Happy new year! Oh god, new years was a WRECK for me, because I have a lot of friends in the UK and in America, and they were all arguing for so long, like, "Happy new year!" "No, it's not New Years yet!" "What are you talking about, of course it is!" Yada yada yada. I found it hilarious. Anyway, Happy new years, guys, and I thought I'd kick start the year with this one-shot!

Disclaimer: I don't own the song Banana Pancakes, nor do I own Maximum Ride.

"Why are you so interested in this?" I mutter under my breath, "you and I have different ideas of love."

It's too late to push the crawling words back into the deep recesses of my mouth, because Ella has already heard me. She won't say anything about what I said, but I can tell she heard from the way she started to put less effort into scraping her cuticles with a cotton soaked bit of nail polish remover that I leant her.

"Yeah," she says, "but don't you have a heart?"

"It doesn't matter," I retort, beginning to pick at my dry, dull nails. They've been reduced to nubs after biting them in anxiety, a stupid habit that I tell myself I need to break every time I bite down on them, but never follow.

Ella scoffs, starting to pour more of the alcohol onto the cotton. The smell of antiseptic seeps into my senses and I swallow the urge to cough. "You aren't gonna get anywhere with your cold attitude."

I think about that for a minute, my "cold attitude." I suppose she's right, because the world that we live in is just too sweet.

Sweet talking and sweet pastries, the kind of fluffy ones that exude calories and make your innards cry but your taste buds go wild. These are two things a girl will fall for you for.

I can't stand them.

I don't like sweet things, and I don't get the thing called "love" at all. There's something about the sickening layer of sugar over desserts that make me cringe at the thought of them, or the way some chocolate seems to taste like plastic and others like slightly more bearable plastic, like biting into a bar of softened metal with bits and pieces of unknown things inside them.

Love affairs and sugary things are too sweet, aren't they? I can't even quite remember when they used to be delicious to me, or when I started hating them. Chocolate chip cookies used to be the best things in the world, all I could ask for, but my stomach sinks at the thought of them.

"You'll never fall in love," she says after a while, once I've shambled out of my thoughts. There's a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Is that so?" My voice comes out sarcastic, and I can feel Ella start to tense. "Then I'll send that right back at you."

"Aren't I always in a welcoming mood?" She says, strangely calm.

"Oh?"

Ella's posture sinks the chair she's sitting on, the back of it hitching onto her neck to save her from gravity. "Yeah, but no guys come."

The irony of her statement makes me laugh as soon as I hear the door to the cooking club rattle. Although I used to be in the cooking club, I realized that I can't cook myself - unless charred, unrecognizable messes of ingredients are appealing to someone - but nonetheless, Ella loves doing it. I make a point to come here at once a day, once everyone from the club has gone home. That's why it was weird that someone had come to the door.

I opened it up, and the person in front of me was a stranger.

"Ah, Max," he says, his look almost filled with disappointment. He cocks an eyebrow at me, but doesn't say anything else. Is he even in the cooking club? I ask myself, trying to pin a name to his face, but all of it is unknown. He strides past me without another thought, and the corner of a cardboard box that he's holding jabs me in the side.

"Oh, Fang!" Ella says, standing up to greet him. Sounds like the name of a dog, I think. She starts talking to him, but it's more like as if she's talking at him, because he doesn't give any response back other than curt nods.

Ella notices the box that he's carrying, and before she can ask, he says, "I tried the recipe you gave me." He sets it on the table carefully, like it might bite him if he doesn't watch it with trained eyes.

When Ella opens it, I don't see what's inside at first, but she does. She hasn't moved an inch, and is just simply staring at the inside. Curiosity scratches at my throat, and before I know it I'm standing there, just as shellshocked, looking at the contents of the box, until a laugh rips through my throat, a snarky, hypocritical laugh.

"Oh, wow," I say, and Fang flinches for an eighth of a second, something out of the corner of my mind that I may have imagined. I look down again at the scorched, unrecognizable mess that sits inside the box, a few inches thick and really long, almost oval-shaped. Ella jabs me in the ribs with her elbow.

His glare is piercing through me as he says, "Wanna try it?"

Without a second thought, I say, "No, I don't want it. It looks horrible."

"Wait, Max-" Ella says, her voice chiding me with my blunt comment, but I cut her off.

