Cr-cr-crappy
Updated 2002-02-09 16:00:00
Max skulks on Liz's balcony, and Liz comes in to find him. She tells him that he can't be there, and he guilts her that he's "been calling." She's been out. He thought something happened. He leans in to tell her they can drive to L.A. (lose my number, children), but she actually recoils from him and says they won't be going anywhere together. He wants to talk about it. She wants to fake-cry poorly. And so she does, closing the window on him as The Mandolin Of Sadness takes the soundtrack by storm. He makes his way off the balcony and a light rain falls because people are sad. Downstairs, Liz approaches her father and finally finds herself in a moment of clarity: "My life is out of control. I want to go to boarding school." Because it is often in that bastion of normalcy where teenage girls in cloistered seclusion adjust perfectly to all of life's experiences.
"Dear Max," a dictated letter to Max begins over a montage of Liz packing, "What's so great about normal? Do you remember when you asked me that? Back then, the answer was, 'Nothing.' Because of you, Max. Because of how much you loved me." And around and around it goes, Liz telling him that she needs reclaim normal by being away from Roswell. And as romantic a notion it is to see the open road of the desert stretching before a relieved-looking Liz, she's gonna be bumming somewhere around the Kansas/Nebraska border when she's suddenly all, "Why the living ***** wouldn't they just let me take a plane?"