As We Know It

By: Stephanie A

Prologue

"Because Isabel was sure that's why her heart had started slamming against her ribs again. It was just because she'd been squirming around so much, trying to keep the remote away.

It had nothing to do with her sudden and intense awareness of Michael's body pressing against hers. Nothing."

(From Roswell High #4: The Watcher, by Melinda Metz)

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"Are you sure this is a good idea, Izzy?"

"Shh... someone'll hear us!"

The two children giggled, muffled by the backs of their hands as they wedged their small bodies into a nook in the Evans' attic, among the boxes of nostalgia, photo albums, old clothes, and discarded toys there. In the far corner of the eaves, by Isabel's mother's old record player was a scrap of old blue carpet that protected their short-clad legs from the scratchier one underneath, and their sat, cross-legged on it tentatively, their hushed laughed quelled by only the graveness of the moment.

"You sure you wanna do this, Michael?"

"Yup." His confident, almost boisterous tone belied the dark, hidden tremor he had carried in his belly for the past week. Isabel lowered her big blue eyes to his, and searched them seriously.

"You gotta calm down" she said.

It was ironic that it was her saying that. Isabel had to have twice as many butterflies in her stomach, as he did, but her hand, slim, with the stubby little nails painted pink, was the one seeking his comfortingly.

"This is stupid" he griped darkly. "'S not like I'm gonna get invited to the Calhoun twin's big, dumb birthday party, anyway." If he was bitter about that, he held it in well.

"But Mich-*ael*" she drawled, sticking out her lower lip. "It's gonna be a party with boys *and* girls? What if they play..." she lowered her voice, in case her brother Max was out on the terrace reading again. "Kissing games?"

"Stupid" he repeated, rubbing his spiky locks off his forehead. "Those losers don't like me anyway."

"You don't know that" she said, hopefully, looking over at him beseechingly.

He just glared at her.

Isabel tossed her long blond curls over her shoulders.

"So, are we going to do this or not?" she asked, feigning impatience with him. "I thought you said..."

"You said it!" he corrected her quickly.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

The two giggled in unison.

"Let's get this over with" she demanded. "This *is* for your benefit, after all."

Michael rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, and whispered.

"Hey... Izzy?"

"What?"

He motioned her even closer.

"This is our secret, right?"

She looked surprised.

"Of course" she paused. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Okay" he agreed gratefully. "Deal."

They shook on it, like they always did- solemn bargains and negotiations about all their small secrets. The big ones, too.

Isabel watched their hands move together. A pinkish light glowed around their grimy, entwined fingers, and it surprised her, since she hadn't tried to call it. It just *came.*

"Girly" Michael muttered.

She sighed, realizing she would have to initiate things.

"You gotta close your eyes" she said, matter-of-factly.

He was instantly suspicious.

"Haven't you ever seen those movies?" she continued. "They always close their eyes."

He moaned melodramatically, and complied.

"How do you know so much about this?" he wondered. "You musta had lots of practice."

Isabel licked her lips, and blushed, not saying anything.

"Okay" he said, restlessly. "Go 'head."

"You gotta help, too" she told him shyly.

He jutted his face forward, and they bumped noses.

"Oops."

She was squeezing her knuckles until they turned white. Her best friend (beside Max) had finally shut up, and she knew that he was physiologically incapable of staying that way for long. Isabel girded her courage, and went for it.

Awkwardly, their faces touched, and the impact almost made her open her eyes again. Michael almost freaked out, but knew she might well kill him, so he kissed her, lips shut firmly, for about a count of three before drawing back, hoping he hadn't screwed up. He noticed she didn't move for about a second, and Michael suddenly, desperately wished he had Max's ability to read people's auras.

"Iz?" he mumbled.

Then she was smiling brilliantly at him, her happy face framed like the sun by her hair, leaning over and chuckling nervously.

"Well?"

"That was weird" Michael said hesitantly.

"Just weird?" she probed him.

He reddened.

"Not bad" he mumbled. "Just funny."

Isabel punched his arm lightly, to break the tension.

"You're funny" she teased.

And suddenly, mercifully, they were just Isabel and Michael, buddies and holy terrors again. They tore out of the attic howling like banshees, down to the Evans' kitchen to raid the fridge, and later, when her mom had gone out to the store, they floated Bubbles, the house cat, across the living room, and were extremely proud that they only dropped him once. All in all, it was a nice afternoon. A weird one.

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Isabel Evans, who was never Izzy anymore, slid her lips together coolly, appraising the texture of her lip gloss. Six years after that afternoon, her hair was still long and blond, the curl ironed out of it, her eyes ice blue and strong. She faced her own reflection in the mirror, and almost broke under the steely penetration of her own stare. For one instant, knowing no one was around, she let her face slacken, her mouth going malleable and soft, her eyes just clear. No deception.

"When did you get so hard?" she mouthed back to the girl she didn't know. It wasn't just to herself, of course. Him, too. Somewhere, along the way they had gotten jaded. And it hurt.

Max had escaped it somehow, though she couldn't figure out by what means. If he was angry, had ever been, he diffused it through the *outside,* the human means he embraced- his books, his journals, his ever-innocent face staring at the stars with the detachment his best friends could never muster. Even then.

Where, Iz-who-was wondered, was the beautiful, babbling fourth grader who wanted worse than anything in the world to be Cinderella? Who ate cookies and milk, and skinned her knees, and thought it was the coolest thing in the world to change the shades of her colored pencils with a wave of her hand?

Where was the boy, the confused, bitter, guy with the rare, lopsided smile who gave Izzy her first kiss? It made her wonder, sometimes, when she got to thinking about it without really realizing she had.

TBC