"It's clearly not edible, right?" His eyes are almost black as they glare at me, but I shake it off. "It's all black, and my beliefs only allow me to put edible things in my mouth."

It's silent for a moment as Fang takes my harsh criticism on his dish. His glare has turned into a scowl, an expression it seems that he does often. His features curl with comfort into the scowl, the glare never leaving my eyes. He doesn't once stare back at what he made, to risk that what I said was right.

"Sorry," Ella says through a strangled voice, breaking the silence. "Max can be so straightforward sometimes-"

"It's fine." Fang gives a reassuring look towards Ella, a look he's probably had to do so many times, another expression that easily spreads to the corners of his lips and the tips of his lengthy eyelashes. He turns to me and opens his mouth, but it closes just as soon as it opens.

"Why don't you give up?" I ask.

"What, like you did?"

How did he know that? But I don't give myself any time to think. "I at least know when to stop-"

My voice cuts off as the taste of burned flour enters my senses, and I cough, the entire pancake he had made folding over my chin. I immediately spit it out, hearing it flop onto the ground. I wipe my tongue with the sleeve of my shirt, disgusted, just as he smirks and walks out of the room. Who the fuck does he think he is? My eyes start to water with the putrid taste still covering my taste buds, and I can't see myself throw the pancake at the back of his head before he's turned around and giving me another one of his looks.

"What the fuck-"

"You started it," I say childishly, but my gaze is even.

"Yeah," he says, flicking bits of burnt matter out of his inky hair. It falls out in pieces like a shedding dog. "Because you're a bitch."

I can't see myself slap him across the face, either, because the tears are already welling up into my eyes by the time I've reached the door and have sped down the hallway to the school entrance.

Fang Walker was the first boy I had met in a long time that wasn't trying to encase me in a false, mushy wasn't interested in telling lies to someone that wouldn't do anything but temporarily fill a void, and he was almost as blunt and straightforward as I was. I admired that about him, but that was where it both started and ended. He had still called me a bitch and stuffed a charred pancake into my mouth.

I think that's why I stood from my chair when I saw him come to me with a polka dotted bag in one hand, and his lunch in the other at the cafeteria, and began to run as far away as I could. There was no reason to talk to him, after what he'd done, and with the seething guilt that was growing in my gut. Of course, I had provoked him in the first place.

"Max, wait!" I can hear him shout from the other end of the hallway, but I've already started going down the stairs to the first floor of the building.

"Fuck off, Walker," I shout back, going faster, but I know he's going to catch me, and when he does, I wince, his grip on my wrist white hot. I'm silent as he turns me around to face him, and as I look up just the slightest bit to see him looking at me with agitation, his breathing labored from trying to catch up with me. He shoves the bag into my chest, and my arms fold over the polka dots.

"It's an apology," he says, motioning for me to look inside. A smooth, brown box that's covered in stripes greets my awaiting hands. There are cupcakes inside. I close it immediately, my nose wrinkling. He doesn't seem to get it. "I bought them this time, so it should be safe-"

"I hate sweet things," I say to save him from the trouble, pushing the box back to him. He moves his hands away, and I'm stuck with it.

"Fine, just keep them." He turns his heels and leaves, going back to the cafeteria where is awaiting lunch would be.

The cupcake looked like it would be delicious, with soft topping that whipped modestly on the head of the red velvet. Flakes of salt sprayed the cupcakes with a flourish. They were obviously store-bought. Fuck it. The wrapper was cool as I took it off, putting it back in the box before taking a bite out of the red velvet and salt speckled cupcake anyway.

It tasted wretched and informal, and full of regrets.

The next time I see Fang Walker, it's been a week since he'd given me the cupcakes. I ended up giving the rest of them to Ella, who gladly took them off my hands. When I see him, it feels like it had only been minutes since our last meeting, but years. His eyelashes seem longer, his hair darker, his height taller. He seem longer, disappointed, almost.

I'm not supposed to notice him dancing to a song that so clearly doesn't suit him. I'm not supposed to be on the school roof, realizing that I'm probably never going to find love. I'm not supposed to notice him dancing with his lunchbox, and I'm especially not supposed to see him air guitar, a goofy smile plastered on his face, as he sings the words to Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson, chuckling at his offset pitch when his voice cracks on a particularly high note. I'm not suppose to see any of this, but I do, and I'm not sure if I regret it or not.

