Jagger
The first time she healed me, I was in fourth grade. I slid into home plate and snapped the bone in my lower leg. The white, blinding pain was excruciating, I screamed and cried like a little girl. The umpire, my coach, and I all swore we could hear the bone crack. We had won the game, but I ended up in an ambulance on the way to the emergency room. We figured I would be out of the playoffs, but I was back for the next game.
She was a voice in my head. Not in the sense of, “Wow, Jagger DeWinter is so weird. He hears voices.” No, an actual person and she knew me. Or rather we knew each other, only she never gave me her name. I knew her only as Her, but I also called her Supergirl. I mean, someone that could communicate with you through their mind, heal your wounds and illnesses had to be some kind of superhero, right?
We went to school together—so she said—but she wouldn’t tell me who she was. She told me that she didn’t like the spotlight—that it wasn’t safe for her. Now that we were in our senior year of high school, I was in the spotlight frequently. Being on both the football and baseball teams, I had a lot of friends. She told me that she was quiet and liked to blend in. Of course, I spent a lot of time wondering who she could be. There were quiet girls, but I would not say any of them blended in. None of the girls in my class were full-on loners and nondescript. None of them were friendless either.
Growing up, I never really found it strange that I heard a voice. Ever since she first popped into my head, she was a constant presence. She was one of the main reasons why I was too freaked out to date. Don’t get me wrong. She didn’t keep up a constant commentary on my moves or anything—in fact, she usually made herself scarce when I did take a girl out—but what if I took her out and she didn’t tell me it was Her? Not only that, I spent most of the time on my dates asking trick questions to see if they were her.
I didn’t know her name, but I knew everything else about her: her favorite song, color, book, movie, food, what time she went to bed, when she couldn’t sleep and even her birthday. I knew grilled cheese and tomato was her favorite lunch, and she loved to put whipped cream and cinnamon on her hot chocolate. I knew she watched sappy romance movies over and over again, but still cried at the end of every single one. Whenever I hounded her to give me her name, she always had the same answer. “It’s not safe for either one of us.” And, of course, she would not elaborate on why. I could only assume that it was because there weren’t a lot of telepaths in the world, and she didn’t want to end up doing party tricks or working in some traveling carnival.
Chicks.
Was it a rule that they had to make sure they were as confusing as possible? I thought I had proved I could be trusted. No one, not a soul, knew of our relationship. Mainly, because I thought people would think I was crazy. Not just because she could pop into my head, but I could pop into hers, as well. The strange thing was it didn’t work with other people. I could only communicate this way with her.
Yet that wasn’t even all of it. As if communicating by telepathy were not already strange as hell, she had another talent. She could heal people through her telepathy. She didn’t need to touch them, though she assured me that was the fastest way. She just needed to find and maintain a psychic link to them. When I had broken my leg that first time, she stayed with me in my mind, there on the field, in the ambulance, and at the hospital. Her voice was soothing and settled my fear. She stayed with me through the x-rays and MRI, reminding me that it was rude to fart in the tube.
Then that night, while I was lamenting the loss of my playoff season, she’d told me that she wanted to try something. She wasn’t sure if she could do it, but she suspected she could. I hardly had a chance to agree to her request when my leg began to feel warm and tingly. My whole body calmed down as a peacefulness settled over me. The warmth rolled gently over my leg and a tingling sensation followed it. When it was done, the pain disappeared, and I was positive it had healed. When I insisted the cast come off, my parents would not hear of it. Finally, I confessed that something didn’t feel right, and I needed to see the doctor. The doctor cut off the cast to x-ray my leg and got the surprise of his career when it was revealed that my leg was, in fact, just fine a mere day after I had broken it.
That was when I earned my reputation for being a fast healer. After all, there was no other logical scientific explanation for it.
That wasn’t my only assurance that my friend was not a figment of my imagination. She did, in fact, exist somewhere in this sleepy little town of Alpine Valley, Colorado. When we were ten, I had learned that hearing voices in your head was not a good sign and that answering them was even worse. I demanded she prove she was real. If she would not tell me her name so I could confront her myself, she needed to provide me with hard evidence. She sighed, muttered about me having no faith, before asking me to dictate something to her that she could write down and mail to me. Imagine how astonished I was when my fake letter arrived in the mail a few days later—cleverly with our school as the return address.
She was always scared of discovery, and as we grew older, I ached from the feeling of helplessness over not being able to protect her. She wouldn’t hear of it though. She assured me that as of now she was safe enough, but feared for the future when her protection was gone. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me what that protection entailed. I again insisted she give me her name so I could help her and yet again, she refused.
So, we were stuck spinning our tires in the Colorado clay.
I learned that just because she could pop into my head did not mean that she could see every thought I ever had. She could only hear my thoughts as I had them, which was a relief, because I could hide from her the fact that I was in love with her. It was interesting that I could love someone I had never once seen face to face. Or rather, I knew I had seen her, I just didn’t know which Her she was.
I didn’t think she was Carly Maples, the captain of the girls’ basketball team, or Jennifer Marlo, the brooding artist. I also ruled out Amy Higgins, the captain of the cheerleaders. However, my senior class had one hundred and seventy-five girls in it and most of them looked at me in the same way.
She assured me that even if she didn’t have the powers she had, she still wouldn’t talk to me. I was too popular, and she was too shy. She said I was too good looking, and she didn’t know how to flirt with boys. When I reminded her that we talked all the time and she knew me better than anyone else, she told me that was different. She didn’t have to look me in the eye. At least after that conversation, I could also rule out the more outgoing girls.
Or at least I thought I could. Who knows she might have just been trying to throw me off her trail.
Seriously, girls made no sense.
Only this one did make sense to me. I just wished I knew who she really was!
“For crying out loud, Jagger, pay attention!”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked. Good thing one of us was paying attention, I suppose.
“I didn’t say anything,” Chloe Michaels looked at me strangely. “I was waiting for you to speak.”
For the love of Christmas ... It had happened again.
“Well, you weren’t paying attention to her, Jagger. Honestly, she asked you a question a few minutes ago.”