Title: Someone, Anyone
Author: April
Disclaimer: I wish that someonein this story belonged to me. I wish that anyone in this story belonged to me. But they never have and they never will, so I guess I should just admit to borrowing these characters for entertainment and assure no copyright infringement intended. There.
Summary: Michael Guerin is going nowhere in life, and he'll be the first to admit it. As a senior in high school, he should be looking forward to his future, but the future is something he hasn't given much thought to. Ever the reckless, undisciplined teenager, Michael soon unknowingly finds himself thrust into a new chapter of his life, a chapter in which he'll have the chance to turn out differently than he or anyone else ever thought he would. But is he ready for the twists and turns life has in store for him? Is he ready to be someone?
Category: Michael and Maria AU without aliens (other CC pairings included. Some UC at times, but trust me, this is NOT Alien Abyss material.)
Rating: M
Author's Note: I've been writing Roswell fanfiction for roughly 12 years now. That's . . . sort of hard to believe, but kind of cool to contemplate. When I first started out, I was just a kid wanting to get my ideas out there. As I progressed, I became a lot more confident in what I was doing. And now I'm at the point where I can confidently assert that writing is a part of who I am and where I'm going in life. It's an important undertaking for me. The last 3 stories I wrote allowed me to break-through as an author and push myself to new levels. This story, an idea that originally sprang out of nowhere and completely called to me even though I had a different story plotted out in my mind . . . this story means a lot to me. And I'm thrilled to be able to share it with you.
...
Prologue
The Comets. That's what we were to be called from now on. One big, happy school.
If you ask me and anyone else with a grain of common sense, we never needed two public schools anyway. Roswell's not a big town. Sure, the little green men crap lures in plenty of tourists, but in terms of permanent residents, it's not big enough to merit both East and West Roswell High, in additional to those private schools where the girls wear those little skirts.
Mmm.
I went to East all my life. It was an older, shittier building. Had an ever-increasing dropout rate and blackboards instead of whiteboards. Teachers who spent more time in the teacher study complaining about kids like me than they did planning out their lessons for the next day. Meals for lunch that probably once passed as food but pretty much tasted like cardboard by the time I got to high school. And a football team that bore the legacy of being the only positive thing about the crappy East High Asteroids in years.
Maybe it just wasn't meant to last any longer. It'd lasted long enough. Maybe that's why the flood hit.
Real freak thing it was, a torrential downpour that lasted almost two full days, biggest rainstorm to hit Roswell in decades. It flooded East High the summer before my senior year, destroyed numerous parts of the building. Ceilings started caving in, property was damaged. The city officials had at least five different inspectors take a look at it before they finally accepted the inevitable decision: unsalvageable.
So they came up with a plan. All of us East Roswell students would go to West. The West Roswell Comets. It was a newer, nicer school. And they had just added on a few new classrooms meant for middle school students. The two schools decided together that they would keep the middle schoolers in a separate building and use these newer classrooms to accommodate a new influx of troublemakers. I'm sure that's what they called us.
Some people were happy about it, some people weren't. Can't please everyone, right? Me? I was indifferent. I didn't give a rat's ass about school. I still don't. Not really.
But I should've known . . .
My senior year got off to a surprising start. I should've known it would end that way.
...
"Michael, where are you going?"
Michael Guerin trundled downstairs and gave his mom a one word answer: "Out." He slammed the door on his way out of the house. His friends were all piled into the back of Kyle's pick-up truck, waiting for him. They whooped and hollered when they saw him and lifted him into the truck bed swiftly, giving him a beer right away. And then they peeled off down the street, blaring the radio, daring each other to jump out of the truck while it was moving.
The party in Frasier Woods was in full swing by the time they got there. It was still primarily just the East crowd, since the woods retreat had always been an East tradition right before the start of school, but a few guys, mostly jocks, from West had shown up there, too. Michael recognized a few of them, but he was more interested in their female stock.
He and Kyle settled in comfortably by the keg with a guy from West named Ryan, filling their red solo cups to the brim over and over again until the keg ran empty. This caused an uproar, of course, because the other three kegs were empty, too. A few unlucky sophomores were commanded to go on a run for some more, and the smell of weed quilted the air while they were gone. Music blasted from a car stereo with an extra loud bass, mixed in with the sound of drunken high school laughter.
