CHAPTER 43
Michael stood back and studied the plant puppets that were sitting in the corner of the shop room. He'd worked his ass off on them over the weekend, only taking time away to work at the gas station. It was okay; he didn't need to sleep anyway, not when he was gonna dream about...whatever. Never mind.
He was lucky he'd been able to control his powers long enough to undo the locks on the school, and no one had noticed the light shining in the shop room at night. And now, the plants were just about done.
He'd made four of them, ranging from a hand-size plant in a pot to a gigantic, flytrap-looking thing, big enough to swallow a human. He'd started with the sketches Ms. Bedinger had shown him and the information in the back of the script, and had let his imagination go from there.
He tried to decide if the biggest plant needed a touch more purple, but shook his head and decided to let it rest. He looked up as he felt someone approach. It was not someone that he particularly wanted to see.
"Nice job," commented Mark. The alien didn't answer, just went back to studying his handiwork. Mark continued, undaunted. "I heard you were about finished with them, so I thought I'd come check them out. They look great. When are you going to start using them? You're going to have to get used to working with Brian, to make sure your movements coordinate with his vocals, and--"
What the hell was he talking about? At Michael's look of bafflement, Mark slowed to a stop. "You are working the puppets, right?" he asked. Michael gave him a disbelieving look. "You built them. I guess I just assumed..." the senior started.
Michael found his voice. "Do I look like I want to waste any more time on your lame-ass play?" he asked scathingly.
Mark's brow wrinkled. "If you're not interested in theater, why'd you agree to build them in the first place?" He sounded sincere, like he really wanted to know. Michael didn't buy it. The guy might not be Maria's stalker, but he wasn't to be trusted, either. He was obviously up to something. Why else come talk to Michael?
"Whitman asked me to do it," he said brusquely.
"Alex Whitman? The bass player?" Michael gave a single affirmative nod. "Oh," Mark said. "I thought maybe it was because of Maria."
Turning abruptly away, Michael denied it with one word. "No." Reaching out, he ran a hand over the shell of the largest plant, as if to test the dryness of the paint. He could feel Mark studying him, and it was starting to piss him off. The guy was off his stalker suspect list. Michael didn't need him hanging around. It was lunch time, so why wasn't he off eating or studying his lines or something?
Mark appeared to be toying with how to approach the next subject. Michael purposely didn't give him any encouragement. The senior finally grimaced and said, "Look, Guerin, I don't know what's up with you and Maria--"
Michael broke in with a curt, "Nothing." Mark went on, ignoring the interruption.
"--but it's pretty damn obvious that she's hung up on you."
Great. Just what he didn't need, a heart-to-heart with Actorboy. What was up with him, anyway? He couldn't be after Maria, not after the grope session he and Melanie had put on in the park the other night. Or maybe he was, the horndog. Wait--what was he going on about now?
"...because we only have nine more days before the show opens, and I can't afford to have her lose focus. It's my last year here, and I'm going to damn well make sure that this show is fucking fantastic." He looked over at Michael, who was still pretending to check out the paint job. "The show may not mean anything to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me and Maria and everyone else who's involved. So don't screw it up for us."
Michael swung around and looked him squarely in the eye. "Just what are you asking me to do? And why should I care enough to do it?"
"I'm asking you not to do anything to...upset Maria. This is her first show and she needs to concentrate. She could be really great if she doesn't have any distractions. So don't distract her. Leave her alone and let her do what she needs to do. As for why you should do it, I guess you'll have to work that out on your own."
Michael's eyes narrowed menacingly. What a total prick. "You only care about how your little play comes off, don't you? You have no concern for what Maria might actually be feeling, as long as it doesn't hurt her performance. You don't care about her at all," he challenged.
Mark didn't back down. "Do you?" He headed toward the door, then stopped and added, "You really have done a great job on the plants. Maybe you should give theater a chance. You might find out it's not so 'lame-ass' after all." He pushed the shop doors open and headed into the hall, leaving Michael staring silently after him.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period, Michael shook his head to clear it and slouched off to class. Instead of dragging on like every other school day, the afternoon seemed to speed by, and suddenly he found himself in the hallway, on his way to the last class of the day. World History. With Maria.
