It's a Bird. It's a Plane. It's a Human-Avian Hybrid?

Disclaimer: As much as I want to, I DON'T own any of the characters of Maximum Ride. I only own Gale, Nikki, and Mr. Millwright. Neither do I own the lyrics to the song "That's What Faith Can Do" By Kutless

Chapter 1

Abygale's POV
"Go, go, GO!" I whispered fiercely from my position behind the stage.
"Marcus, move it!" said Nikki, my best friend.
"Abygale, cool it."
"Yes Mr. Millwright." I said meekly."Just don't call me that." I growled under my breath. I hated being called 'Abygale.' I preferred to be called 'Gale.'
Eventually, Marcus made his way to the risers, taking his own sweet time doing so. He did those kinds of things just to annoy me.
Of course, we ended up being the last ones to get on stage, and I had to sprint to the mic to sing my solo.
I heard the bass going, and started to belt out the words. I got to the part where I sing, "Everybody falls sometimes, but you gotta find the strength to rise!" when I notice this guy by the door.

He's staring at me.
Now, when you're singing a solo with a giant spotlight pointing at you, people will stare. I wouldn't have noticed him if he was looking at me, like everyone else was.
He was about five foot six, looked about my age {Thirteen if you nosy people are wondering} and had dark hair and equally dark eyes. He was wearing a pair of straight, black jeans, and a dark gray T-shirt under a leather jacket. His hair was longer than my catholic school permitted, but it wasn't hippie-long. It fell in front of his eyes, so depending on which angle you saw his face; he looked older, or younger than he {I assumed} he really was.
Now stop daydreaming about how cute you think he is, and get back to the story.
He wasn't staring as if a normal person would. He had this glazed look in his eye that I couldn't understand until I saw his torso. He held his abdomen in a way that one would think he had a stomach ache, but I could see in his eyes that it was much more serious than that.
I kept singing only because the words came without thinking. Well, I kept singing until I saw blood seep out from between his fingers.
"NO!" I yelled. I sprang off the stage and started to run before I hit the ground. My klutziness slowed me, but I raced toward him. He slipped to the floor before I could catch him. As I got to his side, I gently pulled away his hands to examine the damage. His shirt was plastered to the wound by a dark liquid that I don't need a microscope to name. I had to rip open his shirt to fully see the wound. It's not a swift, dramatic action like the ones you see in movies. It's agonizingly slow, and cautious. I didn't want to cause any more pain than he already had to handle.
Meanwhile, the audience had formed a semicircle around us, watching intently as I worked.
"Marcus, Give me your shirt!" I ordered. He hesitated. I gave him my best 'Do-what-I-say-or-you'll-get-it-later' look and he finally responded. Reluctantly, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it to me. I quickly ripped half off it into strips and compressed the rest on the laceration. It looks deep, and consisted of three parallel lines running horizontally across his torso.
Almost like claw marks, I thought to myself.
I tried to stem the blood flow while simultaneously supporting him off the floor. My hand skimmed his back briefly, but that's all I need to feel a texture that is clearly part of his back, but not skin. It reminded me of the time I held my grandmother's parakeet, and it's wings brushed against my–
Wings!