Powers (8 page)

“You okay?” I asked the guy in the truck.

He tugged on the brim of his red baseball cap and nodded. “
Hooeee,
that was close. Good thing that young man waved his coat at me. I didn't see no train coming. Hidden by the fog, eh?”

“Yes, good thing,” I said. “I'm from the
Rocky Waters Press.
Could I have your name?”

“For the paper? Sure. James Dean. Like the actor.” He let out a “heh-heh-heh” kind of laugh. “The wife'll flip when she sees it. Keeps telling me not to run that barrier. How's my front grill?”

I took a look. “Dented.”

“Well, yeah, could have been a lot worse. Could have gotten killed, eh?”

Not just you,
I thought.
Joanne, too.

Adrian

James Dean, like the actor. She writes down the name, then tries to put the lens cap back on her camera, but her hands are shaking too much. I take the camera, cap it, hand it back. Her eyes are filled with tears.

So close. Could have killed her.

On impulse, I wrap my arms around her. She resists for a second, then leans into me. Her tears wet my new jacket. From beside us, I hear Jo say, very quietly, “What did I tell you? Magnets.”

Gwen calms down and, as she does, her suspicions reappear.
How did he know the train would hit Joanne? Maybe he lied to me about not reading my mind. Maybe he's been reading it all along.

Think fast.
I shift my head toward Jo. “What were you thinking, running so close to the tracks? Didn't you hear Gwen scream at you?”

Jo stammers. “I, uh, wasn't thinking straight, I guess.”

That satisfies Gwen, but then she asks, “How'd you manage to show up in the nick of time?”

“I came into town to pick up some paint. I saw your car.”

She notices a smear of blue on my face and she believes my lie. The wind whips her hair across her face. I gently push it aside with one hand, but keep my other arm tight around her. She forgets to be suspicious. A dozen emotions whirl in her head, like she's hit the frappe button on a blender.

So close to her, touching her, I feel the energy run through her and into me. All I want is to be near her, to feel The Power sing in my head and flow through my veins.

She feels it, too. Feels my energy moving into her and through her. It thaws her from the inside out, until even her fingers, icy from using her camera, tingle with warmth.

It scares her, makes her want to pull away, but in the next second, she gives in. Linked to her mind, maybe I give in as well. Our breathing goes shallow, our hearts beat faster, the palms of our hands grow damp. I tilt my head down, coming close to kissing her. Then I stop. Take it slow. Don't frighten her.

A vision hits her.

It starts out as before: us, in my bedroom, candles lit, my arms around her, her leaning back into me. But, then it shifts. We are kissing; the kind of kissing that can only lead to one thing.

That's when I know I've played my cards right.

Gwen

Had I been wrong about him?

After his almost-kiss, I grabbed a burger, then raced over to the newspaper office. I kept remembering his lips, nearly touching mine and then pulling away. The air between us had felt charged. I'd felt a rush of energy run through me, warming every part of me.

And the vision. It was all I could think about. What did it mean? Him, with me? Impossible. The fat girl never gets the guy.

Enough, I thought. Focus. Get back to work.

I downloaded my shots into my computer, chose six of the best, then reviewed them before e-mailing them to Doug. They were all of Adrian. Adrian pulling Joanne out of harm's way. Adrian waving his jacket at the truck. Adrian talking to the driver.

Was I going soft in the head? I made another selection, making sure I had several of the truck jumping the tracks, crashing through the barrier, with the train a blur in the background. I left one of Adrian, the one where he was waving his coat in the air.

I kept the rest for myself.

MONDAY, JANUARY 20

Adrian

I wake up with gut pains that come in waves. I get Mom to call me in sick, then go back to bed. By eleven, I'm slept out. I'm not any better, but I'm no worse. I pick up a flower for Gwen, then head over to the school in time for lunch.

Balancing a bowl of soup and some crackers, I walk over to Gwen's table. I hold out the flower. From one table over, I hear Melissa's thoughts:
Are they going out now? What does he see in her?

