The Outsider (6 page)

Liz wiped the inside of her mouth with the swab. Max pulled a chipped glass slide out of the little wooden box and handed it to her. She ran the swab over the glass, then Max dropped a thin plastic slide cover on top of the cell sample she'd deposited.

At least we can still do this, he thought. They had always been a perfect match as lab partners.

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened on Saturday,” Liz said. She slipped the side under the microscope's metal clips, then peered into the eyepiece, checking the focus.

Yeah, Liz definitely doesn't back away from things, Max thought. Pretending nothing had happened might have been easier, but it just wasn't her.

“Telling me the truth must have been so hard, and then I totally flipped out on you,” Liz continued. “I didn't even thank you for saving my life.” She used the knob on the side of the microscope to make a few minor adjustments, then looked up at Max. Her gaze was direct and steady, but Max saw a tiny muscle in her eyelid jump.

It's taking everything she has to do this, he thought. She can't even look at me anymore without it being this huge effort.

“I don't know what to say ‘I'm sorry' sounds so lame. But I'm really sorry,” she told him. “And thanks . . . thanks for saving my life.”

“You're welcome.” Max turned away and checked the lab book. “We're supposed to do a sketch and label the organelles.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and pushed it toward Liz. “You'd better do the drawing. We both know I can't even draw stick figures.”

Liz looked into the eyepiece again. She picked up a pencil and drew a big circle, still studying the slide.

“Start with the Golgi apparatus,” Max suggested. “Do you see it? It's supposed to look like a stack of deflated balloons.”

Liz shifted position, and a lock of her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder and fell across the drawing. Max started to brush it back — and she jerked away.

She bent down and fiddled with her shoe. “I . . . I tripped,” she stammered. “The heel on this shoe always wobbles. I keep forgetting to take it to the shoe repair.” The yellow streaks in her aura widened until they almost blotted out the amber.

Max knew she was lying. She didn't stumble. She jerked away from him because she couldn't stand for him to touch even a strand of her hair.

We can both try to act normal, Max thought. We can both say the right things. But it's never going to be the same between us again. Liz is afraid of me.

“So what kind of mood is
el jefe
in today?” Liz asked Stan, the cook on duty at the Crashdown Cafe.

Stan grabbed a spatula in each hand and flipped two burgers in perfect unison. “The boss man has been listening to the Dead all day,” he answered.

“Cool.” Liz and everyone else at the Crashdown could tell how Mr. Ortecho was feeling by what kind of CDs he played. You couldn't get better than the Grateful Dead on her father's musical mood scale.

Liz hurried into his office. She couldn't help smiling at the sight of her papa's compact beer belly pushing against his tie-dyed T-shirt.

“I think for your birthday I'm going to have to replace that shirt with a bigger one. You know, eating Cherry Garcia ice cream isn't the only way of expressing your love for Jerry, rdquo; she teased.

“Not the only, just the best,” Papa answered. “And don't even think about replacing this shirt. I bought it at the concert where you were conceived. Uncle John's Band was — ”

Liz slapped her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear any more, thank you.” She did not need the details of her parents' sex life.

Her father laughed. “What are you doing here, anyway? You're not working today.”

Liz lowered her hands. “I have to talk to you about something important.”

His expression turned serious. “Is it something with school?”

“No, it's nothing with school.” Liz sighed. “Why do you always think it's something with school? It's never anything about school, all right?”

Sometimes Liz felt like throwing back her head and screaming, “I am not Rosa.” Because that's what this whole thing was about. It was about Rosa. She'd been dead almost five years, but in so many ways she was still the most important member of Liz's family. She was there in the things they said to one another and in the things they never said.

Liz knew exactly why her father was always on her case about school. The year before Rosa died, her grades started slipping. Liz's parents got Rosa a tutor and stuff, but they didn't realize that the grades were only a tiny part of the trouble Rosa was in.

Liz glanced over at Papa. He stared down at some invoices on his desk, but his eyes were blank. Liz knew that expression so well. He was doing it again. Wondering what if. What if he had paid more attention. What if he had put Rosa in private school. What if he'd read more about teenagers and drugs. What if, what if, what if.

“I'm pretty sure I'm going to be valedictorian,” Liz said, trying to pull her papa out of his dark thoughts. “You'd better start thinking about what to wear to my graduation because everyone is going to be looking at you and Mama, parents of the gift making the brilliant speech.”

