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- Deborah Lynn Jacobs
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—what’s with the plant
—so intense, like they don’t care they’re in the cafeteria or
—what’s he see in her, anyway?
I let go of her hand, but the voices are still there.
—Math test next period didn’t study so screwed
—ooh nice nail color wonder if it’s
“What’s wrong?” Gwen asks. Looks like he’s going to faint.
“Migraine.” I get up, nearly fall over.
“Maybe you should lie down.” Gwen says.
“Good idea.” I need to get away from her.
I stagger out of the cafeteria. Away from Gwen, the voices aren’t as intense. But they’re still there. I stumble down the hallway, heading blindly for the first-aid room. Along the way, a girl passes by. Her perfume jangles my nerves like loud music. I see a poster on a locker and it screams like a set of brakes worn down to the rotors. I hear a door slam and my vision fragments into broken glass.
My brain circuits are scrambled.
I find the first-aid room, babble “migraine” and “ice packs.” An older woman takes my hand, leads me to a bed, brings ice, and draws the blinds.
The last thing I hear before I pass out is, “Poor kid. White as a sheet.”
Only I hear it with my mind.
Gwen
In my dream, he gave me a rose—deep red, delicate, its petals barely beginning to open. But there I was, staring at a, what did he say it was? A purple hyacinth?
I turned the pot of green shoots around, looking more closely. In the middle of the clump was a knobby thing, like a small artichoke. I stared at it, struggling with my mixed feelings.
I can’t trust him. He’s a phony and a liar. He admitted it himself.
On the other hand, that way he has of tilting his head and smiling. Does he know what effect he has on a girl?
Get a grip. Of course he knows. He probably practices in the mirror.
But the way he’d looked at me, with hunger in his eyes, gave me shivers. And I had to admit, I loved the way Melissa gaped. Like why’s the new hot guy talking to Gwen-the-Loser? Maybe Gwen’s not a loser. Ha!
Your eyes are beautiful. Don’t hide them.
Is that what I’ve been doing? Hiding? Behind my glasses, behind bulky sweatshirts, behind my camera?
After school, I stopped at the optometrist’s office and left with a trial pair of green-tinted contact lenses. Next, clothes. Jeans, slung low on my hips. Tops, slinky, clingy with plunging necklines. Then, the big one. My hair.
“Chop it off,” I said to the hairdresser. “Chin length. Give me bangs. And let’s do something about the color.”
An hour later, I examined the results in the mirror. Short, bouncy, and very red. A perfect match for my green eyes.
I headed for the bakery to show Mom. She was placing a tray of apple strudel in the display case when I walked in. She brushed her hands on her white apron, and said, “May I help you?”
Then, “Oh, my gosh. Gwen? Your hair! Oh my goodness. Your eyes are green!”
“What do you think?”
“Well, it’s quite a change,” she said, frowning.
She didn’t like it. I hadn’t expected she would. Mom hates change. If the grocery store is out of her favorite tea, she’ll spend ten minutes trying to choose another one. Sometimes she’ll simply leave, too overwhelmed to decide.
“I was about to take a coffee break,” Mom said.
“Okay.” I followed her into the staff room. She put on fresh coffee, set out cream and sugar.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“No.” I always said no. Then, “Wait, Mom. Yes. An éclair, please.”
“Are you sure, honey? They’re rather fa—uh, filling.”
“I’m sure.” Fattening, she was going to say.
She returned a second later with the éclair. Defiantly, I sank my teeth into the puff pastry, dark chocolate icing and rich cream filling. Ten seconds later, it was gone, leaving only sticky chocolate that I licked off the tips of my fingers.
“Goodness,” said Mom. “What’s come over you?”
“A zest for life,” I said.
Mom smiled uncertainly, as if she wasn’t sure about zest. She brought over two coffees. I stirred cream and sugar into mine. Mom left hers black and sipped carefully. She squinted at my hair.
“Why don’t you come out and say it?” I said. “Tell me you hate it.”
“Oh, honey, I don’t hate it. It’s just rather dramatic, don’t you think?” she asked, smoothing back her own hair, now more gray than brown.
Well, if she thought that was dramatic, she certainly wouldn’t like my new clothes. I kept my coat zipped up.
Mom took out her knitting and filled the small room with the chattering of her needles. I’d grown up with that sound. She must have knitted a hundred child-sized blankets for Emergency Services. Every cop car, ambulance, and fire truck in town carried a stash of them.
“Mom, why do you keep making those?” I asked, to make conversation. It was clear we wouldn’t be talking about my transformation.
“Keeps my hands busy,” she said.
My Watcher’s instincts kicked in. Had there been the slightest hesitation in her voice, the briefest stutter in the smooth motion of her hands?
“Is that the only reason?”
Her hands stopped in mid-click. “Gwen, have you been talking to Aunt Grace? What did she tell you?”
Aunt Grace was Joanne’s mother; my mom’s sister.
“Oh, stuff,” I lied. What was this? My mother had a secret?
Mom dropped her knitting. “I told her not to tell you. What’s done is done. Unless, oh, Gwen, tell me you’re not getting them?”
“Getting them?”
“The dreams. Please tell me you aren’t having them, too.”
Too? My mother had the dreams? Is that why she’s so timid, always looking back over her shoulder? She had the dreams?
I hesitated. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t want to worry her. Ever since Dad died, she’d been so fragile. In fact, she was fragile even before Dad died, leaving every decision up to him, even the little ones, like what to make for dinner.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “What dreams?”
