CHAPTER 50
The man was standing by the cash register, looking around just as Michael had done seconds ago. His eyes met Michael's, and he frowned before heading in Michael's direction. It only took a moment to reach the table.
"Where is Maria?" Theodore Laterro demanded, not bothering with any greeting.
Michael didn't really care; he wasn't one for false pleasantries. He gave a disinterested shrug and took a noisy slurp from his glass.
"Her mother said she was working today. So where is she?"
Michael purposely didn't answer him. Alex spoke up before he could say anything else. "Hi. I'm Alex Whitman, a friend of Maria's. And you are...?"
Laterro ignored his outstretched hand, but he answered, "Her uncle."
Throwing a surprised glance in Michael's direction, Alex repeated, "Her uncle? Oh. Nice to meet you. I didn't know--"
"She's not here," Michael said curtly.
"Listen, you little punk--"
"She's really not here," Alex put in. "She was, but the owner sent her on a delivery."
The man looked at Alex for a moment, then nodded. Of course he believed him; Alex had that kind of face, after all. Michael felt a momentary pang of envy: people believed Alex implicitly; Michael they always mistrusted. Not that he wanted anybody's trust anyway, anybody outside their own group.
"When she gets back, tell her I was looking for her," Laterro ordered.
"Sure, no problem," said Alex with a friendly smile.
The four of them watched as he turned on his heel and strode out of the café. "Okay," drawled Kyle. "Want to explain what that was about?"
"I don't know," Alex replied. "Michael?"
"Ask Maria. She'll tell you if she wants you to know." He stared across the table at Alex. "So how come you lied?"
"I didn't like his attitude."
"You didn't..." Michael repeated, trailing off. He'd known Alex was loyal, but he hadn't realized he was perceptive.
"Nope. Maybe I've been hanging with you Czechoslovakians too long, but he didn't seem entirely on the up-and-up to me. Plus, in seven years Maria's never mentioned an uncle."
"The uncle part is real," Michael admitted. "But I don't think she wants to talk to him."
"We kind of got that when she did the 440 to the back," Kyle said.
Tess spoke up. "Maybe you should go talk to her, Michael."
More unasked-for advice, although this time Michael actually considered it. But Liz and Alex were both there, and maybe there was something else he could do about the situation.
Because Alex had been right; Maria's uncle wasn't on the up-and-up, as Alex put it. Why else would he try to corner her at work? They were supposed to see each other at the dinner Maria was dreading. What was so important it couldn't wait until then? Or what couldn't be said in front of Mrs. DeLuca?
He was up to something, all right, and Michael was going to find out what.
"Tell Maria it's safe to come out again," he told Alex. "I gotta jet."
Sliding out of the booth, he found Liz and thrust the money to cover his lunch into her hand, then wheeled around and headed for Max before she could say anything.
His best friend was seated at the counter, stirring the remnants of an Alien Blast with his straw. He looked up and swung around as Michael approached.
"Hey, Maxwell," Michael greeted him, then got straight to the point. "Where's Isabel?"
*****
When he got to the Evans house, he headed straight for the back door. There was no point in using his usual mode of entry, Max's window, with Max at the Crashdown, and he wasn't going to chance being caught in Isabel's room if her mother was home. Not now that Mrs. Evans seemed to think he was some kind of threat to her girl-child. She wasn't quite as scary as Mrs. DeLuca in that matter, but she was bad enough.
If he was lucky, Isabel would be the only one home anyway, and he could do a quick in-and-out and be on his way.
With typical disdain, good luck passed him by. Mrs. Evans herself answered his knock.
"Oh, Michael," she said.
"Is Isabel here?"
"Isabel?" She sounded surprised, but then again, he was supposed to be Max's friend. "No, she ran out for a few minutes to pick up some more cinnamon red-hots. We're baking Christmas cookies," she added. There was a quick beat, then she asked, "Would you like to come in and wait? She should be back soon."
No, he didn't want to come in and wait. But he did need to talk to Isabel, and what was his other alternative? If he lurked around outside until she showed up, Mrs. Evans might call the cops.
"Uh...okay." He followed her into the kitchen, praying for Isabel to show up fast. At Mrs. Evans's urging, he took a seat at the kitchen table.
"Help yourself to a cookie," she told him as she went back to her mixing bowl. "The gingerbread men should still be warm."
Michael reached out for one, just to give his hands something to do. He studied it; it was a little lopsided, with raisin eyes and buttons and a smile made of some kind of red stuff he couldn't identify. It could be worse; if Mrs. DeLuca had made it, she probably would've added antennas and huge alien eyes. But this cookie looked just like he'd expect a traditional homemade gingerbread man to look. Its crooked mouth smiled inanely at him. Superior. Suddenly angry with its false cheer, he took a savage bite of its head. He felt immediately better.
