Michael could have kidnapped...His friend had never shown up at his own party; neither had Maria. But when Michael hadn't shown up at Max's window and Maria denied any contact, Max had even visited the trailer park. He hadn't really expected Michael to be there, he hated the place, but it a possibility. He'd even skipped Biology on the off chance that Michael had showed for school before ten o' clock.

So when he saw Michael nonchalantly eating fudge ice cream with tabasco in the librarian's office, Max was justifiably upset.

"Max?" Michael jumped up; he'd gotten used to thinking of the library as his.

"Michael, what are you doing? If the librarian catches you!"

"I'm not gonna get caught doing anything, Maximilian. I'm just sitting here with my ice cream," he spooned up more.

"Yeh, with tabasco sauce! Michael, someone will see and be suspicious. Let's get out of here before you get in trouble."

"No."

"Michael," Max's voice shaded to warning. It seemed that the nice Michael of the weekend was gone, and the brooder was back. And Max didn't understand why.

"Max, look, I'm good here. Why don't you leave?"

"Because I'm trying to watch your back."

"Young man," an authoritarian voice came from Max. "Shouldn't you be in class."

"Uh..."

Ms. Clarke greeted Michael more warmly, "Hello, Michael, I see you found the ice cream."

With a parting glare, Max left the library.

"So, who was that?" She sat down in the chair opposite him. This was, by now, a familiar arrangement. They would sit and conversed amiably, usually sharing tabasco and a form of chocolate. Ms. Clarke regarded Michael's twin gustatory inclination as a sign of that he was meant to be her helper. Nothing more. Michael had grown more comfortable with her over the few weeks, sharing his progress with painting and other anecdotes. He never spoke about his foster father and their low socio-economic status. And she didn't seem to care. Roswell wasn't a huge town, he knew that if she did care, she could ask around and find out about his reputation. But even assuming that she had, she hadn't kicked him out.

In turn, Ms. Clarke shared her life with him. Faculty gossip and family stories. She came from one of Roswell's first families, from before the '47 crash so she viewed the town's alien hang-up from a unique perspective.

Michael sighed, "That was Max Evans."

Ms. Clarke frowned. She'd imagined Michael's closest friend to be more pleasant, less brooding. "Oh." She didn't push.

"He's just worried right now. Liz, that's the girl he makes googly eyes at?"

"I remember."

"She threw me a party and I sorta didn't show. And I sorta didn't tell anyone where I was all weekend. They thought something happened to me."

Ms. Clarke watched Michael. She'd gotten familiar with his body language and knew something deeper was bothering him. However, the librarian also knew that it would be best for Michael to volunteer information. The best thing for her to do right now would be to listen.

Michael sighed and looked down. "It's this girl." He'd been thinking about their encounter all weekend and still hadn't figured out what had gone wrong.

"Liz's talkative girlfriend? The blonde." Michael had never really mentioned her.

"She's sort of an ex-girlfriend." He went slow, unsure of how to share his feelings. "To use the term loosely."

"Maria." He savored her name. "She affects me. She's, like, uber paranoid. She always smells like cypress oil because she sniffs it when she freaks." He smiled bittersweetly, "It calms her down.'

"And she's gorgeous. Not like Isabel," he looked at Ms. Clarke for recognition. She nodded, "but she's these eyes. Green. Brighter than, than everything. And this mouth. She's always pouting, even when she's laughing.'

"I mean, the mouth on her." He blushed. "I mean, the way she uses it." He put his head in his hands. "That didn't come out right. She's got this way of talking. You think she's this vapid bubblehead, but she's the only one who can keep up with my smart alec cracks. But at the same time, she's like you."

Ms. Clarke smiled encouragingly. Michael sounded as if he was never realized these things before.

"She listens. Really listens. And you should see her dance," he lost a moment in recollection. "It's like this zone, where she's steam and flood. I never saw anything like it. Plus, she's got this strength. And all of it is amazing and it's like I don't understand how it all fits into one person. She's this girl, and there's no one I'd rather fight with."

"You're in love with her," the older woman smiled benignly.

"Yeh. I guess I am." Then he groaned, "Oh, god!"

"I'm guessing this is the ex-girlfriend portion."

