DISCLAIMER: Anything you don't recognize is mine. Max's arse belongs to Miss Taymor but in my dreams it's all mine.
I have always loved Max. Hands down. I have had less-than-innocent dreams about him. *devilish smile* So, what better way to spend my weekends then write about him and none other than ME? Yay. My name isn't Michelle, but that's my middle name. Julia Michelle. The character's name is—Whatever, you'll find out soon, haha. (Michelle from the song 'Michelle')
Lots of that Maxalicious Lurv,
Julia Michelle
Prologue
"What does it say, Max?" Jude asked as Max, covering his obvious terror with a false mask of anger, chomped on a pickle,
"It says I have to report to an induction center on the seventh," My eyes widened. I could tell this was going to happen. Of course. Why else would Lucy have been acting more fucked-up than she already was? But why was I still so shocked?
"Michelle? Micheeelle?" I noticed a hand waving in front of my face.
"Hm?" I turned to where the hand started from. Max frowned,
"You okay? You sort of whacked out right there…" Max muttered. Sadie jumped in,
"You've got a week to contract some fatal disease, honey." I tried hard to listen but my eyes glazed over in thought and the voices contributing ways to get out of the army just turned out to be a blurred blah-blah-blah. And then the music started to play and all I wanted to do was turn into a clockwork doll and dance until it all would stop. I was about to close my eyes and fall asleep until the acrid smell of burning paper reached my nostrils.
"…burn that paper boy, but you still gotta show…" I heard JoJo murmur. Max looked up at him for a moment, his eyes darted to me, Jude, and Lucy in turn then back to the paper in dismay.
I couldn't tell what was wrong with me.
If Lucy and Jude, the people who so far know him the most out of everyone can keep their cool, why can't I? I've known him for two fucking months, goddamn it! He probably doesn't even like me, let alone miss me when and if he goes. I've been avoiding him as if he was the devil himself. I give him the odd monosyllabic response, like 'um' and 'yeah' and 'nah'. The longest time I've talked to him was when it was only the two of us sitting at breakfast in the morning. "What's up?" he said.
"Not much, Max." I murmured. That was as far as we've gone.
There's a fucking hole where our friendship should be.
If he dies, I'll never have had the chance to make another friend, to add to my list of three-odd people I've met.
If he dies, once again I'll have never done anything to help myself.
I'm going to fix that shitty hole.
Yay. Prologues are always fun.