“Make sure you mention the cafe,” Papa said. He shoved the papers away and looked up at Liz. “If it's not about school, what is this something important?”

“It's our uniforms. The seventies
Star Trek
rip-offs we wear have a certain kind of cool retro thing going, but Maria and I would really like to move into the future.” Liz held up a photo of Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith in their
Men in Black
suits and shades. “We were thinking something like this.”

Mr. Ortecho shook his head. “You want me to spend money on new uniforms when there is absolutely nothing wrong with the old ones? That's not good business, Liz.”

Liz pouted for a second. Then she went in for the kill. “Oh, well. The guys do seem to like looking at us in those short skirts. Our tips would probably go down if we switched to the suits.”

“Wait, who is looking?” Papa demanded. “Who, exactly?”

Mrs. Ortecho opened the office door and inched her way in, a huge baking sheet balanced in her hands. Flour dotted her baggy overalls and her short brown hair. “I just brought over my latest creation, and I had to show it off,” she told them.

Ignoring her papa's frown, Liz grabbed one side of the baking sheet and helped her mother lower it to the desk. She gave a snort of laughter as she studied the cake. “An alien riding a horse?”

Mrs. Ortecho shrugged. “It's for Benji Sanderson's birthday. He loves cowboys, and this is Roswell.”

“At least you didn't have to do another spaceship,” Mr. Ortecho said.

Liz's mama loved coming up with new designs for her cakes and wanted challenges from her customers. But she kept getting orders for spaceships and aliens, aliens and spaceships.

Mrs. Ortecho had to settle for creating her own masterpieces for the birthdays of each of Liz's billion relatives. She'd made an amazing 3-D cake portrait of Abuelita's favorite dog, and everyone had been blown away by the Dracula cake she came up with for cousin Nina's eighth birthday. She molded a coffin out of chocolate and put a strawberry-jam-filled vampire cake inside.

Stan popped his head into the office. “Liz, you're not going to believe who is out front to see you — Elsevan DuPris.”

Liz's heart jumped to her throat, but she tried to keep calm in front of her parents.

This was not good. Elsevan DuPris published the
Astral Projector
, Roswell's answer to the
National Enquirer.
Every story in the
Projector
had something to do with aliens. It was a pretty big coincidence that DuPris wanted to talk to Liz two days after she got absolute proof that aliens exist. A big, scary coincidence.

“You coming?” Stan asked.

“Yeah. I'm interviewing DuPris for a paper I'm writing,” she lied to her parents. Then she slipped past Stan and headed for the front of the cafe.

“Get me some costs on those new uniforms,” Mr. Ortecho called after her.

It was easy to spot DuPris lounging against the counter. If he's not here to ask me to be his personal shopper, he should be, Liz thought. He was wearing a rumpled white suit with a lime green shirt, a white Panama hat, and white lace-up shoes, and he carried a walking stick with an ivory handle. His blond hair was slicked back with a little too much gel, and his smile was a little too oily.

Liz felt herself relax as she strolled over to him. Anyone who went out of the house looking like that had to be a total buffoon. She could handle DuPris, no problemo. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Yes, if you would be so kind as to spare me a moment. Could we sit?” DuPris started toward a booth in the back without waiting for an answer.

Liz followed him. “What can I do for you?” she asked as she slid into the booth across from him. She figured a friendly, I've-got-nothing-to-hide-here approach was the way to go, at least until she found out what he knew.

“I've been hearing some interesting things about you, young lady,” DuPris drawled. He sounded like a Scarlett O'Hara wanna-be.

I could do a better accent, Liz thought. And I'm about as far from a Southern belle as you can get.

“What kind of interesting things?” she asked. She made sure to look DuPris straight in the eye. She wondered if he wore colored contacts. His eyes were almost as green as his shirt.

“I heard that you almost died a couple of nights ago. I heard you got shot — and that a young man healed the wound simply by touching it,” DuPris said.

He got the straight dope, Liz thought. Those two tourists must have blabbed. She decided she needed to get a little creative.

“It probably looked like that guy healed me. But that's not what happened.” Liz leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “See, the uniforms we wear here are made of RosWool. That's wool made from sheep that have grazed on the crash site. People say it has powers, and after what happened to me, I believe it. I'd be dead if I had been wearing polyester when I was shot.”

DuPris raised his eyebrows. “RosWool?”

“Yeah. There's a company that will make anything you want out of the stuff. I'm thinking of ordering a ski mask — in case I get shot in the head next time.”

