"Hey, it's Roswell. Half the people in town work at an alien-theme place," Max said.

"Could be worse, I guess. The whole town could sell fish-related products or something." Michael reached for the radio and cranked it. He knew if they kept talking, he'd eventually blab about Mr. Cuddihy's visit.

He didn't want to tell Max that he was switching foster homes again. If he did, Max would just start feeling bad. Not that he would say anything much-Max knew Michael hated being pitied. But he'd probably end up very casually suggesting that Michael move in with the Evanses for his last year of high school.

Michael knew Mr. and Mrs. Evans would agree to take him in. A couple of years ago, when Michael was getting ready to change foster homes for about the millionth time, Mrs. Evans had volunteered to talk to Mr. Cuddihy about becoming Michael's foster mom. She said he practically lived with them, anyway, and he definitely ate all their food.

But the Evanses had raised Max and Isabel from the time they were little kids. They were a family. A real family. And as nice as Mr. and Mrs. Evans were to Michael, he knew they'd only be taking him in out of pity.

Michael had made it this long in foster families, and he could hold out a little longer. And it's not like he'd been totally miserable all these years. Miserable was way too strong a word.

Okay, he hadn't exactly been happy. But welcome to the club, right? He had eyes. He could see auras, those swirls of color that surrounded all living things, as unique as fingerprints. And those auras told him there were a lot of people out there who weren't quite happy or exactly miserable. And they were all getting along okay.

Michael stared out the window, letting himself zone out as miles and miles of flat desert whipped by. It felt good not talking, not really even thinking. It was like his body was still in the car, but the rest of him had just sort of dissolved into the air.

Max turned down the radio. "That motorcycle is freaking me out."

"Huh?" Michael straightened up and glanced over at Max.

"That motorcycle has been following us for miles," Max explained.

Michael checked the rearview mirror. "Following us? You sure? I mean, there is only one highway out of Roswell in this direction."

"Yeah, you're right," Max admitted. "You know what it is? I keep thinking about that thing with the mascot. It weirded me out."

"Maybe you should give easy rider back there a little test," Michael suggested.

Max nodded. He jerked the wheel to the left, taking the Jeep into the desert. The motorcycle continued down the highway.

"False alarm," Michael said.

"I've got to get a grip," Max answered.

"Yeah, it's not like people are out there looking for us, probably plotting to kill us," Michael commented sarcastically.

"Oh, right. We're just ordinary high school students. I keep forgetting," Max said.

Michael heard an engine rev behind them. He looked over his shoulder. The motorcycle was cutting across the desert, following him and Max. "You know what? I don't think this is a good night for a search."

Max spun the Jeep around and headed back toward town. "You know what? I think you're right."

Alex crouched down and studied the ragged purple carpet of the miniature golf hole. "I think you should use a nine iron for this shot," he said.

He could tell Isabel was trying not to smile, but the corners of her lips turned up, anyway. "See, I told you miniature golf would make you feel better." He placed Isabel's ball on the little rubber mat and stood up.

"I still can't believe you guys all just accused me," she complained. "It was like this big Blame Isabel party."

"Everyone's still freaked out about the Valenti thing," Alex explained. "We're all at a high risk for paranoia-induced stupidity right now. Which explains everyone getting on your case."

"Well, everyone better get off my case, or they aren't going to have to worry about Valenti. They're going to have to worry about me." Isabel stepped up to the ball. "This has to rank right up there with baton twirling as the world's stupidest sport."

"Hey, watch it," Alex warned her. "I'm planning to go pro." He glanced at the scorecard. "Which is not an option for you. Your score is so big, it won't even fit on one line."

"Like I care." Isabel aimed at the ball.

"We've come to a particularly treacherous hole-the shocking pink spaceship." Alex kept his voice at that weird loud whisper golf commentators used on TV. "As you'll see, the gangplank leading into the ship goes up and down. The golfer must time her shot perfectly if she wants to get her ball into that ship."

Isabel ignored him. She shoved her long blond hair away from her face. She looked from the ball to the spaceship gangplank, then back to the ball.

"She adjusts her stance," Alex loud-whispered. "She brings back her club. Beautiful form. She-"

"She spins around and brings her club down on the head of her companion. Blood sprays across the artificial grass of the Black Hole Putt-Putt Golf Course," Isabel interrupted.

Alex decided to shut up. The whole reason he asked Isabel to go miniature golfing was to shake her out of her bad mood-not to make it worse.

Yeah, you're a hell of a guy, Alex told himself. The kind of a guy who would do anything to help out a friend. The fact that said friend is blond, blue-eyed, and curvy-just your basic gorgeous-has nothing to do with it.

Isabel waited for the spaceships creaking gangplank to lower, then swung back her club and missed the ball completely. She tried again and the ball shot across the faded purple carpet-and hit the closed gangplank. "Why are we doing this again?" she asked.

"Because it's fun," Alex answered. "I'll help you this time." He moved up behind Isabel and placed his hands over hers on the golf club. He breathed in the sort of orangy-spicy scent of her hair. Was it his imagination, or did Isabel just take a tiny step back, bringing her body flush up against his?

"So is this the fun part?" Isabel asked. Her voice sounded sort of husky.

"I can definitely say that all parts of me are having fun," Alex answered.

"You know what would make it even more fun for me?" Isabel asked.

"What?" Alex felt his hands start to sweat. He hoped Isabel couldn't feel it. Sliming her wouldn't exactly make a great impression.

"It would be more fun if I could hit the damn ball into the damn spaceship," Isabel answered sweetly.

Oh yeah. Golf, Alex thought.

"Okay, don't wait for the gangplank to get all the way back to the ground, or it will be on its way up when the ball gets to it. When the gangplank starts down, that's when you swing." Alex forced himself to watch the gangplank. Then he guided Isabel's swing, and the ball shot straight into the spaceship. Isabel gave a little squeal.

"I suddenly remembered I'm in the presence of a cheerleader," Alex said.

Isabel blushed. "I sounded like Stacey Scheinin."

"That's okay. Miniature golf can be a very exciting sport," Alex answered. He hit his ball into the spaceship, then led the way to the other side. His ball sat next to Isabel's, inches away from the hole.

"You want help?" Alex asked.

"I think I can take it from here," Isabel told him.

So did that mean she didn't like having his arms around her? Or did she just think it was stupid of him to offer to help her make a total cake shot? Or what?

Alex played the rest of the hole on autopilot. His mind kept racing like a gerbil on an exercise wheel. Isabel was so hard to read. Yeah, she was flirty with him. But he had no idea what she was thinking. Like, was she just having sort of a momentary kind of good time? Or did she think something was building between them?