Chapter Three
Liz was absent.
While Max assumed that she was sick – after all, she had sneezed seven times during the course of the day before, and he knew that Liz wasn't someone to just skip school for no good reason, he also couldn't locate Maria, and Maria DeLuca, unlike her best friend and Max's dreamgirl, was someone who would take advantage of any excuse to miss class. Because he wanted to find out for himself where Liz was and, if she was sick, how she was doing, he had been looking for Maria during his entire lunch period. Physics had not run over that day. However, Maria was missing in action, lending credence to his thoughts that perhaps the flighty blonde had talked Liz into going on some all-day adventure with her that did not require them stepping foot inside the halls of West Roswell High, but, before Max accepted the finality of his own conclusions, he had one last recourse of action: follow Alexander Whitman, for, usually, wherever Liz and Maria went, Alex soon followed.
Eventually, his actions found him standing outside of the band room, eavesdropping once more. While Max was aware of the eraser room acting as a hideout for his fellow students, for Pam Troy made sure that everyone – including the lowest of the low at their school – knew about the eraser room, up until that moment, he had not known that the band room was also a popular place to duck into when one did not want to be found. Considering that the band room would come with considerably less connotations, Max made a mental note of his discovery.
"What are you doing in here, Maria," Alex demanded to know. Sure, Max had been looking for her, too, but the other man sounded both desperate and annoyed. Obviously, something more was afloat than Liz merely having a cold. "Team Parker needs your attitude and big mouth out there."
In an obvious affront, Maria denied, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, so you want me to believe that you – Queen of the Gossip – have not heard the rumors about Liz going around school today?"
Rumors, Max questioned himself. Despite his outsider status, he usually knew everything that was going on around him, simply because of his enhanced abilities. Obviously, worrying about his lab partner had been far more distracting than he had previously realized.
When Maria didn't respond, Alex continued, his voice raising in both volume and pitch as his frustration continued to rise. "I don't get you, DeLuca? How can you sit in here... doing your nails, of all things, while our best friend is being raked over the Kyle Valenti coals."
Why did it not surprise Max that Valenti was somehow involved in whatever catastrophe was bothering Alex.
"It's for her own good," Maria proclaimed.
"Excuse me," Alex demanded. Repeating himself with even more aplomb, he said, "excuse me," once more before launching into his attack. "How can the lie that Liz slept with Kyle last night and he wore her out so much that she's at home sleeping it off today be good for our best friend?"
"Because hopefully Maniac Max will hear the rumor and stop lusting after Liz."
"Wait a tick," Alex ordered her. "What in the world does this have to do with Max Evans?"
"He's in love with Liz."
"And you think that's worse than the entire school thinking that Liz is now just another notch on Kyle's skanky bedpost?" There was evident disbelief and astonishment peppering the other man's words. "Max at least has a brain, and, according to Liz, he's kind. Kyle's an idiot and a bully, Maria. I thought you hated him."
"Yeah, well," she defended her stance upon the situation, "at least he doesn't make me nervous like Max does."
Deadpan, Alex retorted, "Maria, mullets make you nervous."
"And for good reason," the blonde argued. Max could detect a note of self-righteousness in her tone, and, if it wasn't for the situation and how irate Kyle's antics made him, he might have even laughed at the ridiculous... discussion being held between the two eccentric friends. Liz certainly ran with an interesting crowd. "That whole business in the front, party in the back mentality is just creepy. I mean, if the hairstyle has multiple personalities, I don't even want to know what's going on under the scalp... if you know what I mean."
"The fact that you can even refer to the mullet as a hairstyle disturbs me," Alex returned.
"That's so not the point," Maria whined.
"And if you would ever have one, DeLuca, I think we'd have to shut down the town and declare a new national holiday." There was a slight pause and then a loud shriek on Alex's part. "Hey, what the hell was that? You just pinched my nipple!"
"It's called a nurple. Read the urban dictionary."
"Can we please get back to the reason why I hunted your abusive self down: Liz, Kyle, the damage you're allowing her reputation to suffer while you cower away in the band room. I've done all I could. I hacked into the temporary webpage one of Kyle's idiot friends made during computer class this morning – I mean, really, who uses the password boobs anyway, a five year old? – and changed the message. It now says that, when Kyle flashed Liz last night, she had to squint and strain her eyes so much to see what was being uninvitingly displayed before her that she's now in bed with a migraine. But that's not enough, Maria. Like I said, Team Parker needs your help, and, whether you think that this rumor is a good thing or not, Liz wouldn't, and, seeing as how you claim to be her best friend, it's your duty to set Kyle Valenti and his pea-brained posse straight."
