14.
Liz Parker's journaclass="underline" Sunday, June 3rd.
I don't know who I am anymore. Am I the Liz Parker who successfully coped (more or less) with the discovery that human-alien hybrids lived among us, even right next to me at school, or am 1 the Liz Parker who, all of a sudden, can't get past the fact that I was shot by accident two years ago? Alex says that it's "post-traumatic stress disorder," and he's probably right. Alex was always more interested in psychology than I was; I'm more of a hard sciences kind of girl, at least I was before I ran into Joe Morton again, eight hundred feet beneath the ground. Now I feel more like a test animal than a laboratory scientist, like a frightened white mouse beingforced to take part in some cruel psychological experiment, which I suspect I'm flunking. Why, 1 don't even have enough strength to run through any mazes, which must be terribly disappointing to whomever's conducting thb experiment.
I'm rambling, I know, but I don't know what else to do. I was hoping that writing in this journal would help me make sense of things, maybe put my traumatic memories behind me, but it doesn't seem to be working. I'm all alone here in this gloomy motel room, with the curtains drawn and the blankets pulled up to my armpits so that I don't have to look at that silver handprint again. I want to be with Max and the others. but I'm afraid to even step outside, for fear that Joe Morton will find me again.
Which is irrational, I realize. Morton wasn't even trying to kill me in the first place. It was all one big stupid accident, like you hear about on the news all the time. "Innocent Bystander Hit by Stray Gunshot." No big deal.
But I almost died. For good. And that's the part that I can't forget anymore, even when I try to close my eyes and go to sleep. (Except for one weird moment last night, when, right in the middle of that same awful nightmare about the shooting, I suddenly found myself reliving a completely different incident: that time when Max and I double-dated with Alex and Isabel, after that silly Jame* Bond movie. Where did that come from?) So what do I do now? Talking to a psychiatrist wouldn't do any good. Last fall, after that whole mess with Tess and Nasedo and the Special Unit, Max's parents made him see a shrink for a couple of sessions, but it was a big waste of time because Max couldn't tell the doctor anything about what had really happened to him. I'd just run into the exact same problem. How can I discuss what happened at the Crashdown when I can't even mention being shot? And how do I explain to an ordinary shrink where this weird glowing handprint came from? I guess I have to cure myself somehow, but how can 1 do that when I don't even know who I am? When I look in the mirror, I can barely recognize myself, and not just because Isabel turned me into a redhead. Who's that pale, trembling, pathetic, little mouse I see where my own reflection should be? That's not who I want to be. That's not who I am.
Alex said I have to confront my fears, so I guess that's what I'm going to have to do, no matter how terrified I feel. One way or another, I have to stop feeling like a victim.
Even if it kills me.
“Maxwell, we need to talk."Perched in the back of the Jeep, keeping watch over Morton's motel room and convertible, Max lowered his binoculars as Michael approached the parked vehicle. He scowled impatiently, squinting against the intense morning sunshine. "Have I ever told you how annoying 1 find that nickname?" he grumbled.
"Trust me, you've got bigger problems, bro," Michael informed him as he clambered into the front seat of the Jeep, then twisted around so he could speak to Max directly. Although it wasn't even eleven yet, the temperature in the quiet motel parking lot was already climbing toward the upper nineties; Michael wiped his sweaty brow with the front of his T-shirt and put on a pair of shades to protect his eyes from the glare. It's way too hot out here, he decided. Lousy weather for a stakeout.