"She got too close. I couldn't handle it." He combed his fingers through his spiky hair. "I told her, I told her," Michael forced himself to look her straight in the eyes, "I didn't want to get intense. Attached, involved whatever you want to call it." He took a breath, shoved his trembling hands into his pocket. "I was scared. I let her think I didn't care that she was some toy.'

"I let her go."

And then Ms. Clarke was handing him a tissue and telling him, "Take your time."

Michael balled his fist in his pockets; "She makes me into this sop. I don't know if I wanna be that person."

"It's okay, it's not too late. You can still make it right."

"No. I can't. Because I hurt her again. I kissed her. I thought it would be okay. We were in this moment, and she looked so right. But it wasn't okay. She, she bit me." He looked dumbfounded.

"Oh, Michael, you're so young," she sympathized. "What you told me -did you tell her?"

He digested what she was saying before groaning. "I am such failure."

"Michael!" Ms. Clarke's voice was sharp; she'd never used that tone with him. "Never say that." She punctuated each word with a gesture. "You are incredible." She smiled gently, "Now, go put the ice cream dishes in the back sink, and go. Go find her, Michael."

He looked up. "What?"

"I'm a hopeless romantic, now, scoot! Faint heart never won fair maid," she said.

Michael stood up with a look of determination.

As he ran the door, she called out, "And no kissing until after you get the girl!"

***

She was drooling slightly onto her textbook when Michael found her in study hall. He smiled. She wasn't so much snoring as softly murmuring. He enjoyed the opportunity to look her over. Skin so fair and creamy. Even in the desert. He reached out a hand to her caress her face.

He was in her dream:

They were back at the rave. But before she'd finally trapped him in the corner. She was talking to Liz; they were searching the factory for something. Him and Max.

The real Michael stepped towards Maria, he would tell her now. The truth.

But then the band stopped playing and the party hushed. The lead singer stepped up to the mic and said, "Is Maria here? Maria DeLuca?"

Maria, in her barely-there seventies revival outfit, moved to the stage. Party-goers, even the drunk ones, had made a path. The trumpet players helped her up before playing a sort of trilling salute. A red carpet rolled out from the door to the makeshift stage.

"Maria DeLuca, meet your father!"

A handsome man in his forties strode towards her in an impeccable Armani suit. He held his arms open, "Maria, my Maria? I've been looking for you for sixteen years. You're so tall! So lovely! Baby, I understand if you don't want anything to do with me, but, please, give me a chance. I live my life for you. If you're willing to trust me, the limo is waiting outside."

"Daddy?" Maria ran into his arms.

He held her fiercely, "My daughter. I will never leave you. I love you."

They walked out together as the partygoers cheered and threw confetti. Maria got into the limo with the help of her father. Never looking back. Never seeing the rawness in Michael's eyes.

***

The painting was wrong, all wrong. He'd make huge mistakes. The technique was perfect but he looked nothing like Maria's father.

"Mr. Guerin? It's not time for class yet." Mr. Hinds noticed Michael staring at the painting. He'd given it an A+.

"I hate him," Michael growled under his breath. Louder, he said, "I hate it."

"But it's the best work to come out of my classes all year. A formidable enterprise, I was hoping to exhibit it at the state level."

"No."

"Mr. Guerin, I must beg you to reconsider."

"No. I can do better."

***

Michael shed his jacket and brought out his leftover panel and gesso. Never stopping except to ask Mr. Hinds for eggs from the cafeteria. He didn't even bother with a sketch.

His hands edged out, coaxing Maria's father onto the wood. He didn't hate Mr. DeLuca. Mr. DeLuca made Maria happy, he made Maria forget Michael.

But Mr. DeLuca wasn't perfect. The other painting, it was flawless; but there was no passion there. It was not the labor of love he had striven for. He'd gotten too caught up in methodology and application. So now he fixed it. Little lines around his eyes, Maria's sometimes-feral eyes. He made a man of experience, capable of love. Of making her happy. Of doing everything that Michael could not.

Michael couldn't stop. He was driven to make this into an act of rising. This would be his penance. His silent admission of love and guilt. More than ever, he realized he could not be with her and so he painted.

Mr. Hinds handed Michael a glass of ice water every hour or so. The teacher recognized, but had never experienced, this frenzy. It sucked Mr. Guerin in and spilled out art. The paintings were similar but for shadows of longing and other inexplicable changes. It was dynamic; he had a prodigy on his hands.

When Michael finally relented, he could barely encompass what he had done.