"Ugh, you're right," Max could hear Maria concede, and he sighed silently in relief. "Besides, I have a feeling that Max Evans' obsession with Liz could not be diminished by a rumor started by Kyle of all people."
As he ducked behind the protruding edge of a row of lockers so that Liz's friends wouldn't see him and know that he had been listening in on their conversation, he heard Alex shoot back, "and people say your'e slow, DeLuca."
That earned him another bruise from his vicious friend – this time, an elbow to the ribs. The two skipped off quickly, though – Maria rambling; Alex bemoaning the abuse he suffered at her hands, and Max was left not only without the answers he had initially sought but also a ball of fury churning in his stomach and quickly escalating senses and emotions, and, without Liz there to temper him, he knew that it was going to be a very long afternoon. He'd be lucky to make it home after school. If the pounding in his head was any indication of what his migraine was going to be like by the end of the day, he was in for a world of pain.
; : ;
Max wasn't sure if he would make it home before being sick.
He should have just left school early. Between the fact that he had nearly a perfect attendance record and his obvious discomfort, it would have been quite simple and easy to convince the school nurse that he wasn't feeling well. But, because Liz was sick, he wanted to make sure that he took excellent notes for her. With their identical schedules and his status as her lab partner, the chances were good that she would ask to see his notes, not only for physics but for their entire schedule. For that kind of interaction with his dreamgirl, Max would have done just about anything... including pushing his body near to its breaking point.
Because of his powers, he should have been able to heal any of his body's discomforts, but the headaches he suffered from were a different story. Not only were they the product of his own abilities, but healing his migraines would have been an exercise in futility. As soon as he sent the soothing warmth towards his pounding skull, the lights around him would just become too bright once more, the noises too loud, the aromas too pungent and powerful, the tastes floating through the air too overwhelming, and the touches his body had to endure too rough against his sensitive skin. And Max wasn't sure what caused his senses to be so strong... besides his other-worldly status, so, as far as he knew, there was nothing he could do to dial back either his body's capabilities or its reactions to the overabundant stimuli. Blocking his environment only went so far.
So, there he was, barely cognizant of his surroundings as he sped through the residential streets of Roswell, hoping that he would make it to Murray Lane, his home, and his bedroom before becoming sick. The last thing he wanted to do was throw up. Even as an alien, that, in Max's opinion, had to be one of the most unpleasant experiences. Then, to make matters worse, if his mother found out that he had gotten sick, something that had, as far as she was aware, never happened before to her son, he didn't even want to contemplate the hovering which would be the result, let alone how he would be able to dissuade his mom from taking him to the doctor's.
No, he needed to get home as soon as possible, and he needed to keep as much about himself hidden as he could.
As a loud siren smashed against his already tender eardrums and flashing red and blue lights pierced his stinging irises, Max had to slam on the brakes and close his eyes in order to avoid being sick all over himself. Luckily, such a quick reaction to the police officer behind him was expected, so he didn't raise further suspicion in stopping so suddenly. Usually, any brush with the law would cause sheer panic to flood Max's system, but, on that particular afternoon, the concern ranked rather low on his list of worries. In fact, he didn't even take a moment to glance into his rearview mirror in order to see which of Roswell's finest had pulled him over.
"License and registra...," the familiar voice, uttering those predictable words, trailed off unexpectedly. "Mr. Evans, are you alright," Jim Valenti, Sheriff Jim Valenti, asked. Despite the older man's wariness towards Max, there was concern laced throughout his question.
He didn't even try to mask his discomfort and desperation. "Sick," Max offered as his answer.
"Well, I'd heard there's some new bug going around. Stopped in at the CrashDown this morning for my daily thermos of coffee, and Jeff told me that his Lizzie was down for the count as well. But, son, really, if you're feeling that poorly, perhaps you should just sit tight, and we'll call one of your parents to come and pick you up."
Taking several deep breaths, knowing that he would need to brace himself in order to explain his actions and to convince the Sheriff that he didn't need a parental escort to make it just one more block to his house, Max eventually stated, "I live just around the corner. I'm sorry that I was speeding, but I wanted to make it home before I... before I felt worse."