He wasn't looking forward to the class, not that he ever did. But today she'd either be ticked that he'd ignored her that morning, or she'd act overly happy to show she didn't care, or she'd pretend he wasn't there either. And he wasn't sure which would be worst.
He knew he'd hurt her by shutting her out again. But so many things were telling him to leave her alone: his gut, his brain...not to mention her mother. Although, thanks to Mark's little speech, he was sorely tempted to become her new best friend just to piss the guy off. If he wanted to, he could provide plenty of distraction. Of course, she might distract him just as much...No, backing away was the right thing to do. He just had to make it through the afternoon. He'd worry about later...well, later.
He steeled himself as he approached the classroom door. Sure enough, her voice came as he was stepping through the doorway. "Hey, Michael," she said from behind him. He just kept moving into the classroom. Sitting down, he pulled out a pen and started to doodle aimlessly on the cover of his notebook.
He could do this. He would just ignore the fact that she was standing next to him, looking down with fire in her eyes. He wouldn't listen to whatever it was that she was running on about. He would show no reaction to anything.
Too bad he couldn't fall into a voice-induced trance. That would be a great thing right now. He would just go away to wherever, and by the time he came out of it, maybe she'd have gone away and Mrs. Lyons would be talking instead. Even listening to the lecture would be better than this.
With a sudden start, he realized that he hadn't had a blackout the whole weekend. Not since the one in his apartment Friday night. Figured. When he didn't want them, they came without warning. When he did want them, no dice. Maybe he could fake one...
He was rescued by the arrival of the teacher, which sent Maria hurrying to her desk. Saved. He breathed a sigh of relief.
As Mrs. Lyons began the class, Michael studied the geometric designs he'd doodled on his notebook. With a few extra pen strokes, he fleshed one of them out, making it appear three-dimensional. Throughout the lecture, he continued to draw, looking up at the teacher only occasionally. It wasn't like he had any interest in--what was the topic?--oh yeah, Spanish exploration of North America, anyway.
His interest was drawn however, as a familiar voice spoke.
"But Coronado had already explored the whole area, looking for the Seven Cities of Gold, right?" Maria asked. The teacher nodded.
"It's nice to see you were actually paying some attention to the lectures last week, Maria. Yes, you're right, Spain had explored much of what is now the interior United States, but didn't include what its explorers found on printed maps well into the nineteenth century."
Maria frowned in concentration. "So what you're saying is that, if Spain had published maps of what Coronado and Onate and the other explorers discovered back in the 1500's, it could have used the maps--proof that they'd been there--to help them claim ownership later. Basically, it didn't share important information and lost out because of it," she wound up, carefully stressing her last statement to give it extra significance. Michael wasn't looking at her, but he could tell she had turned in his direction. He stared at the blackboard. Not exactly subtle, that Maria.
So. She'd obviously found out about the vision, that he'd figured it out and hadn't told her. He hadn't purposely made the decision not to tell her; he'd just--well, to be honest, he'd been tired and in a crappy mood that morning. He hadn't felt like talking. And since he hadn't expected her mother to be lying in wait, he'd just figured he had plenty of time to tell her later. Not that she'd believe that now. And then they'd gotten to the Crashdown, and everything had happened so fast, and the next thing he knew, Mrs. DeLuca was warning him away from her daughter, and life officially sucked. Big time.
His pen continued to glide over the notebook cover, biting in more deeply now. Geometric shapes were filled in and then ruthlessly obliterated by additional layers of ink. He wasn't alone. He could feel the angry vibes pouring off of Maria in waves. The vibrations were so strong that he was surprised the windows hadn't shattered. And so when the bell rang, he reacted instinctively. He did what he was best at. He ran.
He shouldered his way roughly through the people in the hallway, telling himself that he wasn't a total wuss for running from a girl. He wasn't scared of her, not really. She couldn't exactly hurt him, and if she could, well, Hank had gotten him used to that. No, he was more afraid of what he might do.
And even though she had no idea of the real reasons, Mrs. DeLuca was right. He had no business being anywhere near her daughter. No matter how much he might wish it were different.
