Maria DeLuca snapped her head up at the sound of her name coming from her best friend's lips. Liz was standing in front of her with her hands on her hips and an irritated look on her face.

"What?"

Liz pursed her lips together. "Have you heard one work that I have said in the past five minutes?"

Maria turned her attention back to her locker. Liz turned her head and saw Michael staring in their direction. He slowly turned his head to resume his conversation with Isabel.

Liz sighed. She knew better than to bother attempting to have a conversation with Maria when Michael was within ten feet of them. Not that she was much better when Max was around. "Listen," she said in a gentler voice, "did you remember that we have a history test today?"

Maria sighed and slammed her locker shut. How could Liz expect her to be worrying about history when all of this other stuff was going on? When evil aliens could, at this moment, be threatening their very existence?

But that wasn't the reason that she couldn't remember little things like history tests. No, the reason that she couldn't concentrate anymore had nothing to do with life and death. The reason that she couldn't concentrate was that Michael Guerin loved her.

It sounded absurd even in her head. Michael loves me, she thought. She hadn't expected him to love her. Maybe she hadn't wanted him to love her. But he did. And he had told her, which was more amazing than the fact itself.

And she had stood there. She hadn't run after him, she hadn't called to him, nothing. She had just stood there, hit by the weight of his words. Why didn't she say something? Anything at all?

Because she didn't love him, she reminded herself. The answer was obvious. When someone tells you that they love you, you then have a choice to make. Either you say it back or you don't. And clearly, since her mouth had made no sound, that meant that she didn't love him.

And it didn't matter, because he never spoke to her now. He was protecting her, he was distancing himself to keep her safe. They had all done that. Except for Isabel, who continued to talk to Alex. And except for Max, who had slipped several times and talked to Liz. But that was the reason that he wasn't speaking to her, she reminded herself. Because he was protecting her. She didn't want to entertain any other thoughts about why he might not be speaking to her.

Not that sheer willpower kept her from thinking about it. Not that it didn't enter her head that his life was probably a lot simpler without her around. Not that she didn't realize that it was probably a great deal easier for him to go through everyday without being nagged about being someone that he wasn't. And then, of course, there was the reason that hurt far too much to think about, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself. The fact that he had laid his heart out and she had stood there and watched him walk away.

She and Liz walked in silence to the history classroom and took their seats. She watched as Liz's brown eyes found Max's. It was interesting to watch Liz's eyes around Max. They lit up in this very strange way. They were happy and sad all at once. And there was love in them, she could tell. They both looked at each other in a way that they looked at no one else.

Michael didn't really do that with her. His eyes were never soft upon seeing her, even now. He just stared, hard and long. It was like playing a never ending game of chicken, which he always won.

His seat was empty today though. That was not surprising, given that there was a test that day.

She looked down at her watch. There was still a good three minutes before the bell would ring. She stood up and hurried to the water fountain. She stood there a long time, letting the cold water slide down her throat. What was she going to do? She had no idea what this test was about. She saw Mr. Sommers out of the corner of her eye and she quickly ducked behind the nearest locker. The bell rang and kids scurried to their classrooms. She stayed hidden until everyone had left the hallway, and then she slowly stood up.

She began to wonder what she should do next. She could go to the nurse and tell them that she was sick. Or she could go and attempt to review her history notes and explain to Mr. Sommers that she had been late for some reason. On the one hand, she could have an extra day to study. But on the other, she could get it over with, and she was far more likely to study in this few minutes than she would be if she went home. She was leaning toward option number two, so she walked upstairs to her locker. She had left her backpack in the history room, so she randomly pulled out some notes that she had stuffed in the bottom of the locker, hoping that some of it pertained to history.

She turned to start back down the steps, but she stopped at the door to the eraser room. Without realizing what she was doing, she allowed her mind to drift back to her numerous makeout sessions with Michael. The memory of his mouth on hers, of his tongue-

She shook her head. This was ridiculous. She needed to stop remembering happy moments. She needed to focus on the fact that this was a dangerous game that they were playing, one in which lives were at stake.

What did it say about her that all she had really wanted from this whole experience was a boyfriend? They were dealing with alien hunters and secret FBI agents, and all she had cared about was whether or not Michael was paying enough attention to her.

She heard footsteps behind her and she turned to go down the stairs. Just then, the door to the eraser room opened and an arm came out, pulling her into the room. She started to scream, but his hand came down on her mouth hard, muffling the noise.