"School just let out, though," Valenti wouldn't relent; he continued to chastise Max. "There are kids all over these streets, and it wouldn't take much for one to run out in front of you or some other passing driver. That's why we keep the speed limits in these sorts of communities so low. Since you're practically home, however, I'll let it slide this time. Just watch your speed from now on, Mr. Evans... even if you are feeling ill. Remember, arrive alive."
"Yes, sir," he nodded, already reaching down to release his jeep's brake and put the vehicle back into drive. With one last tip of his head in the sheriff's direction, the small movement taking considerable effort on his ailing part, Max pulled away from the curb, careful to keep his speed even lower than that which was posted. Even as he made the turn onto his own road, he could feel the Sheriff watching him from where he still stood in the street, his aviator shades blocking his penetrating gaze, and his cowboy hat pulled low to leave his face in shadow. If there was one person he had ever met who made Max anxious, it was Jim Valenti. Being in the police officer's presence only strengthened his resolve to remain aloof and distanced from the rest of society.
; : ;
Of all the nights for his parents to host a dinner party...
Of all the nights for Max to forget that his parents were hosting a dinner party...
It was a family rule: everyone had to clearly post their schedules on the large, kitchen planner. His dad penciled in his court cases so that they would know when he would be late and to start dinner without him. His mom marked her various committees and boards, enlightening Max and his father when they would be on their own to figure out something to eat for supper. And Max... well, Max didn't write anything on the calendar, but that didn't mean that he wasn't aware of its purpose and how it could be used to his benefit. For example, if he knew in advance that his parents were hosting a dinner party, he would conveniently find an excuse to stay away from home on that particular evening. Whether it was some bogus school event or a made-up group project, he would skip out on the torture sessions disguised as social get-togethers, and his parents were never the wiser that he really spent his time sitting outside of the CrashDown or driving around aimlessly in the desert.
But Max had failed to do his due diligence, and, now, migraine still blazing away, he was consequently suffering.
After narrowly escaping the Sheriff that afternoon, he had stumbled into his house and then his room, blackened out the window as much as possible with his drapes, and then collapsed on top of his bed for a blissful, peaceful thee hour nap. And then all hell had broken loose. Without even knocking on his door, his mother had breezed in at a quarter after six, rousing him by talking a mile a minute. Though she had dinner in the oven already, she still had to get ready, and there was so much to do... or so she had said. Plus, in her own words, she looked a fright, which left Max to play event coordinator while his mom showered, dressed, and primped. He set the table, filled the liquor decanters in his father's office, put away all the clutter and paraphernalia any family acquired throughout a busy work and school week, turned off the oven a good ten minutes before his mother had told him to so that she didn't burn dinner – a trick he had learned soon after Phillip and Diane Evans had officially adopted him, and then attempted (and failed) to make himself look more presentable, but there was only so much a comb could do for his unruly hair and only so much effort that any teenager, human or not, would put forth in such a situation.
Fortunately, on the nights that his parents hosted dinner parties, Max wasn't expected to sit through the entire evening with the adults. Essentially, his mom and dad asked that he put in an appearance. He had to help them by opening the door, hanging the guests' coats, and, in general, behave like any well-adjusted and respectful son. While his patience with his parents' requests could only go so far – after all, there would never be any eye contact made between Max and his dad's lawyer buddies, and he certainly wouldn't allow his mother's friends to pinch his cheeks or fawn all over him, luckily, the men and women his parents socialized with seemed to pay him little interest. The guys were too consumed with escaping their wives and getting their hands on his dad's scotch and cigars, and the women too focused on gossiping and bad-mouthing their indifferent husbands. So, usually, after an hour of so of fake pleasantries and even more phony smiles on Max's part, his mom would take pity on him, and he would be excused to eat dinner alone in his room. Even with the reprieve, the evenings were unbearable, hence his usual deceptions, but, on that particular night, Max had failed to take the necessary precautions, and, now, he was paying the consequences.
And they didn't come cheap.