I look at Gwen and what I see is a great body, shown off by a tight sweater, a short skirt and matching boots. And what I feel is the energy, The Power that flows in her like a river.

She takes the flower from me.

“A blue camellia,” I explain.

“Where's the card?”

“No card this time,” I say, leaning in close and dropping my voice so only she can hear. “It means: you are a flame in my heart.”

Her face turns pink. She runs the tip of one finger over the soft petal of the flower, caressing it. I imagine those fingers, touching me the way she touches the flower, all feathery light.

My jeans are suddenly too tight. I shift, trying to get comfortable. Then a cramp hits me, killing the urge.

“Hey, Adrian. You look awful,” Jo says, joining us at the table.

“Probably something I ate.” Another cramp hits and I am manly enough not to groan. But at that exact moment, Gwen
does
groan.

Should have taken something for this. Uh, oh, leakage alert.

“Be right back,” Gwen says.
Don't want to ruin this skirt.

She leaves. Jo looks at me closely, says, “You sure you're all right, Adrian?”

I nod, too horrified to speak. I'm linked to Gwen. I feel what she feels. Period cramps.

And I can't block her.

Gwen

After lunch, I drove over to the newspaper. I took the camellia in with me, not wanting it to freeze in my car.

“Awww, sweetheart, you shouldn't have,” said Doug, as I entered his office.

“Oh, uh, I didn't, I mean…” I stammered.

“Relax, kiddo,” said Doug. A grin lifted the corners of his eyes. “Secret admirer?”

“Sort of.”

“About time. Look, I want to talk to you about this.” One stubby finger tapped the surface of a photo on his ink blotter. My picture, I saw, of the truck smashing through the barrier.

What's wrong? It's a great image.

Doug leaned back and crossed his long arms over his barrel chest. “So, what's the story, kiddo?”

“Well, I, uh, just happened to be there and—”

“Yeah, yeah. Who is this guy?”

“Mr. Dean.”

“That much I know. I read your cutline, Gwen.” He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, using the hunt-and-peck method. He read off the screen: “A Rocky Waters resident, Mr. James Dean, narrowly escaped injury while crossing the tracks on Eighth Street early Sunday morning.”

“I'm sorry—” I started to say.

Doug waved his hand, cutting me off. “So what? Instincts asleep? I thought you were a reporter.”

I sat there, stunned. Doug was right. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten to get the story. I'd been too awestruck by the visions, coming one on top of each other. Too frantic that I'd put Joanne in danger. Too caught up in Adrian's embrace.

This was no way to earn a summer internship.

“I'll have the story on your desk by the end of the day,” I promised.

Doug nodded, waved his hand for me to go. Back at my computer, I went online and pulled up Mr. Dean's number. It wasn't hard to find. There was only one James Dean in town.

I dialed the number. “Hello? I'm Gwen from the
Rocky Waters Press.
I took Mr. Dean's photo yesterday? Is Mr. Dean there, please?”

“Oh, my,” said an elderly woman on the other end. I heard her call out, “Jimmy? Jimmy, phone for you. It's a
reporter!
”

SATURDAY, JANUARY 25

Adrian

Gwen's story runs in the Tuesday paper. She says it's no big deal, but I can sense her excitement. Her editor gives her half a page. He uses three photos—the pickup crashing through the barrier, a close-up of Mr. Dean, and one of me, waving my coat and pointing down the track.

We sit together at lunch, alone, but we are interrupted half a dozen times. People congratulate us. We're celebrities, and Gwen looks the part. She's wearing khaki pants and a black top laced in the front. My eyes keep wandering from her face down to those laces.

I tap into people's thoughts. Most of them figure we're going out together. They've stopped wondering what I see in her. Her approval rating soars. I catch Stone looking at her. I mean
really
looking at her. Thinking about how her breasts would feel in his hands. I nearly go over there and break all his fingers. But I don't. I've got more control than that. And how would I explain it to Gwen? That I read Stone's mind? Yeah, that would go over well. Besides, it doesn't matter how much Stone fantasizes. She's mine. Or, at least, she will be soon.

On Friday, our English teacher announces we'll begin studying Shakespeare next week.

