The Power Nobody Wanted

Grove didn't remember exactly when it started. Maybe it had always been there, quiet as a seed underground, waiting to push through.

But one Tuesday morning, walking to school, he heard it clearly for the first time.

Thirsty. Thirsty. So thirsty.

He stopped on the sidewalk and looked around. No one was there. Just the old oak tree on the corner of Maple Street, its leaves curling slightly at the edges.

Please, the oak said. It hasn't rained in nine days.

Grove stared at the tree. The tree didn't have a mouth, of course. It didn't have a face. But the feeling came through anyway — right into his chest, like someone had whispered it directly into his heart.

"Um," said Grove. "Okay."

He walked the rest of the way to school very quickly.

At first, Grove tried to ignore it. This was not easy. It turned out that plants were everywhere. And almost all of them were thinking the same thing.

The grass on the soccer field: Dry. Dry. Dry. Dry. Every single blade, all at once, like a tiny green choir singing one very boring song.

The fern in Mrs. Halpert's classroom: Could someone move me away from this heating vent? I'm absolutely parched and also slightly crispy.

The dandelion cracking through the sidewalk near the bike rack: I didn't fight through four inches of concrete to die of thirst, thank you very much.

That dandelion had attitude.

Grove sat at lunch with his best friend, Naya, and poked at his sandwich.

"You're being weird," Naya said. She was always honest like that.

"I can hear plants," Grove said.

Naya took a big bite of her apple. "What are they saying?"

"They want water."

"That's it?"

"That's pretty much it."

Naya chewed slowly. "That's… kind of a boring superpower."

Grove dropped his head onto the table. "I know."

He'd thought about this a lot, actually. If you were going to get a superpower, you'd want something exciting. Flying. Invisibility. Super strength. Laser eyes, maybe. Something you could use.

But hearing plants think about water? What was he supposed to do with that?

He couldn't even tell anyone. When he'd tried to explain it to his older brother, Marcus, Marcus had just laughed and said, "Cool, you're a plant psychic. Can you ask Mom's basil why it always dies?"

Grove did ask. The basil said it was being watered too much, which was the first time a plant had ever complained about that. Grove told Marcus. Marcus did not believe him.

So Grove decided to just live with it. He'd hear the plants, and he'd feel a little bad, and then he'd go about his day.

This worked for about a week.

The problem was the big maple tree in Cortland Park.

Grove walked through the park every day after school, and the maple was right in the middle — wide and wonderful, with branches that reached out like arms trying to hug the whole sky. In autumn, it turned the most incredible shade of orange, and the whole neighborhood would stop to look at it.

But it was only September, and the leaves were already going brown.

I'm in trouble, the maple said one afternoon.

Grove stopped walking.

My roots can't find water. The ground is so dry. I've been here sixty-two years, and I've never felt it like this.

Grove looked at the tree — really looked. The bark was cracked in places. The leaves that should have been deep green were pale and spotty. A few had already fallen, crinkled up like tiny fists.

"I'm sorry," Grove whispered. "I don't know what to do."

That's all right, the maple said. Most people walk right past. It's nice that someone hears.

Grove went home that day with a heaviness in his stomach that had nothing to do with lunch.

That night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He kept thinking about what the maple had said: It's nice that someone hears.

But hearing wasn't enough, was it? Hearing without doing anything was like watching someone struggle to carry groceries and just saying, "Wow, that looks heavy."

He sat up in bed.

He couldn't make it rain. He didn't have water powers. He wasn't magic. He was just a kid who could hear plants complain about being thirsty — the most useless power in the history of powers.

But he did have a garden hose.

The next morning, Grove woke up early. Really early. He filled two big water bottles and put them in his backpack. On the way to school, he stopped at the old oak on Maple Street and poured water slowly around its roots.

Oh, the oak sighed. Oh, that's lovely. Thank you.

At school, he asked Mrs. Halpert if he could move the fern away from the heating vent. "It looks a little dry," he said.

"You know what, Grove, I think you're right," Mrs. Halpert said, and together they moved it to the windowsill.

Finally, the fern said. Someone with sense.

At lunch, he poured the rest of his water bottle on the dandelion by the bike rack.

Not bad, kid, the dandelion said. Not bad at all.

And after school, he went to the hardware store with his allowance and bought a long, long hose attachment. He dragged it all the way to Cortland Park, connected it to the water spigot by the rec center, and spent forty-five minutes giving the big maple the deepest drink it had had in months.

Oh, the maple said, and Grove could feel the relief rolling through it — through its roots, up its trunk, all the way to the very tips of its highest branches. Oh, thank you. Thank you.

"You're welcome," Grove said, sitting down against the trunk and catching his breath.

Naya found him there, muddy and tired.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Watering the tree. It was thirsty."

Naya looked at the hose. She looked at the tree. She looked at Grove.

"Need help?" she said.

"Really?"

"I mean, I can't hear them. But I can carry water."

It sort of grew from there. That was the thing about it — it grew.

Naya told her neighbor, Mr. Bashir, about the dry trees in the park, and Mr. Bashir called the city's parks department. Marcus — who still didn't believe Grove could hear plants — helped set up a rain barrel in the backyard "just because it's a good idea." Three kids from school started a watering club. Mrs. Halpert put Grove in charge of all the classroom plants, and not a single one went crispy for the rest of the year.

The big maple turned the most magnificent orange anyone had ever seen that autumn. People came from blocks away to stand under it and look up through its bright, blazing canopy.

Nobody knew it had almost died. Nobody except Grove.

He stood under it one cool October afternoon, leaves spiraling down around him like confetti.

You saved me, the maple said quietly.

"I just brought water," Grove said. "Other people helped."

You listened. That was the first thing. Everything else came after.

Grove smiled and leaned against the trunk. Above him, the leaves rustled and shimmered, and he could hear them — all of them — humming with something that wasn't thirst for once.

It was something closer to happiness.

And Grove thought that maybe — just maybe — the power nobody wanted was the one that was needed most.