friends for years.

And Joanne, so naive, falling for him. Someone has to watch out for her. She has no sense where boys are concerned. Look at Conrad. All romantic gestures, flowers and chocolate and love notes. And Joanne fell for it. Meanwhile, she even looks at another guy and Conrad goes ballistic. Something wrong there.

I drove slowly through town, heading for my work placement as a student photographer at
Rocky Waters Press.
It was a gorgeous day. Twenty-five below, deep blue sky, no wind. I reached the newspaper office and entered through the back door, leading to the presses. I loved the roar and rumble, the rush of papers speeding along the rolls, the inky smell of the fresh newsprint. I grabbed a paper, and checked out the photo on the front page.

A house on fire, with flames reaching into the night.
Please no. Don't let this be happening.

The cutline said: “House Destroyed By Early Morning Fire.” There was little else, except to say the Rocky Waters Volunteer Fire Department had responded quickly but was unable to put out the blaze.

I stopped by Doug, my editor's, office. “You busy?” I asked.

“Hey, kiddo, grab a seat,” replied Doug, motioning with one ape-hairy arm at the chair in front of his battered oak desk.

“Any more on this?” I asked, pointing to the photograph.

“Police gave more details about an hour ago,” Doug said. “Sad story. Seven-year-old boy died. Parents out of town. Older sister supposed to be babysitting, but she was at her boyfriend's place.”

A small casket, its lid up and waiting.

“You okay, kiddo?” Doug asked. “You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“Um, fine,” I managed to say. “Uh, did the kid set the fire?”

“Not unless he was playing with gasoline and a pile of rags in the basement,” Doug said.

“Arson?”

“
Suspected
arson,” he clarified. “Look, I'd like you to get a shot of the wreckage. We'll run it tomorrow with the latest from the police.”

He handed over my assignment sheet—take a photo of the burned-out house, get a few shots of the penny drive at the elementary school, and a photo of the monthly birthday party at the seniors' center. Okay. I could do that. Take the shots, get the names, triple-check the spelling, turn in my photos and cutlines.

“Oh, and Gwen? If the police are poking around the fire scene, try to get a statement, okay?”

“Oh, no. I'm a photographer, not a reporter.”

“C'mon, kiddo,” said Doug. “We've been through this before. Hard to make a living strictly as a photographer. You need to spread your wings.”

No way. Watchers watch. They take pictures from behind the safety of the camera lens.