That is, until he glanced up to see Mrs. Evans's eyes upon him. "'S good," he mumbled through the mouthful of cookie, and swallowed.
"So, Michael," Mrs. Evans said as she went back to measuring flour into her bowl. "How are you liking living alone? Max said you had your place fixed up pretty well, but do you need anything?"
"No, I'm okay," he said, then as an afterthought, "Thanks."
The only sound for a moment was the soft clink of the measuring cup against the side of the flour container. Without looking up, Mrs. Evans said, "I see you're still sporting the temporary tattoo that Max and Isabel wore last week. I thought Spirit Week was over?" Her voice rose at the end, making it a question.
Hunching down into the chair, Michael began to regret showing up here in the first place. He at least should have sat on the other side of the table; then the brand wouldn't be so obvious. "I guess I got a lotta school spirit," he grunted. Hopefully that would put paid to the subject.
Evidently she wasn't finished with him yet, though. Michael didn't know what it was about the female sex that made them talk all the time; it was as if they had a biological need for conversation or something. Maybe he should ask Liz about it. But Mrs. Evans kept talking, and what she said next was even worse than asking about his apartment, or even the brand.
"Isabel showed me the sketch you did of her," she commented. "It's very good. Do you enjoy art?"
Oh, hell. Why did Isabel have to show it around? Hadn't he told her not to make a big deal over it? "Uh, well, they made me take this art class last year," he said. He hadn't done much in class but draw geodesic domes, though. He'd always thought art was kind of stupid, a waste of time. He'd never so much as lifted a pencil to draw until the flashes he'd gotten from Atherton's key had invaded his mind, pressuring him to get the image in his head onto paper, and then onto canvas. He'd been surprised how easy it came to him once his fingers got used to the feel of holding a pencil for anything more than the messy scrawl that passed as his writing.
And once he'd started, he found himself with a startling urge to draw. Mostly pictures of Maria, but of anything else his eyes lit on, too. That's how he'd come to do the drawing of Isabel in the first place.
"You should take more art classes, then. I think you've got a lot of talent."
Michael was surprised at just how pleased he was by Mrs. Evans's remark. It was so rare that anyone said anything complimentary about him. To be honest with himself, he didn't really give them reason to be complimentary. Besides, what did Mrs. Evans know about art, anyway? She could just be being nice to one of her son's friends.
Still, it felt good. "Thanks," he said, and was rewarded with a warm smile, maybe the warmest Mrs. Evans had ever bestowed on him. It was eerily reminiscent of Isabel at her least somber, which was weird because they weren't even related, not by blood. The shapes of their faces weren't remotely similar, Michael thought, narrowing his eyes as he studied the woman before him, but the smiles were the same.
"What is it?" Mrs. Evans asked. "Do I have flour on my face or something?" She reached up to brush her hand across her cheek.
"You and Iz have the same smile," Michael blurted.
The smile grew warmer, if that was even possible. "Thank you, Michael. That's the nicest compliment I've gotten in a long time." She sounded especially pleased.
He hadn't intended it as a compliment; it was the truth. But it was probably best not to explain that. He had a feeling that he'd just flounder around and feel stupid, anyway. Instead, he took another bite of gingerbread man, an arm and part of a shoulder this time. It wasn't bad. Bland, to his hybrid tongue, but definitely edible.
Isabel's entrance saved him from having to make any more conversation. "I'm back," she announced as she entered the kitchen, grocery bag in hand. "Did you--Michael," she interrupted herself. Stuffing the last of the cookie in his mouth, he rose to his feet, eager to get moving on his plan.
"I need to talk to you," he said bluntly.
"Oh...sure," Isabel answered. She turned to her mother, who was watching the two of them curiously. "Mom, we're going into the living room, okay?"
She set the bag down on the counter and led the way out of the kitchen, Michael following closely on her heels. "We shouldn't talk here. She might overhear," he said.
"She's too busy to eavesdrop," Isabel told him, and was proved right by the sound of the mixer starting up in the kitchen. "And if she asks, I'll just tell her you needed advice about your girlfriend or something." She sat down on the couch. "So what's going on? Does this have anything to do with your mood lately?"
He ignored the last comment. "I need to know if you can dreamwalk somebody you don't know," he said as he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He'd made a detour on his way from the Crashdown, specifically to get it from his apartment. "If this will work," he added, handing it to her.
Isabel unfolded the slightly wrinkled page and smoothed it out on her knee. "This is the sketch of the man Max saw at the Crashdown," she said. "Maria's uncle."
"Yeah. I need to know why he's in Roswell. What he's up to. Can you do it?" he pressed.