God, he loved parties like this.
"Man, I can't believe summer's almost over," Ryan lamented, desperately trying to get at least a few more drops of beer out of the keg.
"It sucks," Michael agreed, already dreading the thought of the next nine months. But on the bright side . . . just nine more months and he was done with it. All of it. For all time.
"I'm actually kinda lookin' forward to it," Kyle piped up, sounding almost unnaturally excited about something so unexciting.
"You're shittin' me, right?" Ryan said in disbelief.
"No, he's serious," Michael informed him.
"Guys, it's senior year," Kyle said, as though that were supposed to mean something.
Michael rolled his eyes. All senior year was to him was the last obstacle to a carefree life of fun and freedom, two things he didn't have at school.
"Come on," Kyle insisted, "it'll be awesome. New school . . . for some of us anyway."
"It's not that great," Ryan muttered, staring down at the bottom of his empty cup.
"Brand new coach," Kyle pointed out. "For both of us."
Ryan thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.
"Man, I can't wait for football to start up again." Kyle's eyes gleamed. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning just thinking about it.
"Start up?" Michael echoed. "You say that like you actually took a break from it."
"Hey, do you think Tom Brady ever takes a break from it?" Kyle shot back.
"Sure. He's gotta fuck his hot model wife." Michael laughed at his own joke, and Ryan laughed along with him. Eventually, Kyle cracked a smile and nodded in agreement.
"Fair enough," he said.
"Yeah, she's smokin'," Ryan agreed. "Hey, in all seriousness, though . . . you're big news around here, Valenti. West has never really had a great quarterback before. Now we might actually win some shit."
"Oh, yeah, I'm gonna light up the scoreboard," Kyle promised. But because he would actually follow through, it didn't even sound like he was bragging.
"I'm gonna warm up the bench," Michael proclaimed.
"You know, you'd actually be a pretty damn good receiver if you'd get your head outta your ass."
Michael shrugged, not caring. Football was Kyle's thing, not his. So was wrestling, and track and . . . everything, really.
"No, Ry, don't let this guy fool you," Michael said, watching as headlights came into view, prepared to bolt if the cops were showing up to bust this. But the closer the car came into view, the more he could make out the vehicle of the sophomores who had gone to get the new kegs. Excellent. "Kyle's pumped about football, but the real reason he's so excited to be goin' to West now is 'cause his girlfriend goes there. He's fuckin' whipped."
"Tess Harding," Ryan practically growled, licking his lips. "Damn, that girl's so . . . little. Limber."
"Oh, you have no idea." Kyle grinned.
"I'd let her whip me any day."
"Well, easy there, Ry."
"Whipped," Michael repeated. Tess and Kyle had been dating for almost two years now. It was crazy as far as Michael was concerned. How anyone could commit themselves to one person for so long . . . he just didn't have that in him. He'd already tried.
"Fine, I'm whipped," Kyle admitted. "I don't care. My girl's hot. I love her."
Michael started to make exaggerated puking sounds, and Ryan soon joined in.
"Yeah, whatever, laugh it up," Kyle dismissed. "Dude, you know you're excited to see your girl again, too."
Michael immediately stopped poking fun of his friend. "She's not my girl," he quickly denied.
"Your ex, whatever."
"Oh, that's right," Ryan said. "You used to date-"
"Yeah, I don't like to talk about it," Michael cut in quickly. It had been a miserable eight months, ended on prom night. Thank God. Because he just wasn't cut out for the whole boyfriend thing.
"Rough breakup?" Ryan guessed.
"Rough relationship," Kyle answered for him. "Not worth it if you ask me."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. That's why I broke up with her."
"Don't you mean you cheated on her?"
"Shut up, man," Michael said, playfully slugging his best friend's shoulder. He watched as the two sophomores tried to lug the first of two kegs over to the clearing, neither of them having much luck. He wasn't about to go help them, though. Hell, no. It was a lot more fun to sit back, watch, and get a good laugh at their expense.
"Man, they don't have a clue," Ryan remarked.
