I love you people!!!!!! Seriously. All those happy-making reviews I got from you was so sweet! I was reading through them and I had this huge retarded smile plastered on my face, and I kept squealing like a little girl when I saw there were more, and then I realized that I probably sound like an insane person(no offense, you guys are wicked) so I quit sqealing out loud and started doing it in my head. That went on for, like, ten minutes straight.

It was an event to see.

Anyway, here's chapter two. It took me a while to get this one typed out from where I had written it in my notebook, 'cause I'm working on chapter three so I chose to do that instead of type on this one. And I know that I'm posting these chappies really close together, and that's cool and all, but don't expect chapter three as fast. I'm not even done it yet. So just, sit tight while I work my buns off.

If writing gave you abs, I would have the Terminator beat for sure.

Okay, review response time:

Drusilla Nite: Thank you! I like saying it. Poeple will come up to me and be like "What's your name?" and I'm all "INKY!!" and then they give me wierd looks and back away slowly. It's da bomb.

xTheSilentOnex: Honestly, I want to know what happens to Max too. Just kidding . . . sort of. I have a whole bunch of ideas, and I'm not sure where to put them so they work. But this chapter explains what happens to Max when she passes out, so I'll work from there I guess!

eaglegal4: I do? Cool. I wasn't sure if I did Max right, if she was too dark and bitter and not sarcastic enough. But she's kind of a bitter person at the start, so I don't know. Thanks though!

Sorry if I don't respond to ALL my reviews. Some just speak for themselves. Just know I LOVE YOU ALL EVEN THOUGH YOU AREN'T LISTED HERE!!!!!!!

Disclaimer: Why is it that I never get all the good copyrights for Christmas? I asked for Maximum Ride but JP got it instead. Not fair!


Kryptonite

Chapter Two: Hospitals. Eck.

Max POV

It was that annoying, incessant beeping that woke me up. Like a typical teenager, I rolled over and attempted to block it out with a pillow, scrunching my eyes shut.

Then I shot straight up because I hadn't had a fluffy pillow like that in years.

Cheerful yellow walls met my panicked gaze, and a really big window with the blinds wide open was spilling sunshine across the room. That immediately recognizable disinfectant smell was everywhere. Flowers sat on a bedside table, along with a tall mug of water with a bendy straw sticking out of it. I took a moment to appreciate this, and then moved on. A TV was mounted on a wall. Sterile, white sheets covered my legs. I felt my heart rate speed up, and so did that beeping. In my groggy state, it took me a minute to realize that it was a heart monitor. Then I groaned. If I was connected to a heart monitor, then I was definitely in a hospital.

I reached my right hand up to run through my hair, but something tugged on it. Looking down, I winced. An IV. Ew.

Needles scare me. The one thing that actually does.

The extra wide wooden door opened slowly, and a man in a white lab coat and two women entered. The man had a stethoscope around his neck and was carrying a clip board, so I felt it was safe to assume that he was a doctor. The first woman, a redhead, was on the short side, in a tight blue suit and heels that looked dangerous. The other woman was Asian, and I liked her better. She was sensibly dressed, not in a skirt but wearing slacks, and she wasn't smiling like she had sniffed crack for breakfast this morning.

The doctor, Dr. Andrew Samuel according to his nametag, stuck out his hand for me to shake. I eyed it down, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to look as menacing as possible in a blue hospital gown with bed head. I only cringed a little when the IV in my hand shifted.

"Sore?" Dr. Samuel asked as the redheaded woman sat down in the lone chair next to my bed. The other woman leaned up against the far wall, watching us all. The doctor sat down on the end of my bed. I shook my head once at him, answering his question. The doctor consulted his clipboard.

"I have a few questions for you Max-"he started, but I cut him off.

"How do you know my name?" I snapped. He looked slightly taken aback at my tone. Get used to it buddy.

"You told us on the way to the hospital dear," the redhead woman soothed, patting my hand. I snatched it away from her. What else had my semi-conscious brain told these people that I don't remember saying?

"Max, I'm curious about some of the scars on your back. They're in some unusual shapes for where they're placed. And the old burns look untreated. What happened to you?" the doctor asked, leaning towards me curiously. I flinched back slightly, blocking the images out of my mind.

Heat. Smoke. Flames licking my calves. The window stuck, even when I tugged on it with my entire body weight. Screaming.