DuPris was silent for a moment.

“I like you, Ms. Ortecho,” he finally said. “I'm a great admirer of a lively sense of humor. Now would you like to tell me what really happened?”

“I just told you,” Liz answered. “I think you should definitely write a story about RosWool for your paper. It's something people should know about. Maybe you could even get them to run an ad or something.”

“I'm still intrigued by the young man my sources mentioned.” DuPris leaned toward her, and Liz caught a whiff of his pine-scented aftershave. It made the inside of her nose itch.

“There
was
a guy who ran up to me,” Liz admitted. “He might have put his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. But the wool was already working. That's what healed me.”

She widened her eyes and tried to look innocent and stupid. DuPris stared at her for a few seconds, then sighed.

“Well, I thank you for setting the record straight.” He stood up. “I must say I'm relieved that the young man wasn't responsible for saving your life.”

“What? Why?” Liz knew she shouldn't ask. It would have been smarter to let DuPris walk away. But the questions just popped out of her mouth.

DuPris grinned down at her. “You seem like such an intelligent person,” he said. “So tell me, if there were a young man who could heal with a touch, isn't it logical to assume he could also
kill
with a touch?” DuPris asked.

Liz shook her head. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

DuPris eased back down into the seat across from her, his green eyes intense. “Let's say a young man could manipulate the muscles and skin and even the internal organs to close a bullet wound with a single touch of his hand.”

Liz nodded, afraid to speak.

“Well, if the young man could do that, couldn't he also do it in reverse? Couldn't he
open
a hole in a person's heart or cause a rip to appear in one of their lungs — all with the same touch of his hand?”

Liz could almost see the blood pumping through the hole in the heart and the delicate lung tissue tearing open. She grimaced as the gruesome images filled her mind.

“I wouldn't like to think there was someone wandering around our town who could kill so easily and with so little chance of being stopped,” DuPris finished.

Standing up again, he tipped his hat at Liz and sauntered toward the door.

Liz rubbed her finger back and forth over the shiny silver tabletop after he left. What DuPris said
did
make sense. Could Max kill someone just by touching them?

“We should all go shopping together for the homecoming dance.” Stacey Scheinin gave a little bounce on her toes.

Stacey was always bouncing, or squealing, or giggling. She was like a cheerleader out of some thirteenyear-old boy's fantasies. She made Isabel want to puke.

“I thought all of you could get dresses in the same color — maybe lavender,” Stacey went on. “That way when I get elected homecoming queen, all my attendants will be color coordinated. We are going to look totally killer up on the stage together.”

“Is there some reason you think we are going to be
your
attendants?” Isabel asked.

“Oh, Izzy, don't worry,” Stacey cooed. “You can come over tonight and I'll do a makeover on you. I know I can pretty you up enough to be chosen as part of my homecoming court.”

“No thanks.” Isabel ran her eyes up and down Stacey. “I've seen your work.”

“Go, girl,” Tish Okabe murmured.

The cheerleading squad was split between girls who wanted to be just like Stacey and girls who thought Stacey was the love child of Jerry Springer and Lassie. Isabel and Tish were definitely in the second group.

“Let's get back to work.” Stacey clapped. “We're going to do Alien Attack until we get it perfect. Izzy, you were behind last time.”

“Yeah, me and everyone else but you,” Isabel muttered as she moved into place on the gym floor.

“Ready, okay?” Stacey called.

“Roswell aliens, causing a sensation,” Isabel began. She caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Alex Manes slipped through the gym door. He leaned against the back wall, watching her. Just her.

Isabel did a walkover and slid into a split as the cheer ended. She gave Alex a wink, and a grin stretched across his face. That dream did it, she thought. Alex's vote is in the bag. If anyone needs to buy a lavender attendant's dress, it's Stacey. She pushed herself to her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the polished wood floor.

“Okay, everyone, next practice is Wednesday at three-thirty. Be on time, please,” Stacey called.

She needs to get out more, Isabel thought. Being head cheerleader is the best thing that's happened to her in her whole pathetic life.

Isabel started toward the locker room. Alex hurried up before she reached the door.

“Hey,” he said. He stuck his hands in his back pockets, took them out, then shoved them back in again.

He's nervous. How sweet, Isabel thought. “That's it?” she teased. “Just ‘hey'? I thought guys were supposed to have some suave opening lines memorized for situations like this ”