He hasn't noticed me yet, and I find it somewhat amusing that this is what he does when he isn't so busy being an asshole. The smile doesn't leave his lips, even when he isn't sure of the lyrics and garbles his speech to what he assumes they are, even when he hears me chuckle from my spot near the railing. It cracks when he realized who I am.

"I'll just be leaving," I say quickly, my fingers curling into fists at my side. He stands frozen, his lunch box still in midair from their partner pirouette. "Sorry to bother you."

My hand is on the door knob to the roof's entrance when his voice pierces through the silence, awkward and raw. "It's a good song, isn't it?"

"I guess." I wrench his hand from my wrist and begin to trek down the stairs, flustered from the awkward revelation in the too-small doorway.

"Wait, Max," he says quickly, like I'm going to disappear from his grasp if I move another inch away from him.

I turn, but don't say anything, cocking an eyebrow.

"Try this." He holds out a pancake, one that looks far better than mine have ever turned out. It's obvious what it is, and he's improved a lot since the last time I've seen him. The pancake starts to crumble extended with one hand, so I relieve the pressure off of his and start to fumble with the fluffy texture. "What do you think?" He asks, when I've taken a bite out of it.

"Bland, but great texture." I take another bite anyways, enjoying the way it feels between my teeth. I start to taste something unusual, something sweet. My nose wrinkles. "Is that banana?"

For a split second he wavers, his typical impassive stare melting concrete with mine. He seems almost embarrassed as he answers, "I've wanted to make them since I heard the song."

I bite into the pancake, popping a bite size piece into my mouth before wiping the crumbs off of my jeans. "It's a good song," I say.

"Yeah, I'm in a better mood."

"What for?"

He gives me a crooked smile; half of his bottom lip dips farther into the smile than the other half, giving him a goofy look. I blink for a few seconds, swallowing thickly on an undesirable chunk of banana, and look down for a second, trying to calm my beating heart. "Weather's good, food's delicious, the pancakes aren't that bad, and you're not running away from me."

I scoff. "Well, that's me. Maximum Ride, professional runner." I start to tear the bits and pieces of the really banana-y parts, letting some of them fall off the roof.

We're silent for a few minutes while we finish the pancakes. My mouth feels tough from chewing so much, and the aftertaste of lingering banana makes me purse my lips. I look up at the sky, cloudy and speckled blue sky that fights its way through the openings in the thick cloud. The wind whips, a soft, autumn wind, and my eyes instinctively close, feeling the breeze in tendrils of air flick the baggy fabric of my jumper back and forth.

"Why do you run, anyway?" Fang finally asks.

Slowly, my eyes open, and my gaze meets his for a split second until I look back up at the sky. "It's easier."

"Well," Fang says, wiping his hands on his jeans, "I like looking at your face more than your back."

For once, I give him a smile. He's not so bad when he's not around others. And for some reason, I feel kind of like an idiot, like everything has been flipped right over like Fang's banana pancakes.

Waking up too early, maybe we could sleep in

Make you banana pancakes, pretend like it's the weekend now

We could pretend it all the time

"Huh, what's this?" Ella says just as she yanks an earbud out of the drum, severing half of the sound of Jack Johnson. She digs it into her ear. "You don't like this kind of stuff, though."

"Ah," I say, remembering Fang's air guitar. "Fang was listening to this the other day."

She starts to laugh then, a big, hearty laugh that ruptures the crevices of the walls in the school, booming with disbelief.

"What?" I ask, irritated.

"Nothing, it's just that you're being so cute."

Cute?

The bell rings, and I start to move to the science classroom.

Really? I think. I guess I've become less tense by eating his sweets and pancakes.

At that very moment, there's a loud laugh in the cooking room that's just across the science lab. It's both unfamiliar and recognizable, and I realize that it's Fang who's laughing. I move towards the cooking room, looking through the small window on the door.

"Fa-" I start before faltering, because he's with someone that I don't know.

She's obviously an upperclassman, with sleek and straight cherry hair that stops at her waist. Her frame is thin but toned, her limbs long and tanned, and her makeup is well done save for her eyes - the eyeshadow looks like smudged coal dust. She's giving him a flirtatious and somewhat innocent look, with wide eyes like a child's, the green flecks in them begging to kiss him. He doesn't notice, even as they're both laughing and flicking batter at each other, making a mess on the floor.