"Like what?" Max asked skeptically. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and Michael noted other signs of strain in his friend's face and manner. His face looked gaunt and sunburned, while his whole body seemed noticeably tense and jittery. He fidgeted with the binoculars in his lap and kept looking away from Michael to check on the Chevy parked on the other side of the busy highway. Was Max's ragged state caused by simple lack of sleep and concern for Liz, Michael wondered, inspecting his friend carefully, or was Maria right that something more serious was going on? "Tell you the truth, Max, you've looked better." Not wasting any time with chitchat, Michael confronted Max with Maria's theory that the young alien leader had picked up a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder via his intimate connection with Liz. "Kind of like catching mono, if you know what I mean."Max responded with instant denial. "So what are you saying, Michael, that I'm suffering from the emotional equivalent of secondhand smoke or something? Don't be ridiculous." He sneered at the notion. "And since when are we taking psychiatric advice from Maria DeLuca of all people? I mean, no offense, Michael, Maria's a sweet person and all, but she's definitely a bit on the flaky side."As opposed to your girlfriend, who freaks out when a flock of bats fly overhead? Biting down on his tongue, Michael resisted the temptation to spring to Maria's defense. "That's not the point," he argued. The sun was baking his brains, but he knew he had to get through to Max somehow. "You and I both know that youVe been acting weird ever since Liz spotted Morton at the caverns."Not at all," Max insisted defensively. "I'm just taking seriously a serious situation, the same way I always do. You heard what Isabel said; not only is Morton's crooked deal mixed up with the Crash somehow, but he also knows about Liz, which puts her in genuine danger. Excuse me if that makes me a little uncomfortable." He turned his back on Michael and placed the binoculars back over his eyes, once more aiming the lenses across the street at the closed door to room #19. "Now then, if your little one-man intervention is over, I'm kind of busy here."But Michael wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. "Bullshit," he told Max bluntly. He leaned back between the Jeep's front seats and roughly snatched the binoculars away from Max's face. "I want to keep Liz safe, and find out what Morton's up to, as much as you do, but that's what we're talking about here. You look me in the eye and tell me that you weren't on the verge of completely losing control last night up on the ridge. I saw your hand heating up like an acetylene torch last night, Max, and don't tell me you did that on purpose!"His face flushed with anger, Max grabbed wildly for the stolen binoculars, which Michael defiantly held up above his head, out of Max's reach. "Give me those, Michael!" he growled, clenching his fists at his sides. "I don't have time for this psychobabble garbage."No way, Max!" Michael stood up on the Jeep's front floorboard, making sure Max couldn't get his hands back on the binoculars. "Not until you admit that there's something seriously wrong with you, that you're not acting like yourself." The blazing sun beat down on Michael's head and shoulders, toasting the back of his neck and making him even more in a hurry to make his traumatized friend see sense. "Look at me, Max!" he challenged. "Tell me everything's okay with you. I want to hear you say it!"Damnit, Michael!" Max roared, the veins in his neck standing out like hydraulic cables. He threw up his hand and unchecked power burst from his open palm. A blinding flash hit Michael like a tidal wave, sending him tumbling backward over the Jeep's windshield and onto the vehicle's hot metal hood. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and the binoculars flew out of his fingers, crashing to the pavement several yards away. After sitting in the sun all morning, the Jeep's army-green hood seared his bare arms where they came in contact widi the overheated metal. Still somersaulting backward, Michael managed to use his own momentum to roll awkwardly off the Jeep onto the blacktop below, landing with a thud upon the baking asphalt. Ouch, he thought, wincing in pain. Did someone get the license number of that ballistic missile? Fortuitously, the Days Inn parking lot wasn't terribly active this late in the morning, most of the visiting tourists having already gotten an early start on the day's sight-seeing and outdoor activities. Even still, Michael felt obliged to leap instantly to his feet, ignoring his bruised and battered flesh, and call out to whomever might be listening, "I'm cool! Nothing to worry about! Just a little fall, clumsy me!"A pair of slow-moving senior citizens, wearing matching Hawaiian shirts and straw hats, regarded Michael uncertainly from the sidewalk in front of the motel. How much had they seen? he worried, hoping that the entire incident had happened much too quickly for any eyewitnesses to really grasp what Max had done. "Sorry for the excitement, folks," Michael said loudly, brushing the dust and grit of the parking lot from his arms and clothes. "A flashbulb went off by mistake," he improvised, despite the absence of any visible camera. "Gave me a bit of a start, I guess, but I'm okay now. Just a couple of bumps and scrapes, that's all-in fact, his ribs felt like they had just been pounded on with a sledgehammer, making him flinch with every breath, and there was a suspicious black scorch mark on the front of his T-shirt which, quickly turning away from the two apprehensive retirees, he quickly made disappear. Is anyone buying this? he wondered, fully aware of just how lame his impromptu explanations sounded. Or am I ending up on the front page of the Weekly World News or maybe on "American's Most Incriminating Alien Videos"? He held his breath as the elderly couple shook their heads disapprovingly and muttered darkly among themselves, but then they continued on their way to the coffee shop, apparently not wanting to get any more involved in whatever suspicious activity the two teenage boys were involved in. Thank God, Michael thought, expelling a sigh of relief once it became obvious that the two old folks were not about to start screaming "Alien!" That was a close one, he realized.