I groan.

“What's wrong?” Gwen whispers to me.

“Oh, nothing. Shakespeare, Greek, Latin, Swahili—all the same to me.”

She grins. I see in her mind that she loves Shakespeare. It's her second language. Well, maybe third. English and French came first.

“Uh, Gwen, would you be willing to help me study?” I give her my best little-boy smile and she melts.

“Sure.”

“How about coming over to my house on Saturday night?” I suggest. “My parents are going to Winnipeg for the weekend. We'll be able to work undisturbed.”

She hesitates. In her mind is the vision. Us. In my bedroom. Kissing. She remembers my words:
You are a flame in my heart.

“Okay,” she agrees.

I read her mind. We both know we aren't going to study.

Gwen

All day long, my stomach knotted up. Was I crazy? I hardly knew him. I showered, and checked myself in the mirror, trying to be objective.

Breasts, my best feature. Or, is that features?

Waist. It curves in. Not much, but it
does
curve in.

Belly. Curves out. Michelangelo would have loved to paint me. Oh, well, I can suck it in. If I give up breathing.

Hips. Wide. A baby machine. A plus. Ummm, actually not sure about that one.

Thighs. Forget the thighs.

Who am I kidding?
He couldn't possibly want me.
But the vision.
It will happen, because I
saw
it happen.

*   *   *

“I'm going over to Adrian's to study now,” I told Mom.

“Be careful,” she warned.

“I will,” I promised, grabbing my snowmachine gear. The night was clear. The stars shed just enough light to lead me to Adrian's. I knew the way. I'd babysat at that house countless times.

I parked at his dock and walked up. Like so many houses on the lake, it was built into the hillside, with a lower level walk-out from the family room. Golden light spilled out of the glass doors, like sunshine saved from summer. Wood smoke, sweet and welcoming, hung in the still air.

Adrian opened the door. A tiny piece of tissue clung to his chin, where he'd cut himself shaving. He looked gorgeous, and smelled even better.

“Uh, you, uh.…” I stammered, pointing to his chin.

“Oh.” He removed the tissue. “Better?”

“Actually, I thought it was cute,” I said.

“Cute? A man nearly slices his neck open trying to clean up for his lady, and you think it's cute?”

He spoke in a low, teasing voice that sent shivers through me.
His lady.
I liked that. He reached out to unzip my snowmachine suit.

“Uh, that's okay,” I said, fumbling for the zipper.

Lit only by the glow of fire in the woodstove, the family room felt intimately small. From my vision, I recognized the overstuffed couch, the weight equipment in an alcove to the right, Adrian's bedroom straight ahead.

What am I doing? This is so not me. I should go.

“Second thoughts?” Adrian asked, head tilted. He stood outlined by the flickering light of the woodstove, waiting.

“I'm good,” I said.

He took my hand, and led me to his room.

*   *   *

I'm not sure what I expected. My vision showed an old-fashioned wardrobe and candles. That was it. I looked around, trying to find the right word for his room. Uncluttered? Army-neat?

No, the right word was
austere.
Dark carpet, light walls, black furniture, a gray comforter on his bed. There were no mementos, no souvenirs, no photographs. It was as if he'd passed through life without connecting to anyone or anything. The only decorations, if you could call them that, were a sword and a dagger mounted on his wall.

“It's my hobby, medieval weaponry,” Adrian said. “This is a replica of the sword thought to be that of Edward the Black Prince, son of Edward the Third, father of Richard the Second.”

He drew the sword out of its black scabbard. It was easily a meter long, with a blade that tapered to a wickedly sharp tip.

“Want to try it?” he asked.

“No, thanks.” It looked deadly.

Adrian replaced the sword and took down the dagger. “This then? It's a parrying dagger, based on one carried in around 1580 by the bodyguard of the Elector of Saxony.”

The dagger fit neatly in my hand, the leather handle smooth, the grooved blade shining softly.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Adrian said. “Engraved pommel, hardwood grip, covered in leather, a ring guard to protect your knuckles, fullered blade made of cold, hard steel.”