"You don't have to tell us." The Asian woman's voice was soft, snapping me out of my flashback. She had noticed my flinch. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the redhead frown at that.

"I'm not going to." I was mildly surprised at how steady my voice was. Dr. Samuel looked calm, but his eyes were upset. He had really been curious to know my story. The redhead nodded unenthusiastically. She had wanted to know too. These people were nosy, weren't they? An uneasy silence settled over the room.

"Max, I'm Cindy Vaer. She," the redhead gestured to the Asian woman as she introduced her," is Kelly Fu, and we're your social workers. Dr. Samuel had us called when he found no records on you in the systems. We need to know Max. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why hasn't anyone heard of you before?" Kelly was shaking her head at Cindy, and I sighed at all of them.

"My names Max. I'm sixteen. I don't know where I came from," I lied smoothly, years and years of practice on my side. The three of them exchanged glances, as if debating whether to believe me or not, and I put on my best innocent face. Which is pretty convincing, I might add.

"You don't know your parents?"

"Uh-uh."

"No relatives?"

"Nope." Cindy was looking extremely irritated with me now, and I smirked on the inside. She glared at me, like it was my fault that I had no inkling of who my family is. I glared back.

"We can find you a place to stay, until someone stands up and claims you as theirs. If that doesn't happen," Kelly paused, shooting me an apologetic look. "When you're a legal adult, you'll be free to go your own way."

"Do I have a choice?" I asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it said.

"No." Didn't think so. I shifted my eyes away from all of them, silently fuming. I did not need anyone to look after me. I was doing perfectly fine on my own! Until that dumb kid decided it would be a good idea to wander alone down dark alleys in the middle of the night. Why was I such a nice person?!

"You can't go quite yet though Max," Dr. Samuel said quietly, trying not to set me off. I ignored him. "You have numerous scrapes and cuts that could be infected, and we want to monitor your healing. There is still a chance that you could have a minor concussion." When I didn't answer, he nodded, almost to himself, and stood up. He left the room, the two social workers following close behind him. They kept shooting me glances, and I avoided their eyes.

So went the next few days. I sulked, like a child, and they worried about me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Nurses checked my vitals, and woke me every few hours to make sure I was just sleeping, annoying the heck out of me, and did other nurse-y things. Dr. Samuel tried several times to pry my life story out of me, but I refused to even acknowledge his presence.

I felt like I was five again, pouting after Jeb wouldn't let me take home any of the fishies out of the fountain in the park.

Don't think about Jeb. Don't go there Max. Do you want to start bawling like a baby? Then they'd really question your sanity.

I didn't sleep well, the four extra days I was there. I kept having nightmares, caused by the memories dredged up by the doctor, and social worker Cindy. I hardly ate, but who could blame me? Hospital food is just gross. By the fourth day, I was ready to scream and jump out the window, I was so bored. And freaked out. Hospitals really scared me. I couldn't help but think that Angel would have been able to bust me out with her Crocodile Tears, which I had taught her. Then I growled at myself for bringing Angel up. It had been seven years since I had discovered the little baby girl, wrapped up in a wet towel and tossed carelessly into a pile of trash bags. Feeling bad for her, I took her home with me, wondering how on earth I was going to feed her. I could barely feed myself most days. But I kept her and raised her because it felt . . . right, somehow. When she was three, she decided she would name herself Angel, because of a story I had made up for her. I thought it fit. She looked like an angel, with her big, baby blue eyes and blonde wispy curls that screamed innocence. She looked up to me a lot, and I felt like Angel's Jeb, the one to show her how to survive. She was my baby, in all the aspects that counted.

But when she was four, I went out to peddle some change off a stranger so we could afford some supper and when I came back, she was gone. I looked for her for days but she never showed up. That was the second time I cried in my entire life. Jeb had been the first.

After that, I dreamed about her a lot, mostly imagining what could have happened to her. My morbid subconscious never produced anything close to the sweet, tearful reunion with her parents that I wanted desperately to believe. Those dreams joined my fire dreams, and now I wasn't getting any sleep at all. And, in turn, I got extremely grumpy and snappy at the nurses, who all hate me now. I'm not sure who wanted me out more: them or myself.