"Hey, Guerin!" The shout caught his attention. What now? He bristled. If Blumenthal thought he was gonna have another little talk, he had another think coming. Michael might just have to deck him.
But it wasn't Mark who jogged up to him. It was Kyle Valenti. Star quarterback, captain of the basketball team, and the latest (and hopefully last) human to find out about the three aliens' otherworldly status. Michael hadn't spoken to him since Kyle was shot and Max healed him. Then again, they didn't really talk before then, either. They moved in totally different circles. Well, Kyle moved in a circle. Michael's circle only had five other people in it--he could hardly even call it a dot.
"Valenti," he said, his tone wary.
"I heard you're unveiling the plants today," Kyle said. "Came to see if you needed some help getting them to the auditorium."
Michael, being Michael, was immediately suspicious. "I didn't know you were such a theater buff."
Kyle grinned. "I'm not. But it's a great place to meet girls."
"There are only four girls in the play, and you already know them," Michael pointed out.
"True," responded the athlete. "It's not a big deal. A couple of guys and I always help out backstage, pushing the set around and stuff. It's a favor for Ms. Bedinger."
Michael had major difficulty dealing with the idea that someone might actually want to do a favor for a teacher, but he let it go. He shrugged. "Plants are in the shop room," was all he said.
It took several trips for the two of them to get the puppets from the shop to the stage. They left the biggest one for last, working without talking. Finally, Kyle broke the silence.
"Look, Guerin. I'm trying to deal with everything that happened last spring." Michael stiffened. "I'm not going to tell anyone about it or anything. I just have some questions, and I need to talk to someone about them."
Michael began listing names. "Liz. Maria. Alex. Hell, even your father."
With a shake of his head, Kyle said, "No. I mean someone...well, you know, a visitor." He glanced carefully around to make sure no one was listening.
Michael shifted his grip on the plant. His voice was gruff. "Then talk to Max. I'm not your man."
"Yes, you are," insisted Kyle. "I don't want to talk to Max; he and I have too much history, what with Liz and then everything that happened in May. And Isabel? Tess Harding? Uh-uh. I think I'd prefer a guy's point of view. That leaves you."
"How flattering," was Michael's sarcastic response. Kyle grinned.
"Well, I'm not trying to date you, sport. I just want some answers."
Valenti was out of luck there. "I don't have any."
"I'll take whatever I can get," Kyle said. "I just want to figure out what it all means. So, what do you think? Can we talk about it some time?"
What did he think? Kyle Valenti was coming to him to talk? Lately, Michael had a hard enough time talking to Max, his best friend, and now this jock wanted to discuss the big significant questions of his existence? Valenti was nuts if he thought Michael had any answers for him. He could forget it. Michael opened his mouth to turn the guy down. And then with shock, he heard his own voice. "Sure. Why the hell not?"
"Great," answered Kyle. Together, they set the puppet down on the stage and Michael stood, his mind whirling. What had he just done? He had to get out of there, and fast. Or else he was pretty sure he'd end up doing something else crazy, like joining the chess club. Or standing at the center of the stage and announcing to the world that he was an alien. Besides, by clearing out he could also avoid the determined blonde that was heading down an auditorium aisle, directly towards him.
"Gotta go," Michael blurted and bolted for the second time that afternoon. No, Michael Guerin wasn't afraid of a girl. No way. Right. Face it: he didn't remember anything about his supposed previous existence, but in whatever language he had spoken, the name 'Michael Guerin' probably translated as 'totally chickenshit.'
With a frustrated shriek, Maria watched as Michael jumped lightly down off the stage and headed out the side door. Oh yes. Let him run. But when she finally got her hands on him...well, she didn't mean that literally. Or come to think of it, maybe she did. She laughed to herself. Only Michael could get her this angry and this...not angry, all at the same time.
"Having problems with loverboy?" said Mark, coming up behind her. "He seemed to take off awfully quickly."
"He probably had somewhere else he needed to be," she said. "He works, you know."
"Didn't know. Didn't particularly care," he responded cheerfully. "So, you ready for a good run-through?"
"Yeah, I guess so. It's exciting to finally have the plants to work with."
"I have to admit it, Guerin did a good job on them," said Mark with satisfaction. "Not too shabby, huh?"