She hits him, a playful hit. "Stop it, that hurts, you superwoman!" He says, laughing again at her. His hair is out of his face, and I can see his eyes better. They're dark, like brewed coffee. At this angle, they look like beetles.

"What did you call me?" She says, and my nose wrinkles. Her voice is somewhat nasally, one that just doesn't fit her looks.

"You're just too skinny!"

The second bell rings, and now all three of us are late. I want to move away from the door as she says goodbye. I want to move away as he gives her a wistful look, like he would change anything to get to be with her if he could. I want to move as he blushes madly, like he's stupid for thinking he could get with a girl so out of his league. I want to move, but I'm frozen in place in front of the door, looking blankly like an idiot.

He notices me. "Max?" He clears his throat. "You were here the whole time?"

"That girl just now..." My voice starts to crack, and I don't know why this is bothering me so much.

He flips his hair, and his eyes are almost buried under his fringe. He scratches his neck, like there's a pertinent itch, avoiding my eyes. "That's Lissa. She's in year twelve." Two years older than us, I think. "She's like my fighting partner." He starts going on and on about her, like he can't seem to shut up, this intensely quiet boy that could barely say a word to anyone. "I said I'd make her some good pancakes, so she agreed to eat them. She really loves sweet stuff."

There's something sweet stuck in my throat.

"Good for you," I say. It's full of emotion, those three words, but I'm not sure he notices.

It's pitch black.

"I'll make you some, too," he offers.

"I don't need it."

I feel sick.

"I hate it," I say, not even trying to cover the hurt in my tone. He's seemed to snap out of his stupor, and gives me a look of bewilderment, silently asking me if I'm alright. There's a rising lump inside my throat, and I try my best to swallow it. I won't cry in front of him for something so stupid. "You and your sweets. I hate..."

I can't look at him right in the eyes, it hurts too much. He seems so stiff, pained, so I do the only thing that I know how to do.

I run.

"Max? Why are you spacing out?"

"Huh?"

I had been thinking about the last interaction with Fang. How stupid can I possibly be? There was no reason for me to run away from him, and he proved that to me when we met on the rooftop. There's no particular reason for me to be so agitated when he was meeting Lissa, a girl he clearly likes.

So why can't I just get that scene out of my head?

My eyes focus back to Ella. We had decided to go to a shoppe to get something to drink during lunch, and ended up at a ridiculous café named Euphoria. There' a sickeningly sweet looking parfait sitting in front of me, adorned with ice cream and candy and chocolate, three things that I completely detest. I look at it in shock.

"Did you order that, Max?" Ella asks, probably following my gaze to the putrid food in its fancy, translucent pink cup.

"No, I didn't. I ordered hot coffee."

Ella starts to giggle. "That's true," she says, taking her spoon and dipping a bit of the ice cream onto it. "I can't imagine you ordering sweets."

I glare at the parfait for a bit, remembering what Fang had said to me a few days ago.

I'll make you some, too.

She loves sweet things.

A wave of annoyance washes over me. It feels hot and sticky, and the glare I'm giving the parfait hardens into a scowl. Why don't I like sweet things? Why can't he give me that expression when talking about things that I like? Stupid, stupid stupid!

Dammit! Everyone, everywhere - sweets and more sweets. I can't stand it!

There's a bottle of chocolate syrup on the side of the table. I pick up the bottle, and it's almost empty, surprisingly light. The cap is sticky and hard to open, but as soon as I pop the cap off, I start to lather the stuff onto the parfait. It comes out in chocolatey streaks, so dark that they look black, and I don't stop pouring it until the entire bottle is empty. Ella looks at me in disbelief.

"Max! Is something wrong? That's a lot of chocolate syrup-"

I don't hesitate to take a bite of the stuff, the chocolate syrup dominating the ice cream on my spoon. I force myself not to gag.

I always like my coffee black, and I'm not a "sweet" girl. I always act cold when someone likes me, and they give up, but...if there's something I can do, I'll do it.

I start to shovel more of it into my mouth, biting the wafers and chocolate until there's nothing left of the horrendous parfait. The taste of chocolate stains my tongue, and my brain is freezing from the cool temperature, but I don't stop until there's nothing but residue crumbs from wafers in the cup, and chocolate around the corner of my mouth.

I'll be sweet for you.

