Bonjour all, Mae Silver here. I've been thinking about doing a Maximum Ride story FOREVER, but haven't found the right kind of inspiration. Just this morning, my dad taught me how to make French toast, (which just for the record is amazing) and I wondered: How would Max butcher French toast? Heheehehehe I gave it a little thought, and wrote it out. Hehehehe you all enjoy now.

Max POV

The French Toast Massacre

I guess everything, one way or another, begins with an idea.

I wake up at six in the morning, covered in a thin veil of sweat. The tank top I've borrowed from Ella feels like unwanted insulation in the thick heat of an Arizona summer. July is without a doubt the hottest time of year; and it's made even worse by the recent heat wave rolling through.

Why do I still have these winter comforters?

I jerk my foot out, pushing the heavy lump off my mattress. The extra padding in the comforter makes its landing virtually silent. Those weren't on my bed when I had gone to sleep. My mom must have come in after I had fallen asleep and given me an extra blanket.

She means well, but I can stand measly air conditioning. I mean, does anyone remember Antarctica?

Water. Need water. Compared to the uncomfortable dampness all over my body, my throat feels like the Sahara. I quickly spy a glass of water on the dresser, and move towards it in. I gulp the water down like a hippo.

"Ahhh that's better." I sigh, lolling my head back in relief. My tangled, curly hair is bunching near my neck and is making it itch like crazy. I grab the mass of it and tie it up into a stalliontail. Yes, it's my cheap rendition of a ponytail, because I'm a little too…Max for ponytails.

Pulling on a pair of oversized sweatpants, I look for a much less soggy clothing option. It's already getting warmer, so I scan my dresser for another tank top. Lucky for me, Ella's left an extra set of clothing for me. I take a comfortable looking dark blue tank top and put it on, ignoring the scraps of fabric she calls shorts. Before I head out the door, a crazy woman in the mirror appears.

Backtrack! I take a few steps backwards, and turn.

Prominent, ugly dark circles coat my eyes like bad eye shadow. My hair isn't that bad, seeing how I've had access to a brush in the past few days. My hair resembles curly, beige-colored grass in the dim light. Luckily I'm not a short-skirt wearing ditz who cares about how shiny or "frizz-free" her hair is. I hack it off with a knife when it gets too long and annoying, and I'm tempted to do that right now.

Extreme you say? I wish you could see my face right now. We've basically lived in either cages, caves, or whatever else resembles some kind of shelter, hair isn't something we can really worry about.

Who is we you ask?

"We" is the Flock, which means a merry band of human-avian kids that can fly, and are chased by evil werewolf-things called Erasers. We can fly because of the two percent bird that gives us wings, hollow bones, superhuman strength (superhuman appetites too), and other assorted powers.

We aren't family by blood, but facing near death makes people very close. I'm the oldest, fourteen years old, and the leader of the Flock. My full name is Maximum Ride, but I just go by Max. It infuriates me whenever other people confuse me with Fang, the next oldest.

He's fourteen too, separated by only a few months. He has really dark features, which girls just love to fawn over. (Especially red-headed scientists and/or desperate school girls named Lissa). He's pretty quiet, and when he speaks people listen.

Iggy is fourteen too, but he might as well be Gazzy's age. He's immature, sexist, and perverted. No matter how many noogies and warnings I give him, he never seems to understand that girls are just as tough as guys, if not tougher. But since he's blind I he can't see me kicking the crap out of Erasers… I guess he just has to take my word for it.

Now last of all is Nudge, Gazzy (the Gasman) and Angel. Nudge is the only one of us with African-American heritage, and smooth brown skin. Oh, and the ability to talk someone's ear off. No, I'm not even kidding, she can talk FOREVER, and really loudly too. She still hasn't taken up my offer to try talking an Eraser to death. Nudge prefers fists and well aimed roundhouse kicks.

Gazzy and Angel are twins, blonde hair and blue-eyed. Don't be fooled by their innocent appearances. Gazzy farts like an atomic bomb, with a smell much worse than anything a teenage boy filled with beans can conjure. He's a near expert on explosives, and Iggy's crime cohort.

Angel is the exact opposite of her brother, a sweet little girl (not really). Angel can control minds and do a bunch of other crazy things. It's too early in the morning for me to remember them all right now.