Maria grinned at him. "Sure. It's amazing what you can do with a little canvas, some chicken wire and a complete lack of know-how." But all joking aside, she was really impressed. It was obvious that Michael must have spent hours on them, and she'd wager that it was all done by hand--no powers. Plus Alex had finally admitted that it had been his idea, and that Michael had only agreed to build them to have an excuse to hang around and watch out for her. A foolish-looking grin grew on her face. It was getting harder and harder to stay angry with the big lunkhead. Not that she had any intention of letting him know that. He was still going to regret leaving her out of things.
It was one thing for him not to share stuff with anyone. She knew how hard it was for him to open up, and she'd promised to try not to pressure him into it when he wasn't ready. Which hadn't been easy for her. But it was a totally different matter when he voluntarily told other people, but purposely left her out. No sir, Spaceboy was going to have to admit he'd made a big mistake there. And she was going to have fun tormenting him until he did. She had plenty of time to plan. After all, she was grounded--what else was she going to do? Homework?
Wearily, Michael shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and headed down the stairs to begin the trek to school. He'd had another long, sleepless night. But this time there were no plants to work on and no Maria to guard, so he'd spent the night sprawled on his couch, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think, and waiting for morning.
He'd even finished Oliver Twist. He'd have to go exchange it for another book--maybe A Tale of Two Cities this time. He'd never bothered to read it when they'd studied it in English last year. And since he'd told Maria he was working his way through Dickens, maybe he should actually do it. Victorian melodrama wasn't really his style; he preferred more modern writers, like Joyce and even Hemingway. But he'd come up with the excuse as a way to fob Maria off when she'd been so shocked at his choice of reading matter. He hadn't been about to tell her that he'd picked up the novel out of curiosity because he'd found out from Isabel that Maria loved the movie based on the musical based on the book.
Pushing open the door to the apartment building, he stepped outside and stopped in his tracks. It was snowing. It wasn't often that it was both cold enough and humid enough to snow in Roswell, and he was fascinated by it each time. He stood and watched as the flurries danced around on columns of crisp air, to hit his jacket and the ground and melt away into nothingness.
A car horn broke into his thoughts. He looked up to see the Jeep, top up, at the curb, Max behind the wheel and Isabel smiling at him from the back seat. "Get in," Max called, holding the door flap open. "We'll give you a lift to school."
Heading over to them, Michael swung himself into the passenger seat, fastening the canvas behind him. "Hey."
"As soon as I looked out the window this morning, I knew we'd have to come over and get you," Isabel teased as Max pulled out onto the road. "Otherwise you'd be standing there watching it snow all day."
Michael shrugged and looked out the window. She was probably right. He could feel Max taking occasional glances over at him, but his friend didn't say anything. Finally, Michael called him on it. "What's on your mind, Maxwell?"
"Are you going to join us for lunch today?" his friend asked carefully.
Michael's answer was curt. "Nope."
"You can't avoid her forever, you know."
"I can try," Michael spat out. Then his voice calmed a little, and he said, "It's better this way. Easier."
"Are you sure of that?" Isabel asked from the back seat.
Was she kidding? He wasn't sure of anything any more. So he didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Alex find out anything yet?"
Isabel sighed. "No, as far as he can tell, Melanie Royer is a perfectly normal high school student. B average. Member of the Drama and Speech clubs. Has lived in Roswell all her life. Nothing unusual."
"Great." Well, they'd have to go back to nontraditional information gathering. "Who's got the notes now? The old ones, I mean. Maybe I can try to pick something up from them again."
"Maria still has them. Why don't you find her and ask her for them?" Isabel suggested sweetly.
"Why don't you do it and bring them to me?" he retorted.
"Come on, guys. Knock it off," Max commanded. "I'll get the notes from Maria and bring them to you, Michael. All right?" Neither of his companions answered. "All right," he said decisively.
And that was the last thing said for the duration of the short trip to school. Max concentrated on driving, Michael stared out the window at the snow flurries, and Isabel stared pointedly at Michael.
They finally pulled into a spot in the school parking lot, and Michael was instantly out of the Jeep. "Thanks for the ride," he said roughly before disappearing into the crowd of students heading for the school.