"Nope," he agreed. He got distracted, though, when he noticed two cute little things in denim shorts and bikini tops approaching. One was a petite blonde who had obviously gotten too much sun over the summer, and another was a curvier brunette who was wearing too much makeup for her face to handle. Still hot, though.
"Look what we have here," Ryan said, putting his arm around the brunette. "West freshmen."
Michael's eyebrows shot up, intrigued. He loved them young like this. They were so eager to try anything. So loose with their . . . morals.
"You guys wanna dance?" they asked flirtatiously.
"Maybe later," Michael said. The pelvic thrust just happened to be his favorite dance move, and he was really good at it.
"Yeah, later," Ryan agreed. "Go get another drink in you."
"Okay." The brunette gave him a kiss on the cheek and pranced off towards the new kegs, pulling her friend along behind her.
"Alright, dark-haired one's mine," Ryan claimed.
"That's fine," Michael said, watching eagerly as their breasts just about bounced out of their tops, "I prefer blondes anyway."
...
A wave of nausea hit, rousing Michael from his beloved slumber. He held it back, though, and slowly opened his eyes. Damn, his eyelids felt like they weighed twenty pounds each. And his head was throbbing. No surprise there.
It took him a moment to realize he was lying on his stomach on his best friend's bedroom floor. No surprise there, either. He woke up there a lot.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Kyle called.
Michael propped himself up on his forearms and squinted as he looked around. Kyle was considerate enough to keep the shades pulled, and he was sitting up on his bed, flipping rapidly through the latest issue of Playboy.
"Late night?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Pretty late," was Kyle's response, his eyes still glued to this month's centerfold. "Do you remember gettin' here?"
"No."
"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't. I had to haul your ass in here."
Michael rubbed his forehead, hoping this wasn't a headache type of hangover. Sometimes he woke up like this and his head would hurt all day. But sometimes he'd just sleep a little bit more and feel raring to go again. He yawned, managed to sit up, and asked, "Was your dad home?"
"No, he was out with his new girlfriend," Kyle revealed, closing the magazine and setting it aside on the bed. "And I don't even think he's come home yet, so I guess they made it an overnight."
Michael nodded, able to respect and appreciate the older man's many conquests. "Alright, gettin' it in. Way to go, Senior Valenti."
Kyle rolled his eyes and asked, "Breakfast?"
"Yeah." He needed to get some food in him. "Crashdown?"
Kyle nodded his agreement. "Let's go."
...
Miraculously, his eyes weren't completely bloodshot, so Michael took off his sunglasses when they got to the restaurant. It was already 10:00, so the early morning elderly crowd had cleared out, and most of the other customers were people like them, high school or college-aged kids who'd stayed up late the night before and were struggling to get around now.
"So what's the last thing you remember from last night?" Kyle asked as they sat down at their usual booth.
"Well . . ." He grabbed a menu from its perch on the table, even though he knew it by heart. "I remember those girls came up to us."
"Yep."
"And then Ryan brought out the hard liquor."
"Yeah . . ."
"And then . . ." His mind went blank. "I don't really remember anything after that."
"You guys went off deeper into the woods with those girls," Kyle revealed.
Michael grinned. "To have sex?"
"Probably. I don't know. I didn't follow. Anyway, Ry came stumblin' out after about five minutes. He was so wasted he couldn't even get it up."
"Oh, that sucks," Michael said, laughing lightly. Luckily that never happened to him. Or at least . . . he didn't remember it ever happening. "So I was out there with both the girls?"
"Yeah, for about twenty minutes."
His eyes grew wider, intrigued. "Did I have a threesome?"
Kyle shrugged. "Possibly."
"Oh, man, I wish I could remember that. I haven't had a decent threesome in years."
"It was a night to remember," Kyle joked.
He waved it off. "Whatever. So why wasn't Tess there?"
"Ah, you know she hates that kind of party," Kyle replied, picking up one of the little half and half cups so he could play around with it. "Besides, I think she and her friends were having a sleepover."
"Sleepover?" He smiled dazedly, envisioning it in his head. "Man, can't you just picture all those girls in their little pajamas, giving each other massages, braiding each other's hair? Having pillow fights. Practicing kissing on each other."
