Free Powers by Deborah Lynn Jacobs

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.
    â€œBe 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.
    â€œAwww, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have,” said Doug, as I entered his office.
    â€œOh, uh, I didn’t, I mean…” I stammered.
    â€œRelax, kiddo,” said Doug. A grin lifted the corners of his eyes. “Secret admirer?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œAbout 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?”
    â€œWell, I, uh, just happened to be there and—”
    â€œYeah, yeah. Who is this guy?”
    â€œMr. Dean.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Gwen whispers to me.
    â€œOh,