“So Grace didn’t tell you. I made her promise.”
“Mom, what dreams?”
“Ones that predict the future,” Mom said.
“You had dreams like that?” I prompted.
“Oh, goodness. I guess you’re old enough to know,” Mom said. She picked up her coffee in both hands and gulped it down. “I was about your age. I’d met this boy, Matthew. He, oh, I’m sure you won’t believe this, but if he touched something that was yours, he could tell things about you.”
“Psychic,” I said.
“Yes, I guess that’s what you’d call it. And after I met him, I started having these dreams. Awful dreams. People dying. Accidents. A young girl, drowning out at Lakefront Beach. The mother asleep in the sun, the girl out on her air mattress. It had a leak, you see, and deflated. Matthew and I swam out, and brought her back to safety. The town gave us plaques for bravery. I still have mine.”
“But, that’s wonderful,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand. The girl died. Two weeks later. Pneumonia.”
“The blankets,” I said.
Mom gave me a knowing look. “The blankets. I couldn’t save one child, but maybe I can comfort another.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure what else to say. “Did you try to save anyone else?”
“There was no sense in trying. You can’t change fate,” Mom said. “The future is set in its course. It has its own momentum, like an avalanche. Once the snow breaks and starts to slide, there’s nothing you can do until it’s over.”
Her voice trailed off. She stared into her empty cup as if it held an answer.
“What happened to Matthew?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “He left, took a job up north. Th
e dreams stopped. They never came back. A few years later, I met your father.”
Did Matthew unlock some kind of latent ability in Mom? Is that what’s happening to me?
“Gwen, are you okay?” Mom asked. “You are telling the truth, aren’t you? You aren’t having dreams like that, are you?”
“No, Mom,” I assured her. “I guess you didn’t pass them on.”
“Thank goodness. Nothing good comes of them.” She reached across the table to pat my hand. “I have to get back to work. Be careful driving home, eh?”
“Yes, I’ll be careful,” I promised.
Sure, be careful, Gwen. Don’t take risks. Watch life go by from the sidelines. And when a totally hot guy gives you a peace offering, hang back because you are afraid.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 10
Adrian
I’m driving home from school, but I’m thinking about yesterday.
* * *
I wake up in the first-aid room, headache-free and wondering if I’d only imagined my head cracking open. But then the first-aid volunteer asks how I am, and I hear, in my head, looks better now.
I’m buzzed, like I’ve eaten a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans washed down with espresso. I want a friend, someone I can talk to. But there is no one. Being yanked up by the roots every few years means you don’t make close friends. No one you can trust, anyway.
* * *
I dump my backpack at the front entrance. A fire crackles in the fieldstone fireplace. I smell pot roast and apple pie. I’m about to walk into the kitchen, when it happens again.
Dad: Mrs. Neal at seven, go over arrangements, will need a lot of support. Prepare Mr. Neal later—wonder what dye might work best? Awfully sallow, after the cancer. Wait until morning? Nah. Tired, but I can manage.
Mom: He looks so tired. Shadows under his eyes. Taking on so much, running the place alone. Place called to him … so strange …
I walk in. Mom lifts the lid off her slow cooker, looks around uncertainly for a place to put it.
Might mark the counter. Granite, though, shouldn’t mark. So pretty.
She sets the lid on the top of the stove instead.
Dad watches her with a bemused smile. The smile fades as he looks at me.
“Your car start okay this morning?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You’re welcome,” he says pointedly. Never did thank me for paying for his block heater.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Does he really have shadows under his eyes? Not sleeping well? Maybe it’s guilt at dragging us along with him on his Great Canadian Adventure.
I grab a juice from the fridge, drain it, and set the bottle down on the kitchen counter.
“So, how was school?” Mom picks up the bottle, rinses it, and places it in the recycle bin under the sink. She wipes up the dark ring of moisture it left behind.
“The same. I went, I learned, I came home,” I say. “I’m going down to do homework.”
“I’ll call you when dinner is ready,” Mom says.
Dinner is quiet, with Dad not speaking except for “great roast” and “pass the potatoes.” He leaves soon after, saying he has an appointment at the funeral home. I nearly say, yeah, I know. Mrs. Neal, but I keep my mouth shut. I clear the table and load the dishwasher, lost in my thoughts.
“Anything wrong?” Mom asks.
“Huh?”
She opens the microwave. There’s the carton of milk I’ve just put away.
“Oops,” I say.
Laugh lines crinkle around her eyes. Dad told me he married her for those eyes—clear gray and wide set. She places the milk in the fridge and waits.
“Do you believe in ESP?” I blurt out.
Mom wipes down the already clean counter and rearranges a bowl of fruit. I catch myself tapping my fingers.
“What makes you ask?” she says.
I’m about to tell her, but two things stop me. One, I’m too old to run to my mother for advice. And two, I don’t want her to know. Not yet, anyway. So I lie.
“We were talking about perception in Psych class and someone mentioned ESP.”
Mom stalls, spraying and wiping off the appliances. “I believe some people may connect with the world in a way most people cannot,” she finally says.
“What do you mean?”
“Your father, for example. He has an uncanny ability to understand what other people are feeling. You could call it empathy, but it goes deeper than that. He can’t separate himself from the pain of his clients. It takes its toll over time.”
“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?”