Isabel leaned back with a sigh and looked at her brother. "God, why does he have to be so difficult? For once, why can't he do things the easy way?"
"Because then he wouldn't be Michael," Max pointed out with a grin.
Michael managed to make it all the way into the building and halfway to his locker before he was stopped. This time it wasn't Blumenthal or Valenti, it was a teacher. "Good morning, Michael," said Ms. Bedinger. "Do you have a minute?"
Michael shrugged half-heartedly. Ms. Bedinger smiled at him.
"First of all," she began, "I am very pleased with the job you've done on the plant puppets. It's excellent work, and you should be very proud of it." Michael shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "Not only have you enabled us to put on the show, but you've gone above and beyond with some truly exceptional work. Thank you, Michael."
"No problem," he managed, clearly unused to praise from an adult.
"Secondly, Kyle Valenti has agreed to be our puppeteer," Ms. Bedinger went on, oblivious to the smirk that crossed Michael's face. "Would you be available after school to go over the plants with him and show him how everything works?"
"I guess so," he muttered.
"Very good!" the teacher said in a satisfied tone. "We'll see you at the rehearsal then. And Michael," she continued. "I would be more than pleased to have you work on any of our future productions, if you're interested. Think about it." With that, she started down the hallway.
Yeah, right. After this, they'd have to pay him to get anywhere near a theater. He could just see it now: "Well, gosh, Max, I'd love to come help you fight your interplanetary war, but I've got to make sure the paint on this set doesn't clash with the costumes. Can you hold off until the show closes?" Yup, save it for the lame-ass actors like Blumenthal and the idiots who let themselves get suckered into it, like Valenti. It sure wasn't for him.
And yet there he was, seven hours later, standing backstage with Kyle and showing him how the puppets worked. "It's got a slit in the lower lining," Michael said as they studied the largest plant. "When someone is eaten, they make sure their feet go in first, through the slit, and crouch down. You bring the upper lip down over them, and then they can crawl backwards through the slit and out the escape hatch in the back."
Kyle nodded. "Looks easy enough." He looked hopefully at Michael. "Look, they're your puppets. You sure you don't want to work them?"
Michael's response was instant. "Hell, no."
"Okay, okay, just asking." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "Man, I'm telling you to watch out for Ms. Bedinger. The woman can talk you into anything."
Michael said, amused, "So that's how you ended up doing this?"
"Yeah. Watch out, or you could be next."
"Not gonna happen. I've got other commitments," Michael told him.
"So do I. But that didn't stop her. You should have seen her taking on Coach Allen to get me out of practice for these rehearsals...she is fierce. And she calls this puppet thing a 'promotion' from stage crew. I don't know. I kind of liked it on stage crew." Kyle eyed two of his friends, who were moving a bunch of painted flats in and stacking them against the wall.
"So tell Ms. Bedinger you don't want to do this," Michael suggested dispassionately. "Go join your buddies and move walls."
"They're called flats," Kyle told him. "They're made of two-by-fours and plywood. They're not walls, they just look that way."
Michael looked at him. Did the jock really think he gave a damn what they were called? Turning his back on him, he allowed his eyes to wander around the stage. He hadn't seen Maria yet. He knew she was around somewhere, but he was hoping to finish up with Valenti and get out of there before she saw him. It had worked yesterday, and he'd been successful in ignoring her in both English and History today. Maybe his luck would continue to hold.
Raised voices caught his attention, and he turned back to Kyle. His so-called buddies were horsing around, evidently giving him a hard time about his 'promotion'.
"Hey, Puppet Man!" one called, giving Kyle a teasing shove. But a big enough shove to send the football player reeling into a stack of flats and send them plummeting towards the stage.
But not directly towards the stage. Michael caught a tiny glimpse of a blond head directly in their path. His heart froze. Oh god. Maria.
In a flash, Michael was there, reaching out and shoving her roughly out of the way. She made it clear, tumbling with a cry to her hands and knees. Michael wasn't so lucky. The flats fell towards him, catching him squarely on his temple. He felt a sharp pain on the side of his head, and everything went black.
TBC...