She frowned. "What do you mean, what he's up to? You don't think he knows about us, do you?"
"No. But he's up to something. I can feel it. Hell," he added at her doubtful look, "even Alex can feel it."
She rolled her eyes upward and shook her head slightly. "I believe you, Michael. I don't need the Alex Whitman seal of approval."
"Well, then?"
"I don't know if a sketch will work, but I'll try it."
"Good." When she didn't move from the couch, he barked, "Come on, then."
"Michael," she said dryly, "it's the middle of the day. I can't dreamwalk him if he's not asleep."
Oh, yeah. "I know that," he cut in. "I just..." He just needed to know, dammit.
"I'll try it tonight," she said, and he forced himself to relax.
"Okay."
Then the expression on her face grew speculative, and Michael felt himself grow tense again. "But there's a condition."
"What?" he asked warily. She'd never needed conditions to exert her dreamwalking abilities before. She hadn't ever needed much of an excuse, either.
"I will do this for you," Isabel said carefully, "if you will let me pick you out a new outfit for your date with Maria."
"No way," he snapped. He should have known Iz would try to take advantage of this, would butt in on his plans for the date, such as they were. Everyone else had shoved advice at him; she wasn't going to be an exception.
She waved her hand airily, dismissing his objection. "Think of it as a 'Congratulations on getting back together' gift."
"I don't want a 'Congratulations on getting back together' gift," he said, mimicking her. Nor did he want a Christmas present, which was what this really was. Did Isabel think she was fooling him? He didn't want any charity. She should know better.
"Then think of it as a gift for Maria. I know her style can be kind of eccentric, but at least she has one. You don't want her to be seen with you and your total lack of style, do you?"
Maria would deal with his style; she always had before. "No new clothes, Isabel." His voice was firm.
Hers was just as firm. "Take it or leave it, Michael."
Dammit, she was serious. Maybe the whole dreamwalking thing wasn't that important. They didn't even know if Iz could do it from a sketch. If it wasn't even going to work, why put up with blackmail?
Just how badly did he want to know about the guy?
"I am not going shopping with you," he warned. "You're not getting me anywhere near a store."
"But if I bring it to you, you'll wear it?"
Michael felt no lessening of his trepidation. "I get veto power," he countered.
She shook her head. "You'd automatically veto anything I brought over, just on principle."
The notion had occurred to him. And he didn't like the idea of agreeing blind--he could end up looking and feeling like an idiot. He wouldn't put it past Iz to put him in a necktie or something, and he didn't do ties, especially for a casual movie date. It'd probably choke him. And if she--
She must have been reading his mind--not that he thought that was really possible. "I promise I won't get anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just something a step or two nicer than your t-shirt collection. Something Maria will like, to show you made an effort." She waited for a response; when she didn't get one, her smile faded. "Don't you trust me, Michael?"
She would have to put it on that basis, he thought, running a hand over his face. But she actually sounded disappointed. Hurt, even. He didn't think she was faking it either. And he would trust her with his life; why was it so hard to trust her with this?
"Okay," he said reluctantly. "But if Maria laughs at me, you're gonna owe me. Big."
The smile reappeared instantly, so much like her mother's. "She won't laugh at you, I promise," she said with a confidence he wished he shared. Rising gracefully to her feet, she moved towards the doorway, ushering him from the room. "I'll go shopping tonight and bring things over tomorrow for a test run."
Test run? He hadn't signed on for that. "Iz--"
"It's okay," she said, ignoring his discomfort. "The mall is open late every night until Christmas. I'll have plenty of time to find just the right thing."
By now they were back in the kitchen. "Mom, where's the measuring tape?"
Mrs. Evans looked up from the dough she was spooning onto a cookie sheet. "It's in the junk drawer, I think. Why?"
Staring intently at Isabel, Michael gave her a silent command to keep quiet. She had practically read his mind before; she could just do it again.
She didn't. "I'm helping Michael get some new clothes. He and Maria--Maria DeLuca, that's his girlfriend--have a date Wednesday, and he wants to look nice for her."
Michael glared at her. He didn't want anything of the sort--this had been forced on him. Isabel just grinned at him and rummaged in a drawer. "I need to get his measurements," she said, then held the tape up triumphantly.
"Come anywhere near me with that thing and you'll be swallowing it, Iz," he grated out, not caring how her mother took it. He'd put up with enough already.
"I'm just kidding, Michael," Isabel laughed. "I think I can approximate the right sizes without this. You're not that oddly-shaped." He glared at her some more, and she gave him an actual smirk before turning to her mother. "I think he needs some color, don't you, Mom? Something in a nice Christmas red?" she teased.
Michael sighed. Forget Maria laughing at him; Isabel already owed him one just for this.
"--or maybe a nice shade of lavender?"
