*9*

You could say I'm having a bad day.

The question of the day is: What is wrong with me?

Consider last night. Tess came home at 5 in the morning and I pretended to be asleep. Guess I need to tune up my acting skills cause she knew. I didn't care, I pretended anyway. She kneeled by my bed the way that kids lean against their beds when they pray. She was crying when she said, "I know you're mad, Kyle just can't help me." And through the slits of my eyes I could see the remains of that little bruise on her cheek.

And I wished I was the one that put it there.

With her kneeling there like that, I could have socked her a good one. I could have screamed at her. Her boyfriend is the sheriff's son for gods sake. All it would take is a few words out of that pretty little mouth of hers and this would be over. They would have her out of that house in no time; her dad or whoever would be thrown in jail.

Nobody hurts the princess.

Not in this town.

A lot of people could tell the police though. Me, Kyle, Probably Max knows now. I don't know their reasons for not telling but I sure as hell know mine.

This isn't about me. I'm in the background, observing. I want to see what happens. I want to see if she asks. I want to see if Max gets the girl. I want to see them running from the law with nothing but their very own true love in tact.

I want to see Roswell have a wake up call.

As long as it's not about the god damn aliens.

Consider my conversation with Maria early this morning. She called me and wanted to know if I had fun at the party. I said, "No, I had a horrible time, but then again you wouldn't have noticed that 'cause you were too busy holding Isabel's hand all night."

And she was quiet, and she wanted to know what the hell is wrong with me, and she wanted to know what's going on and who I am and what happened that made me so bitter.

And I was too onery to tell her how sorry I was.

And I was. Sorry, that is. Very much so.

But the question still remains: what the hell is wrong with me.

Consider the morning I spent with Kyle trying to convince him that nothing was fundamentally wrong with him. I went over to his house because, believe it or not, I am capable of empathy. If anyone is innocent in this fucked up little world we've made ourselves then it's him. Plus I know that the verbal caravan containing the details about last night had probably reached him. And he cried. And what did he do wrong? He wondered. And what could he have done differently? When his dad asked where Barney was I thought he was talking about a dog.

He wasn't.

"You know I don't touch your guns, Dad." Kyle said.

Me and Kyle are friends now. You make friends quickly in situations like this. I tried to cheer him up with thoughts of bitter revenge. When Max and Tess finally settle down together we can burn their perfect little house down, I told him. We played violent video games together and talked about how we would move to Alaska and pretend to be brother and sister. I told him he should go with me and Maria and Alex when we leave. That is, if Maria and Alex still wanna go with me.

I told Kyle that I used to call him Johnny Football Hero. Kyle told me that he always used to wonder what the hell was wrong with me.

At this point, I can't be surprised.

Consider my drive to Max's house to work on our project.
The reason I never tell you what Roswell looks like is you already know. Meet suburbia. Suburban Utopia. Middle class paradise. In Max's neighborhood, all the houses look the same. For a little variety, the construction company added a quirk to each house so that people wouldn't notice that all the houses happen to be exactly the same. One has a porch, one has shudders, one is painted blue, one is painted red, and Max's has a second story.

It didn't work. They still all look the same.

The streets have names like "Milky Way," and "Nebula Court." The city planners, it seems, are not without a sense of twisted irony. This place, it's just perfect for raising a little nuclear family like Max's.

The teenagers sit on the lawn or wash their cars, a vacant look in their eye that reeks of self-absorption.

So here I am, sitting next to the most self-absorbed one of all, Max Evans.

So, yeah. I'm having a bad day, you could say.

His layers were all the way around him again when he invited me in. Not a damn word about last night. He did look tired.

So I wondered what he was doing all night.

And as we sat on his bed and I proceeded to work on the project, he proceeded to fall asleep.

And my anger is growing faster than gossip travels through Roswell on a Sunday night.

I bet they had sex on this bed. Max in all his masculine glory and Tess with her ruby red lips and snow white skin. I bet all his fucking dreams came true.

And now, with him sleeping so peacefully, I want to scream. I want to hurt him. I want to jump on top of him and pound on his chest and scream in his ear.

I want to scare the crap out of him.

I want to tell him that I hope he's happy. I hope he knows he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me. Perhaps a little gratitude is in order if he still remembers my name.

I want to tell him that I never wanted to know all his secrets. I never asked for this. I want to tell him that now I do know all his secrets he's all I think about. That I can't get him out of my head and he makes it spin and spin and spin and hurt like theirs no tomorrow. I want to tell him how much time I've wasted on him, wondering how to save him from Roswell.

And I want to tell him to open his eyes and take a good look around because Tess is a nutcase and she's never gonna love him. That eventually she'll get so unhappy without Kyle that he'll regret ever laying a finger on her. How happy will he be with his little wifey on suicide watch wishing she just would've told the guy she really loved what was going on?

And I would. I would jump on top of him and scream in his ear. And now that I know your secrets, Max Evans. I want to peel away every layer and see what you have swimming around in that perfect little head of yours. I want to see it all. I need to see it all. And I want to hurt you and scare you into telling me. And I want to violate your every fantasy and show you what the real world looks like. And I want you to tell me why you make me sick, and why I care so much, and why I want to be Tess so that I could know what your arms feel like.

And why I want to know what your skin tastes like.

So you tell me what my problem is, Max Evans.

What is it about me that makes me so easy to forget, you're the expert on that.

What, exactly, is wrong with me.

So me, being the action-girl that I am, I sit here next to him on his bed, seething with anger, doing absolutely nothing while he sleeps like a goddamn baby.

I'm such a wuss. My plans become more and more passive by the minute. First it's screaming in his ear, then it's throwing something at him and pretending it was an accident, then it's shifting on the bed enough to wake him up from his peaceful slumber. So this is what I do:

I poke him.

On the arm.

He doesn't move.

He's a deep sleeper.

So I lean over. I lean over so that my nose is hovering millimeters away from his arm. And I breathe.

He smells like his jacket, but better, he smells good. I smile because I know that if he was awake he would now how much I was violating him. He would be scared. Then the screaming would begin.

"What are you doing?"

Umm....

Since I'm pretty much frozen in fear I keep still. My eyes can still move. I look up at him to see him looking down at me. That's a good question Max Evans.

I'm violating you, that's what I'm doing.

He doesn't look scared, he doesn't look mad.

I can do this. I practically lie for a living so I can do this now.

"Something smelled weird," I say.

He smiles a little, "Is it me."

"Yes." I say, forcing my body to an upright position.

He rubs some sleep from his eye, "Well what do I smell like?"

"A boy."

"What does a boy smell like?"

And I say, "Bad."

He tilts his head to the side, his hair brushes against his forehead, "I just took a shower."

"Well maybe you should switch soap."

And that's when it hits me: I have accomplished absolutely nothing. I still don't know what's wrong with me. I still don't know what's wrong with him. And I am still so incredibly mad. I want to destroy something, to break something. I want to cause trouble.

He picks up one of the papers I was working on, "This is so boring."

Yes it is, Max Evans. Let's see what you've got. I look him straight in the eye even though it's a given that he doesn't look at me back, "Let's go break into Dr. Amos's office."

It's perfect. It's killing two birds with one stone. I get to cause trouble while simultaneously finding out exactly what the expert says is wrong with me, wrong with Max.

I wonder if he has the guts.

I know he's thinking about it, after a minute he unfurls his brow and smiles conspiratorially and says, "Okay."

This, my friends, should be a lot of fun.

Part 10