Powers by Deborah Lynn Jacobs Page B

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