Kyle accidentally squeezed the half and half cup so hard that it spilled onto the table. "Apparently you can," he said.
"It's a fantasy." What he would have given to be able to spy on a high school sleepover.
"I get it." Kyle quickly wiped up his spill as the waitress approached. The poor thing. She, like all the other waitresses there, was forced to wear the ridiculous Crashdown café uniform. What color was that supposed to be anyway? Light blue? Teal? And the radioactively silver alien-head apron? And the tacky antennae headband sitting atop her blonde head . . . poor thing. They lived in Roswell, though. Everything was alien-themed. It was . . . expected.
"Hi, what can I get you guys?" she greeted quickly, sounding rehearsed. Michael couldn't help but watch her mouth move. She had nice full lips. They probably would have looked great wrapped around his . . .
God, he had a one-tract mind.
"Uh, I'll have a . . ." Kyle quickly grabbed a menu and opened it, then closed it again just as quickly. "Orbital Omelet."
She jotted that down quickly on a notepad. Clearly she was new, because the more experienced waitresses could just memorize the orders. "And to drink?" she asked.
"Uh . . . just milk."
"One-percent, two-percent, skim?"
"Two-percent."
"Okay." She turned to Michael, asking, "And for you?"
He closed the menu and said, "Same thing, I guess. But instead of milk, could you get me a beer?" He figured it was worth a shot. She looked young like him.
She stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled and said, "Sure. Anything else?"
"That's it. Thanks . . ." He glanced at her nametag. "Maria."
"Alright, I'll be back with your drinks." She tucked her order pad into the waistline of her apron and trotted off.
"Hey, I didn't even have to show my fake ID," he said in astonishment, watching her go. "I like her."
Kyle just chuckled and shook his head. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"
He shrugged. As much as he was feeling the effects of last night's indulgence, he still had a little bit of a buzz from it, too. Why not try to stay buzzed?
"You're lucky we don't have school 'til tomorrow," Kyle said. "You'd never make it today."
"Yeah, well, I'm thinkin' about skippin' it tomorrow."
"Skipping," Kyle echoed. "On the first day?"
"Yeah, it's pointless. All you do is shuffle around from classroom to classroom, listening to boring-ass teachers explain their rules and expectations, which they know you're not gonna follow, yet somehow they're shocked and appalled when you don't."
"Yeah, but you could find those freshmen, figure out what exactly you did last night," Kyle pointed out.
"You think they remember any more than I do?"
"Fine, then you could scope out someone new. Or . . ." He trailed off. "Never mind."
"I swear to fuckin' God, if you were gonna say something about her . . ."
"I was," Kyle confessed as their waitress approached the table again. "I won't."
Michael shook his head, only mildly annoyed.
"Here you go," Maria said, setting Kyle's glass of milk down in front of him. Much to Michael's surprise, she set down . . . a root beer? She set down a fucking root beer in front of him. With a small smirk playing on her lips, she walked away again.
He stared at the root beer in utter shock and disappointment, and Kyle began to laugh.
"Bitch," Michael muttered, reluctantly taking a drink. "I'm not givin' her a tip now."
...
Michael didn't bother to announce that he was home after Kyle dropped him off around noon. The sound of the front door closing announced it for him.
"Michael?" his mom, Krista, said, skittering in from the kitchen. She had a dishtowel in one hand and a plate in the other. As usual, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him. "You know, when you say you're going out, I'd like to think you'd come home before the next sunrise."
"I crashed at Kyle's," he informed her.
"Then is it too much to ask that you call me and let me know you're there?"
"Yeah," he answered honestly.
She gave him an annoyed look.
"Mom, I don't even remember getting there."
"Oh, I don't wanna hear this." Shaking her head, she headed back into the kitchen.
He had only just started up the stairs when his ten year-old sister, Tina, came running down to meet him.
"Michael, I gotta show you something!" she hollered.
"Right now?" He really just wanted to go to sleep.
"Yeah, come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs faster than he would have managed to go on his own. Down at the end of the hallway, the door to her bedroom was closed. When she pushed it open, she did so grandly, singing out, "Ta-da!" as he did so.
