Melinda Metz: The Vanished

Great, Michael thought. I wish my powers included the ability to mute people.

Michael faced Mr. Cuddihy across a large cluttered desk. Mr. Cuddihy's office was cramped and reeked of the peppermints he ate constantly since he quit smoking, but Michael had spent so many hours in this room that he felt comfortable. Comfortable enough to space out during Cuddihy's predictably endless lecture on responsibility.

After a few minutes Cuddihy seemed to be winding down, more or less, so Michael tuned him in again.

"… without even calling," Cuddihy was saying. "That doesn't sound like any kind of respect to me. The Pascals were good enough to take you into their home, give you a roof over your head, and you didn't even let them know if you were dead or alive. And it was something that could have been avoided if you'd bothered to pick up the phone."

"When you're right, you're right," Michael said.

"Well, you're going to call them and apologize," Mr. Cuddihy said. "In fact, I want to hear from them that you did some serious groveling."

"No problem," Michael replied.

For a moment Mr. Cuddihy gazed at Michael in silence. Finally he let out a long sigh. "The Pascals and I weren't the only people looking for you, you know."

That got Michael's attention. He sat up straight in the metal folding chair, causing a loud, obnoxious creak. All the tiny hairs on his neck stood on end.

"Who?" he blurted out. Had the Clean Slate people tracked him down? Had DuPris contacted his social worker? "Who else?"

"Oh, I doubt you know these people," Mr. Cuddihy said. "They had some news to share with you… good news, actually."

"Who?" Michael repeated.

"A legal firm representing a man named Ray Iburg," Mr. Cuddihy answered. "I believe you knew him, although I'm not sure how."

Ray? Michael thought. What could Ray's lawyers possibly want with him? He wasn't even aware that Ray had lawyers.

"My friend Max worked for him at the UFO museum," Michael explained slowly. "We both hung out there a lot. He gave us our own sets of keys."

Mr. Cuddihy nodded. "That's not all he's given you," he said. "Iburg's lawyers have informed me that there was a very interesting clause in his will, which he added recently."

"Yeah?" Michael said, clueless as to where this was going.

"Oh yes," Mr. Cuddihy said. "The upshot of the clause is that if Iburg didn't check in with his lawyers for one month, they were to take immediate action. All of Mr. Iburg's belongings-including the museum, the apartment, the car, and everything contained therein-are to be turned over to you, Mr. Michael Guerin, free and clear, for use as you see fit."

Michael stared at Mr. Cuddihy. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I told you it was good news," said Mr. Cuddihy. "See, this is why I'm someone you should keep in touch with."

"There has to be a catch," Michael said. This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to him.

"No catch," Mr. Cuddihy said. "It's a bizarre request, but it's legal. And since good things seem to be heading your way at this point in time, I thought I'd help out a little myself. There's no reason to torture the Pascals with your presence any longer."

Michael blinked at his social worker. "What are you saying?" he asked.

Mr. Cuddihy smiled. "I've decided to help you get emancipated minor status. You're almost eighteen, anyway, and now that you have your own place to stay and you have the museum for income, I figured we could ease social services' burden of taking care of you. I don't see any reason why you shouldn't live on your own."

Michael sat back in his chair and gaped at. Cuddihy. "Really?" he choked out.

"Really," Mr. Cuddihy confirmed. "Of course, you'd still have to stay in contact with me until your birthday, but our biweekly meetings should be more than sufficient." He popped another peppermint, chomped it. "Michael, I know you've had a rough time over the years, and you've handled shuffling between homes better than anyone had a right to expect. It's my pleasure to tell you congratulations. And good luck. So how does this all sound to you?"

"It sounds… it sounds unbelievable," Michael said. He pushed himself out of his chair as Mr. Cuddihy came out from behind the desk. Michael reached out his hand for a handshake.

"Enough with the formality," Mr. Cuddihy said. "I'm happy for you, Michael." Before Michael had time to back away, Mr. Cuddihy reached out and gave him a bear hug. Michael stiffened automatically, but as he looked down at the social worker who had kept an eye out for him for years and who now had set him free- free -Michael couldn't help patting the guy on the back.

"Thank you," Michael said as Mr. Cuddihy let go.

"You have to promise me you'll show up for our meetings," Mr. Cuddihy said, trying to be businesslike again. "That's a firm condition of this whole deal."

Michael stood beside the social worker, what felt like a totally dorky grin on his face. A meeting every other week? For no more foster home boogie? For being able to live on his own? For being in control of his own life?

"I'll be there," Michael promised. "You can count on me."

Liz wandered down the aisle of the auditorium at school, searching the rows for a glimpse of Max's shaggy blond hair. The auditorium was packed with students-all there for a mysterious all-school assembly during the period before lunch.

Finally she spotted Max a few seats in from the aisle in the middle of the auditorium. She squeezed through the row and plopped down into the empty seat beside him.

"Hey," she said. "Any idea what this is all about?"

"Huh?" Max replied. He turned to face her, and his beautiful silvery blue eyes seemed glazed.

"The assembly," Liz said. "Do you know what it's about?"

"Oh… no," Max said. He offered her a weak smile. "Sorry, I was… I was thinking about something else."

"Alex?" Liz asked.

Max nodded. "The ship was the only hope we had of getting him back. I mean, it was a long shot, but it was a shot."

Liz reached up and brushed a lock of hair out of his weary eyes. "All of us are going to have to get together later and figure out what to do," she said.

"Yeah," Max said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I'm drawing a blank."

Liz peered at his gaunt, drawn face. He looked a little stronger than he had yesterday but was still obviously worn-out. He was gorgeous, of course, but Liz was starting to think that Max would look gorgeous to her if his hair fell out and he erupted in oozing volcanic zits. She was that far gone.

"You okay?" she asked.

Max turned to face the stage as the principal, Ms. Shaffer, walked toward the podium.

"I'll live," Max said. His voice sounded far away, as if it was an effort to speak.

Slumping back into the hard wooden seat, Liz thought that maybe he should have taken a sick day and spent the day with Rosie and Jerry and Ricki. She knew he couldn't tell his parents the real reason he was feeling so out of it, but couldn't he have pretended he had the flu or something so he could get some rest?

She was about to ask him that very question when Ms. Shaffer called for attention. The auditorium got a fraction quieter as the lights dimmed. Liz waited for Max to take her hand, but he continued to stare straight ahead, his hands clasped together in his lap. Wasn't this the guy who said touching her was absolutely essential, like breathing?

Well, it's not like he doesn't have a lot on his mind, Liz thought, swallowing her disappointment. She knew that Max felt responsible for everything that happened to anyone in their group of friends, and that meant he had to be blaming himself for what had happened to Alex. Which was an accident. Or more accurately, it was DuPris's fault. Certainly not Max's fault.