Quiet as a mouse, I sneak forward in the hallway, careful not to wake anyone up. There are enough rooms for all of us to have a roommate. Well, except for me. I'm the special one. When he had gotten to my mom's house, I had a particulary painful knee wrench that made me limp like a dog. My mom freaked out, and demanded that we stay overnight. I argued that it might bring Erasers to her, but she wouldn't have any of it. At least now I know where I got my stubbornness from.

The limp's gone now, but my left leg still twinges a few times.

Once I'm safe, I cross over into the kitchen.

My stomach's growling already, demanding some kind of food. We only arrived at my mom's house a day ago, and still haven't caught up on sleep.

Curse you insomnia.

Sure I would've loved to sleep in, but the painkillers my mom gave me knocked me out at around 5 pm last night. So technically I've gotten twelve hours of sleep, but it sure doesn't feel like it.

Think of it like being on the graveyard shift.

That works. When the Flock has to camp out in forests (on the run from Erasers) we have to keep watch for any incoming threats. I usually have the watch in the middle of the night, or Fang. Out of the million things the kids have to worry about, I don't want them to grow gray hairs over having to stay awake in the dead of the night. That's my job.

Grrrrrr.

My stomach growls sonorously, imitating an Eraser going for the kill. Iggy's the master chef of the Flock. He grills sewer rat like nobody's business. I swear he makes those taste like grilled hot dogs…

I hope that's not what they put in hot dogs.

I shudder, and open the fridge. If Iggy can't make breakfast then I'm sure I can find something.

Cheese, ginger ale, pita bread, celery, chocolate chip cookies? My eyes bug out as I lean forward. My smile turns into a frown as I realize it's just fig newtons on a platter. I slam the door shut, suddenly finding a deep hatred towards fig newtons. I'm not one to be picky, but the last thing I want is healthy food. There's got to be a box of Poptarts around here.

"Here poptarts poptarts." I hiss, prowling towards the cabinet. When I'm in range, I pounce on the handles of the door and jerk it open. Almost immediately pots and pans begin tilting forward. It's me against five loud pans. As gravity pulls the cooking pans forward, I catch all of them with my arms and balance them on my legs. The last one begins tilting forward dangerously. In response to that I snap out my wing from the top of the borrowed tank top, and catch it on the feathery surface.

"Whew." I carefully replace the items and close the door. When they're all back I fold my wing back underneath the tank top. Normally our clothes have slits in the back, but it'd be pretty rude to cut Ella's clothing.

Deciding not to risk the cabinets and search for a much easier food option.

What about cooking?

I have to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

The only things I butcher in this world are romance, Erasers, and cooking.

I can't even make toast for crying out loud! What makes me think that I can make myself breakfast?

Come on Max you've overcome things bigger than cooking.

Oh shut up voice.

But the weird voice talking my head just asked a really good question. What to cook?

I get a glimpse of a bread box on the counter, sitting in plain view. The bread should be in there, but I do remember seeing a loaf in the freezer. There are eggs are in the fridge, cinnamon in the spice cabinet, and a few measuring containers should be in that death trap known as a kitchen shelf.

French Toast?

Yes! It's a perfect idea! All I need to do is put egg, cinnamon, and bread together. I turn around the counter, and reach into the bread box for a loaf of bread.

My growling stomach argues that about five pieces of French Toast will be enough, but my reasoning says eight will do it. Barely.

A dopey smile breaks across my face, and I trot around the kitchen to collect the eggs, cinnamon, sugar, and containers to throw it all together. All the lights are off, and it takes me a while to find everything I need. Feeling a little self-conscious, I sneak forward and wave my hand around the couch.

No Fang.

No surprise attacks.

All alone.

"Hehehe." I chuckle under my breath, and lurk around the kitchen. I lay out six eggs, cinnamon, and…

Where's the bread?

I check the box one more time, and then realize that the actual bread is in the freezer.

So am I going to have to defrost this?

The microwave has a defrost setting. I'm sure bread can survive that right? I detach the bread from the freezer, and pull out eight frozen slices.

Placing the eight loaves of frozen bread on the microwave's plate, I press the defrost button.

