The next day started off the same. We tried another kind of war game but yet again, Micky and I managed to win.
"And that makes the score eight to zero in favour of Dolenz, Dolenz, and Jones!" Micky cried.
"We may have to split you two up if you keep winnin like this," Mike drawled.
"You can’t. They’d just share the team strategies through that link of theirs," Isa reminded him.
Peter glared at us, floating in the air in the middle of the playing field, and then muttered something about being back later and flew off. Micky went to go follow him but Mike grabbed his elbow.
"Don’t, man. I think he needs a little time alone."
We went inside and had lunch -- Micky’s leftover lasagna. We couldn’t rehearse without Peter -- thankfully it was Monday so we didn’t have to worry about a gig, so everyone just split to various things. Davy headed off with his latest girl, Mike grabbed his 12-string and went next door to Isa’s place, and Micky dragged me off to the beach for surfing lessons.
"Okay Len! Since Dave took his board we’ll have to share. Hop aboard!" He walked out a little ways into the water and I sat on the end of the surf board. Micky knelt on the front end of the board and we paddled out into the surf.
"Hang on!!!" he called as a wave came along and the board rose up. He stood and turned around, holding a hand out to me. I reluctantly stood.
Don’t worry, Len, if you feel like you’re falling, use your shields to stabilize yourself. Or to keep an air supply with you when you go under!
GO UNDER?!?!?!?! I mentally shrieked as the wave lifted us even higher.
An hour later Micky declared me ready to try a wave on my own. Taking a deep breath I waded out into the water and knelt on the board.
Looks like there’s a good one comin up. If you hurry you can catch it!
What makes you think I WANT to catch that monster? I snapped back.
I paddled out and managed to catch a moderately-sized wave. I was trembling throughout the ride but managed to stay on the board all the way to the sand. Micky ran up and swooped me up into a hug.
"Great job Len! You’re a natural!"
"No, I was drawing on your skills throughout, and I absolutely hated every second." I pulled back and glared at him. "No more surfing for me. Please. I’ll swim but no surf. I’m afraid of heights ya know."
"I know but I was hoping . . . "
"No, Mick. No surfing. Please. Don’t force it, okay?"
"Okay." He looked up at the sun, which was getting low on the horizon. "Looks like it’s almost time for me to make dinner. Shall we head inside now?"
"Sounds good to me." I handed him the surfboard and we headed towards the beachhouse.
Once we’d showered to get the sand off and gotten dressed, Micky started making supper. I headed towards the bandstand, drawn by the drum set. What makes you think you’ll do any better now than you did before Lenora? my cynical side scoffed. I shrugged and decided to give myself a chance.
Peter’s latest song was on the music stand, with Micky’s distinct notations scribbled all over the nice, neat drum notation Peter had given him. I snickered, wondering yet again how Micky managed to play the drums so well when his notations were so chaotic!
I did my best to ignore the sloppy additions and concentrated on Peter’s clear notes. Taking a deep breath, I snagged the sticks from under Davy’s tambourine with a field and counted off.
And played the song perfectly, all the way through, the very first time.
"Woah, when did you manage to learn that?!" Micky cried.
"I don’t know! I just . . . read the notation and then tried it and . . . " I trailed off, realization dawning. "It must be the link! I must be able to tap into your drumming skill through the link!"
"Glad the two of you are happy with all this," Peter said bitterly as he floated in through the door and headed into his bedroom.
"What’s wrong with him?" Micky asked.
"I don’t know but I’m gonna find out." I laid the drumsticks atop the snare and floated into the downstairs bedroom after Peter. I closed the door softly behind me. "Hey Pete man. You okay?" I asked.
"No. I’d rather be alone." He was sitting on his bed, back turned towards me, and he was hunched over.
"I don’t think you need to be alone right now. Besides, if you talk about it, maybe it’ll stop eating you up." I sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulder.
"I don’t want the guys to know," he whispered.
"They won’t. I can keep a secret."
"With Micky able to read your every thought?" Peter asked in disbelief, turning to me. There were tear streaks down his face.
"I’ve shut him out temporarily. I’m going nuts cause I’m so used to the link now but if you don’t want him to know -- he won’t." I gently pulled Peter’s head onto my shoulder.
"Really?" he whispered.
"Really. Now what’s wrong? I hate to see you so upset."
"It’s . . . it’s these powers. I wanna go back to being just Peter. Not Peter the superhero. Peter the telekinetic. Just . . . just Peter."
"I understand. I wish I could help but it looks like we’re stuck with these. We’ll just have to adapt."
"But . . . well I lost my temper earlier when Micky was . . . " he trailed off.
"Crowing over our eighth victory?" I supplied.
"Yeah. I flew out to a deserted island and . . . lost it. When I left, that island -- a tropical island, was a burned, roasted, and destroyed lump of ash."
"Woah. You . . . you destroyed an island?"
"Yeah . . . " Tears started streaming down Peter’s face. I pulled him into a hug.
"It’ll be okay Peter. We’ll all help you. We’re all adjusting. This is totally new. You think it’s a picnic to be mentally linked to Micky? No choice but know the inner workings of his mind? Man is that scary!!"
Peter chuckled. "Have you gotten an inkling as to what he thinks about . . . " He glanced around the room. "S-E-X."
I made a face. "Yeah. Not pretty. So -- next time you think you’ve got it bad, think how horrible it is to see inside Micky’s mind twenty-four-seven."
"Yeah . . . twenty-four-seven?"
"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." I sighed. "Too long. Of course the worse part was when he saw Isa and Mike kiss and thought about the doughnuts."
"You know about . . . the doughnuts???"
"Yup."
"You poor thing." He looked up and gave me a wavery smile. "Thanks, man. That helped." He then gave me one of his patented squeeze-the-air-out-of-your-lungs hugs.
"You’re welcome."
Last updated 23 OCT 98
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