Maximum Ride
CHAPTER ONE
NEWFOUND
FABULOUSNESS
The fourteen-hour drive from Beverly Hills, California, to Salem, Oregon, had been total Gitmo. It went from road trip to guilt trip in less that a minute. And the torture didn't let up for nine hundred miles. Faking sleep was Max Ride's only escape.
"Welcome to bOre-egon," her younger sister mumbled as they crossed the state line. "Or should I call it snOre-egon? How about
abOre-egon? Or maybe-"
"That's enough, Ella!" her father snapped from the driver's seat of their new BMW diesel SUV. Green in both color and fuel efficiency, it was one of the many overtures her parents had taken to show the locals that Jeb Batchelder and Valencia
Martinez were more than just great-looking wealthy transplants from the 90210.
The thirty-six preshipped UPS boxes filled with kayaks, sailboats, fishing poles, canteens, instructional wine-tasting DVDs, organic trail mix, camping gear, bear traps, walkie-talkies, crampons, ice picks, cobra hammers, adzes, skis, boots, poles, snowboards, helmets, Burton outerwear, and flannel underwear were just a few more.
But Ella's comments became even louder when it started to rain. "Ahhhhhh, August in pOre-egon!" Ella sniffed. "Ain't it grand?' An eye roll followed. Max didn't have to see it to know. Still, she peeked out through barely opened lids to confirm.
"Ugggggh!" Ella kicked the back of her mother's seat indignantly. Then she blew her nose and whipped the moist tissue at Max's shoulder. Max's heart beat faster, but she managed to hold still. It was easier than fighting back.
"I don't get it," Ella continued. "Max survived fifteen years breathing smog. One more won't kill her. She could wear a mask. People could sign it, like they sign casts. Maybe it would inspire a whole line of accessories for asthmatics. Like inhalers on necklaces and-"
"Enough, Ella." Valencia sighed, obviously exhausted from the month long debate.
"But next September I'll be in ," Ella pressed, not used to losing an argument. She was blond, perfectly proportioned, and used
to getting what she wanted. "You couldn't wait one more year to move?"
"This move will be good for all of us. It's not just about your sister's asthma. Merston High is one of Oregon's top schools. Plus, it's about connecting with nature and getting away from all that Beverly Hills superficiality."
Max smiled to herself. Her father, Jeb, was celebrated plastic surgeon, and her mother had been a personal shopper to the stars. Superficiality was their master. They were its zombies. Still, Max appreciated her mother's ongoing effort to keep Ella from blaming her for the move. Even though it kind of was her fault.
In a family of genetically perfect human beings, Max Ride was an anomaly. A rarity. An oddity. Abnormal.
Jeb had been blessed with Italian good looks despite his SoCal roots. The flicker in his black eyes was like sunshine on a lake.
His smile warmed like cashmere, and his perma-tan had done zero damage to his forty-six-year-old skin. With just the right stubble-to-hair-gel ratio, he had as many male patients as female ones. Each one hoped to peel off the bandages and look ageless... just like Jeb.
Valencia was forty-two but, thanks to her husband, her blemish-free skin had been nipped and tucked long before she needed the procedures. She seemed to have one pedicure foot off the human development chart and into the next stage of evolution- a stage that defied gravity and ceased to age her past thirty-four. With wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, aqua blue eyes, and lips so naturally puffed they needed no collagen, Valencia could have modeled had she not been so petite. Everyone said so. At any rate, she swore personal shopping always would have been her career choice, even if Jeb had given her calf extensions.
Lucky Ella was a combination of both of her parents. Like an alpha predator, she had filled up on the good stuff, leaving scraps for the next offspring in line. While the petite frame she inherited from her mother hurt her potential modeling career, it did wonders for her wardrobe, which was bursting with hand-me-downs that included everything from Gap to Gucci (but mostly Gucci). She had Valencia's blue-green eyes and Jeb's sunny sparkle, Jeb's tan and Valencia's airbrushed complexion. Her cheekbones ascended like marble banisters. And her long hair, which happily assumed the texture of straight or wavy, was the color of butter drizzled with melted toffee. Ella's friends (and their mothers) would snap photos of her square jaw, strong chin, or straight nose and give them to Jeb with hopes that his hands could work the same miracles his DNA once did.