Twenty minutes into the soiree, and Max was seriously considering allowing himself to be sick – not only for the satisfaction he would receive from ruining a pair of his dad's business associate's fine, Italian leather loafers but also so he could escape early. At that point, the consequences seemed worth it. He would have gladly put up with his mother's coddling if it meant getting far away from the cigar smoke clouding his dad's study. The pungent aroma smoldered in his nose, made tears come to his eyes, and he could even taste the fumes on his tongue, further worsening his already rebelliously rolling stomach. Hell, he could even feel the vapor settling heavily upon his skin. And the attack didn't end there. He also had to contend with the jovial, self-congratulatory male boasting and laughter, and the sound of the ice rattling around the crystal glassware the guys used to drink their imported scotch was like nails on a chalkboard – grating, piercing, chill inducing.
Blindly, he reached for his glass. Unlike the three older men sitting around him in the circle of leather club chairs, Max's cup had water. He hoped that the cool liquid would ease his mouth's distaste and settle his unruly stomach, but the slight movement cost him in his fragile state, so he proceeded cautiously, not only to economize his actions but also to prevent his own ice from hitting the sides of his crystal tumbler. He drank greedily, downing the contents in a single gulp. It wasn't until he gasped and felt his father pounding him solidly on the back that Max realized what he had inadvertently done.
He had grabbed the wrong glass.
Rather than his own tumbler full of water, he had consumed his dad's entire glass of scotch. The strong liquor left a burning trail over his tongue, down his throat, and it was rapidly spreading throughout his stomach. For a short moment, Max started to panic. Unlike most other kids his age, he had never experimented with alcohol before. It had been another unknown in his life – how his body would react to the foreign, potent substance, and, like many rites of passages for teenagers, it had been a risk he simply couldn't take. What if he had a bad chemical reaction and revealed himself? Relieving a little teenage angst, or rebelling, or even simply taking a drink to fit in had never been good enough reasons for Max to take such a chance. But, now, it was too late. All his common sense and rational thinking was tossed out the window with one foolish, accidental mistake, and, rather than drinking a beer, he had gone in full steam, imbibing, even if unintentionally, on an entire cup full of one of the strongest, most potent liquors made.
The room around him seemed to wait for his response. His father's good ol' boys sat poised at the edge of their seats, curious as to how their friend's strange kid would react. Max could feel his father's hesitant suspension, unsure if he should merely laugh the situation off or be worried, and even the dense cloud of cigar smoke hovered above them, no longer eddying in and about the room thanks to the dull, desert breeze which had suddenly died down as if in acknowledgement of this momentous moment in Max Evans' life.
And then Max smiled.
Lifting his head, for the first time in his life, he met his father's gaze, shocking the older gentleman into falling back into his seat and reaching for the decanter to pour himself – and Max – another glass of scotch. Granted, Max's tumbler only contained a finger while his dad's was much more generously filled, but as they clinked their glasses together and shared a grin of camaraderie, Max didn't care about... well, anything.
"To my son's first drink as a man," Phillip Evans toasted proudly, earning chuckles from his friends. "Just don't tell your mother."
Together, Max sipped his scotch with his dad, but his mind was far from the inside of his father's study. Rather, it was contemplating the ramifications his by chance yet fortuitous discovery had revealed. With alcohol flowing steadily through his blood stream, Max felt... normal... or, at least, what he assumed was normal. His senses were dampened, and his powers were tucked neatly away so that he could function without his usual awkwardness or discomfort. As long as the liquor's affects weren't a one time thing, he could drink in order to better blend in. He could actually lift his head while walking down through the halls of West Roswell High. He could hold conversations with his classmates, play contact sports, and go into the CrashDown; he could be the boy – no, the man – that Liz Parker needed and deserved... if only she would have him. Even if she wouldn't, he could be her friend, not just her lab partner but a real honest to goodness friend – someone she spent time with outside of school, someone she went to the movies with, someone she invited over to chill and hang out with on her balcony, and that was far more than Max had ever even allowed himself to dream about in the past.
And the best thing was that, if he played his cards right, no one would ever know. Using his powers, he'd be able to transform everyday, legal beverages into alcohol. The milk in his morning cereal could become gin. His apple juice at lunch could become vodka. And his preferred cherry cola could be mixed surreptitiously with alien-magicked whiskey. Max wouldn't have to sneak into his parents' liquor cabinet and steal their booze, and he wouldn't have to pay the homeless man down on Vine Street to buy his beer like he knew the other kids in his class did. No, for the first time in his life, he was going to make his differentness work to his advantage.
Max Evans had never felt so free.