He stood in the doorway, perplexed. Looked like the same old room to him. "What am I supposed to be lookin' at?" he asked.
"This." She pranced over to her bed, where she had an entire outfit laid out. Denim skirt and a bright pink t-shirt that said Sweetie on it, along with a picture of a cupcake. She even had white flip flop sandals set out beside the bed.
"Clothes," he observed, still not sure what he was supposed to be seeing.
"It's my outfit for tomorrow," she said, sounding disappointed that he didn't seem more interested. "What do you think?"
"Oh, right, first day of school," he registered. "Girls like to dress up for that." He nodded, not sure if he was really the best judge. "It's nice."
"Do you think anyone can tell it's all from Wal-Mart?" she fretted.
"Nah. You'll look great."
She smiled, bouncing up and down excitedly. "I can't wait!" she exclaimed. "What about you? Do you have your outfit planned out?"
"Uh . . ." He scratched his eyebrow, still not sure if he was even planning on attending the monotonous first day. "Not really. Guys don't really . . . do that sort of thing."
"Why not?" she asked.
"We just don't."
"Hmm." She shrugged. "Well, you think mine's okay?"
"I think you're gonna be the stunner of the fifth grade," he said, wondering how his parents would feel about that skirt. It didn't look very long lying on the bed, so it probably wouldn't look very long when she had it on, either.
"You think?" The idea seemed to excite her. Tina had never been part of the popular crowd, and unfortunately, her class was very divided into cliques. The popular girls, the athletes, the nerds. She had a few friends, though, mostly girls like her who really cared about their homework and their grades. She was the total opposite of him in that regard.
"I gotta get some sleep," he said, turning to leave.
"Wait!" She scurried over to the corner of her room and picked up a pink and black backpack. It was so heavy, though, that she couldn't even lift it onto the bed. Michael eventually strode into the room and helped her.
"Thanks," she said, unzipping it eagerly. "Look. All my folders, and my binders, and my pencils, and my colored pencils, and my pencil sharpener, and my highlighters, and-"
"Wow, Teenie," he cut in, using his nickname for her, "you bought out the whole store."
"I just wanna be ready."
"And that's good." He didn't want to discourage her. This feeling of the first-day excitement was something he'd never felt before, which probably explained why his grades were in the shitter.
"Hey, do you think you could ask Dad to write out a check for me?" she asked. "I need lunch money."
"Yeah, sure. And then I'm goin' to bed. So don't bother me."
"But it's lunchtime," she pointed out.
"I know, I'm just tired." He purposefully messed up her hair on his way out.
"Michael!" she yelped, giggling.
He dragged himself down to the other end of the hallway, figuring his dad wasn't up and around yet, either. Weekends were his only days off, and he spent most of that time in seclusion.
"Dad?" he called, knocking once loudly on the bedroom door. He pushed it open, not surprised to find his dad, Andy, asleep in his desk chair again, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side. It must have been a pretty deep sleep, because he was snoring. His computer screen was still up, and some zombie game was continuing on its own accord. Next to the computer were three beer cans.
Michael leaned over his dad, pressing a few buttons on the keyboard to end the game without saving. "Dad," he said, nudging his father impatiently.
His father made a few unintelligible sounds as he shifted out of his slumber. "What?" he mumbled.
"Tina needs lunch money," he revealed, picking up all the cans. Two of them were empty. One was nearly so.
"Great," his dad grumbled, leaning forward. He peered hard at the computer screen, seemingly disappointed that he was back at the start menu for his game. "Can you hand me that one?" he asked Michael, holding out his hand.
Michael brought the can up to his mouth and downed the rest of it, what little there was, then handed it to his father, empty.
"Wanna go get me another one?"
"Nope." Michael left him to . . . whatever he was doing and finally slipped into his own bedroom. He still had piles of clothes on the floor that needed to either be put away or tossed in the laundry, so he stepped over them on his way to his bed. A bed which his mother appeared to have made, because she just couldn't resist. She hadn't opened the blinds, though, which was nice.
He took off his shoes, stepped out of his jeans, and crawled up onto the mattress in his t-shirt and boxers. He flopped forward, not moving once his head hit the pillow. Time to recharge.