And, of course, they did.
Even with Max.
Convinced the wrong family had taken her home from the hospital, Max placed little value on physical appearance. What was the point? Her chin was scant, her teeth were fanglike, and her hair was flat blood red. No highlights. No lowlights. No butter and toffee drizzle. Just flat blood red. Her eyes, while fully functional, were as steel gray and narrow as a skeptical cat's. Not that anyone noticed her eyes. Her nose took center stage. Composed of two bumps and a sharp drop-off, it looked like a camel in downward-facing dog.
Not that it mattered. As far as Max was concerned, the ability to sing was her best asset. Music teachers had gushed over her pitch-perfect voice. Clear, angelic, and haunting, it had a mesmerizing effect on everyone who heard it, and teary audiences would spring to their feet after every recital. Unfortunately, by the time she turned eight, asthma had taken center stage and stolen the show.
Once Max started middle school, Jeb offered to operate. But Max refused. A new nose wouldn't cure the asthma, so why bother? All she had to do was hold out until high school, and things would change. Girls would be less superficial. Boys would be more mature. And academia would reign supreme.
Ha!
Things got worse when Max started Beverly Hills High. Girls called her Smax because of her giant nose and boys didn't call her anything at all. They didn't even look at her. By Thanksgiving she was practically invisible. If it weren't for her incessant wheezing and inhaler sucking, no one would have known she was alive.
Jeb couldn't stand to see his daughter- who was "full of symmetric potential -suffer any further. That Christmas, he told Max that Santa got a new form of rhinoplasty approved, promising to open up airways and alleviate asthma. Maybe she'd be able to sing again.
"How wonderful!" Valencia placed her small hands together in prayer and then lifted her eyes toward the skylight gratitude.
"No more Rudolph the big-nosed reindeer," Ella joked.
"This is about her health, not her looks, Ella," scolded Jeb, obviously trying to meet Max halfway.
"Wow! Amazing." Max hugged her father in thanks, even though she wasn't sure noses had anything to do with restricted bronchi. But pretending to believe his explanation gave her some hope. And it was easier than admitting that her family was embarrassed by her face.
Over Christmas break, Max underwent surgery. She woke up to find she had a thin, Jessica Biel nose, and dental vaneers instead of almost-fangs. By the end of recovery period, she had lost five pounds and gained access to her mother's Gap to Gucci (but mostly Gucci) hand-me-downs. Unfortunately, she still couldn't sing.
Back at Beverly Hills High, the girls were welcoming, the boys were gawking, and hummingbirds seemed to fly a little closer. She found a level of acceptance she never dreamed possible.
But none of this newfound fabulousness made Max any happier. Instead of flaunting and flirting, she spent her free time buried under the covers feeling like her sister's metallic Tory Burch tote beautiful and shiny on the surface but a terrible mess on the inside. How dare they act nice just because I'm pretty! I'm the same person I've always been!
By summer, Max had completely withdrawn. She dressed in baggy clothes, never brushed her hair, and accessorized solely by clipping an inhaler to her belt loops.
During the Martinez/Batchelders' annual Fourth of July barbecue (where she used to sing the national anthem), Max had a severe asthma attack that landed her in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. In the waiting room, Valencia anxiously flipped through a travel magazine and stopped at a lush photograph of Oregon, claiming she could smell the fresh air just by looking at it. When Max was released, her parents told her they were moving.
And for the first time ever, a smile spread across her face.
"Helloooooo, adOre-egon!" she said to herself as the green BMW forged ahead
Then lulled by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the tapping of falling rain, Max drifted off to sleep.
This time for real.
AN: My first Maximum Ride crossover. I'm only redoing the first two chapters, unless I get the book. Next up, is an OC of mine. Please don't flame me. I'm trying to get better. Please review and review!