I wipe it off, standing suddenly. Ella is sitting, shellshocked, aghast. "Sorry, Ells, but there's some place I've got to go." She gives me a look. "I'll explain later!" I say, and put a twenty kiwi on the table, hating the way I'm slamming it with urgency. If I don't hurry, I'll lose him.

I'm tired of running away.

"Fang!" I yell, just as he's about to step out the front door of the school. The air is chilly and is strangling my lungs. I'm panting, and my scarf is wrapped around my body loosely from moving too much.

He turns around suddenly. Although his stare is impassive, I know that he's surprised to see me. I can tell from the way he doesn't move, and doesn't say anything else other than, "Max?"

"About the stuff I said yesterday..." I trail off. Come on! I think. How am I supposed to tell him? "I didn't mean it!"

I want to eat the pancakes.

"It's just that I-"

I want him to know.

"I really like you," I say, and I can't help but hate the way my voice breaks while saying it. It's almost as if an entire weight lifts off of my chest. He looks at me, astonished, like that was the least probable thing that I could ever say to him. I know that I'll be rejected, but I don't care. I just want him to know.

"I'm so sorry," he says, and it's so sincere, like he genuinely means it. A blush creeps onto his face, and his olive skin turns almost sun kissed. In the late autumn, his breath comes out in wisps from the chill air, and his eyes never leave mine as he says, "There's someone else that I like."

Although I was expecting it, the reality that he doesn't like me sets in, and it's almost overpowering. My knees feel weak, but I know that I won't cry. This isn't the end, and I'm certainly not going to give up. The tears start to fill up my eyes, but they would pour over, I'm sure of it. A big smile etches onto my face, one of the most vibrant smiles I've ever had. His eyes widen, and the blush deepens on his face, but it's alright. It's okay.

"Thank you," I say, and this time, as I turn to leave, I don't run.

I walk, enjoying the emotions that I've let myself feel.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I gesture to the ticket that's been pressed into my palm. It's smooth and crisp. "I'm not going to this."

He laughs, a shaky laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "You don't like park performances? Then how about the aquarium? Theatre?"

I roll my eyes. Seriously? "That's not it. I'm saying that I don't want to go with you."

He freezes. Was I too straightforward? I think, but dismiss it. He's mumbling to himself, saying things like, "Of course she's rejecting me. Everyone said she would," but I don't pay that much attention to it.

"But thank you," I say giving him a curt smile before taking my leave.

It's okay that Fang ended up rejecting me. I discovered a lot of feelings that I didn't know about before. I don't think I'll stop liking him for a while, but I think that just seeing him go about his day, perfecting his skills gives me the courage to start cooking again.

"Did you reject someone again?" Ella asks me, giving me a look, questioning if I overdid it. I don't think I did, and when I tell her that, she just laughs, asking me what happened. I go about it in detail, but not too much. I tell her that the boy is cute, but he's too soft for my tastes. I don't tell her that I can't help but compare him to Fang, but it's okay, because I'm sure that when I like someone, I'll be more honest with my feelings from the beginning.

"Anyway," I say, patting my stomach. "I'm hungry."

"When aren't you hungry?" Ella asks, and scoffs.

We start to head to the cafeteria, and I bump into someone in the too small doorway.

"Sorry," I say, but I don't get a good look at him. I turn to Ella. "What should we have for lunch?"

We start passing the nearby tables, and I quickly analyze the cliques that they hold. We pass the skaters, we pass the cheerleaders, and we take a seat at the cooking club's table, where I come to even though I don't technically belong to the club. I might join again.

At the other end of the extremely long table, I can see Fang being offered a packed lunch that someone had made him. It looks nice, homemade, something better than I could ever make for him. Anything I would make would end up smelling like rubbish, the way that I cook now. But it's a nice gesture. Even I'm in tears, I think sarcastically.

One day, I'll find someone that I love, someone that I can't help but smile with all the time.

"Max? You okay?" Ella asks through a mouthful of our mother's chocolate chip cookies, the ones that used to be my favourites.

I look back at her, deciding that I'll give up on Fang in that moment. "It's nothing," I say, and I start to laugh.

And one day, I'll ask that person to make me banana pancakes.

Once again, HAPPY NEW YEAR! I hope this 365 page book will be full of twists and turns for all of us. So, please review! Tell me what you thought, and then tell me your new years resolution: I want to quit biting my nails, and to make new friends.

-SOCIALLYOBSCENE