He held her like that until the footsteps passed on down the stairs and then he slowly let her go. She turned to glare at him.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed.

He shrugged. She rolled her eyes and reached for the doorknob. "As always, Michael, it's been a pleasure." She yanked on the knob, but the door didn't budge. She pulled and pulled, but still nothing.

Exasperated, she turned to him. "Do something."

He just stared at her. "Michael, seriously, I have a test that I have to take, so let me out."

He reached over and took hold of the doorknob, but it still didn't move. "Sorry," he muttered under his breath, sinking down to the ground.

Maria began banging on the door. "Help!" she screamed. "Let us out of here-"

Once again his hand reached out to her, this time yanking her down to the ground with him. "Shut up," he said.

She pulled her hand away from his, trying to ignore the sensation that was traveling up her arm. "Great," she muttered. "You want to skip a test, and so now I have to fail too." She stared at him hard, not letting his gaze phase her. "How exactly did you know that I was standing out there?"

He didn't answer. What had she expected? she asked herself. He wasn't speaking to her. He had locked them in a room together, but he refused to have a conversation with her. It was just like everything else with Michael. He forced her into situations where she had to deal with him, and then he pulled away before she could begin to understand any of it.

He turned his head away from her, so she gathered up the papers that she had taken from her locker and began to study them. An old math test, some English notes, a note from Liz, history notes. She stared down at her handwriting, trying to memorize the facts written on them.

"We're past that," he said, talking the papers from her. "We're studying the feudal system."

"How would you know?" she asked.

He didn't answer her. Instead he continued to shuffle through her papers. She leaned her head back against the door and closed her eyes.

"What's your favorite ice cream flavor?" he asked suddenly. Her eyes flew open.

"What?"

"What's your favorite ice cream flavor?" he asked again. She looked down to see the old history assignment in his hands. The word pistachio was written under the question.

"Why do you care?" she replied, shifting her body so that she wouldn't have to look at him.

"It's chocolate," he said. "Okay, next question. What's your favorite television program?"

She refused to play along, so he answered for her. "Buffy," he said. She turned her head to look at him and he smiled. "Except not really. The real answer is 'Happy Days' but you would never admit to that."

She fought the urge to smile. "See, you thought that I didn't know about your Chachi obsession," he said, laughing.

"Shut up," she said, trying to grab the paper from him. She began to laugh in spite of herself.

"Yeah, that Scott Baio, he's a looker."

She couldn't hold back her laughter as she tried in vain to take the paper from him. He held it above his head and continued to read. "Favorite book?"

"The Great Gatsby," she answered, mainly because she didn't want to imagine that he could know everything about her.

"Gatsby, huh?" he said, bringing the paper back down in front of him. "He let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself-that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities."*

"Is that how you see him?" she asked in a small voice.

"He was a liar," he answered. "He let her think that she could trust him. He let her think that he would be able to take care of her when he knew that he couldn't."

She sighed. "He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of reassurance in it. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself. Precisely at that point it vanished."*

"Next question," he said, turning his attention back to the paper in front of him.

"He loved her, but she didn't love him," Maria said quietly. "He gave up everything for her and she was too stupid to understand that."

"He never should have been with her in the first place," Michael said. "He didn't belong in her world."

"He did," she insisted, raising her head to allow him to see the tears in her eyes. "He did belong in her world. He just didn't know it."

He reached out his hand to brush away the tear that had fallen. "He should have stayed true to himself."

"It was her who wasn't true to herself. He loved her. She was too chicken to admit that she loved him."

They neither one spoke for a long time. The hallways filled with noise as the classes let out and then quieted down again.

"You never did answer question number sixteen," she said. He looked down at the paper and then returned his gaze to her.

"I'm afraid of hurting you," he said.

She nodded. "Too late." He flinched as though she had hit him.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, looking at the wall.

"I'm afraid of everything," she answered honestly. "I'm afraid for you, I'm afraid for me and for all of the rest of them. I'm afraid of what I feel."

"What do you feel?"

"I don't know," she whispered. She wiped the tears away from her face. "I'm afraid that I love you. And I'm afraid that I don't."

He turned to look at her, so she lowered her gaze to the floor. His hand came under her shin and lifted her head up to look at him.

"Question number eight," he said. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Yes," she said, in a voice so small she barely heard herself. His lips came over hers than and all rational thought left her head.

"Michael," she said, pulling back. He shook his head and captured her lips again. They could pretend in here. They were just high school students. They were just two people in love. They could worry about the rest of it later.

The End