Beep.

It doesn't respond right away. My finger jams the defrost button multiple times before it finally kicks into action. The bread turns around lazily in the microwave, and it seems to be working.

Until…

The microwave begins beeping and whirring like a broken helicopter. Green words begin popping up:

TURN OVER. TURN OVER.

Turn what over? What kind of sick joke is this? What does it mean by turn over?

And that's when the bread turns black, and smoke begins pouring out of the microwave.

"Oh crap!" I hiss. I clutch the microwave door, and viscously jiggle the handle until it opens…Well by open I mean the handle gets torn off, and for some reason the microwave shuts off too. For a second I stare at it…Then my temper kicks in.

"You little f… excuse for an appliance! Can't even make…" And you fill in the rest of the blanks. Needless to say my language can make a sailor blush.

"…." When I've finished cursing the microwave out, I punch it.

This is a mistake and a good thing. First what happens is that the microwave complies, and pops open. Second, smoke pours out from it and fills the kitchen. I cough, choking on the acid taste. It clears away after a few seconds, preferring to linger at the top of the ceiling.

Well that idea's dead.

But how can I give up now? No difficult kitchen appliances, frozen bread, or inability to cook is going to stop me.

"Max?"

That might…

I whip around, trying to put on the most innocent face I possibly can. The deep baritone, as expected, has come from Fang. The toast nearly burns a hole through my hand, but I keep it behind my back.

"Uh, hey there!" I say, wiggling my fingers at him. He must've smelled the smoke and gotten right out of bed, because he's only wearing a black t-shirt and boxers. There's nothing to get distracted by though, I mean I've seen his muscles for nearly 14 years now. Yet for some reason I have to pull my eyes away.

"What did you do?" he asks calmly. I widen my eyes.

"Do?"

Jeeze you sound like an idiot.

"Yes Max. It smells like burnt sewer rat in here."

"Well excuse me for not knowing how to work a microwave!" I chuck my piece of burnt bread at the trash can, and it makes a loud thunking noise before falling in. I cross my arms and scowl. There's got to be another way to fix toast.

He just raises his eyebrows, and moves towards the fridge. I jump in front of his way in the most casual way possible.

"What's the deal? I don't get any food?"

"Yes, well…kind of." I prepare for his endless teasing. "I uh, am trying to make French toast."

His face remains passive, and he just shrugs.

"It's too early for 'food' anyway." He rubs his head, and walks back towards his room.

Odd.

I guess people really are different in the morning. Maybe that means the bread will come out better!

I'm a freaking idiot.

Watching the faces of the Flock, I know I've absolutely murdered the food.

Nudge's face is pulled back into a muted grimace, trying to smile as she crunches down on something. Probably an egg shell. Fang doesn't have an expression on his face, but looks a little green as he takes a tiny bite, then discreetly spits it back onto a napkin. Iggy tries feeding the bread pieces to one of my mom's dogs, but they won't even touch the stuff.

For some reason, Gazzy is eating all of the toast. And by all I mean he's even taking some of Angel's.

"See, Gazzy knows good cooking when he eats it!"

"Or Angel is controlling his mind." Iggy mutters, choking down a bite of French toast. I narrow my eyes at him, even angrier he can't see it.

"Iggy, now it took Max a long time to make this, you should appreciate it." Mom says. I beam at her, and give her some more French toast. She stops me at the first slice.

Of course Iggy can't talk back to my mom, so he just eats his toxic food in silence.

Before I can open my mouth to chew him out for badmouthing my French toast, mom gives me a look that basically says shut up. It takes them a total of three hours to finish, not including the time they tried to distract me and throw it out the window. I see their looks as they trail out the kitchen:

What did I do to deserve this?

I feel kind of bad, but the toast really can't be that bad, can it?

Fang is the last to leave, and I stop him before he can leave.

"Was it really that bad?"

Fang sets his mouth in a straight line, and pushes past me.

"Max, that was the first French Toast Massacre."

A little short, but I hoped you all enjoyed reading it! If I get one review, annoymus (that's probably spelled wrong) or signed, I have no preference, then you all get another one shot! Unless of course you absolutely hated this then I'll just leave it.

Mae Silver :)