Finally, Dr. Samuel said I could leave. Social worker Cindy appeared at my door, cheerfully informing me I was signed out and everything. Within ten minutes, I was back in my jeans and shirt, which had been cleaned by the hospital laundry people (Thanks guys, by the way), with specific orders from the doc to try and be careful of my stitches, take it easy for 24 hours, and take some Advil if my head starts hurting. I agreed, if only to placate him.

Cindy Vaen ushered me out the wide glass doors of the hospital and to a black Sedan idling on the curb. Kelly was in the passenger seat, and after leaving me in the back seat, Cindy got in the driver's door. She chattered mindlessly while I attempted to take a short nap. No such luck.

"Max?" Kelly asked me from the front. I cracked one eye open, raising an eyebrow in question. She took that as a sign to continue.

"We went to the place you told us about, and retrieved your things. They're in a bag on the seat next to you." I nodded, dismissing her. She turned back around. Sure enough, as she had said, there was a plain black book bag on the seat beside me, and I'm nothing if not curious.

Inside was my tiny collection of clothes, an extra pair of sneakers, my fingerless gloves and hobo hat, a couple of books I had managed to afford over the years, a penlight, one framed picture of me as a gap-toothed toddler, a disposable camera, my second-hand jackknife, some hair elastics, and a few other necessities, like a toothbrush, some bobby pins, and a hairbrush. The contents of my jacket's pockets were there, too: my silver Zippo, a valid bus pass, and that night's wages from Chloe's, wadded neatly into a bundle and secured with a rubber band. My sturdy fleece blanket I had been using for as long as I can remember was folded and fit snugly at the bottom, underneath everything else. I panicked slightly. I had a box, full of the most important things I own, and it wasn't there. Nervously I checked the outside pocket, and found nothing. I pulled everything out, going through it three times, and still didn't find it. This was not good. That box had my entire identity in it! All my money, my reminders of the life I used to have with Jeb, my hospital bracelet with my name on it. And it was gone, as in not here, not in my possession.

I was officially freaking out.

"We're here!" Cindy announced loudly, pulling up to a curb. My eyes darted to her, and she looked curiously back at me. I realized that I was looking really crazy, and if I ever wanted them to leave, I would have to fake being normal.

"Is something wrong, Max?" Cindy asked, and Kelly turned in her seat for my answer.

"No, I'm fine." Yes, I've lost who I am and I desperately need it back. Now!

"Just nervous," I lied, smiling a bright grin and hoping that I didn't look as demented as I felt. Or as depressed.

Then, to prove my point, I threw open the car door and hopped out, sliding my few meagre belongings back into the black book bag and onto my shoulder. It felt too light without my safety box in it, and my grin slipped at that thought. Thankfully, Cindy and Kelly didn't notice. They were busy getting out of the Sedan and fussing with files and paperwork and such. I took the moment to evaluate the house in front of me.

It was tall, maybe three stories high, and a light sky blue. The wrap-around porch was obviously Victorian, along with the rest of the house, and done in a light oak wood. The window frames, shutters, and everything else were painted white. A stone walkway branched off of the concrete walkway that led to the front steps, winding around the rose bushes next to the house and into the back yard. The entire place was cute, with its perfectly cut green lawn and quaint little walkways. Very Wisteria Lane, Desperate Housewives like. It was an extremely drastic change from my old place, which had been an abandoned crack house with no heat and boarded up windows.

This was like the Waldorf in comparison.

Kelly appeared behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and shrugged it off. I'm not a touchy-feely person, and so far, no one else has caught on to that. I followed Cindy up the walk to the door, feeling like the mouse walking right into the hungry cat's open mouth. We stood there, after the doorbell was rung, and it felt weird. I felt like people were staring at us, like they knew we were two scary-cheerful social workers and an over-paranoid street monkey, checking into a foster home. Inside, something screeched. I tensed, all sorts of images about dungeons and branding irons and shackles flitting through my mind.

Finally, the door opened and a woman stood there, drying her hands on a towel and looking very mom-ish. Nothing about her said "ruthless torturer" to me.

"Yes?" she smiled, glancing at us. She was pretty, for her age. I could tell she was Hispanic or something, her dark hair pulled up and out of her face. Dark brown eyes looked at us, wide and trusting, and a lot like my own. Except my eyes are rarely trusting.

"Mrs. Martinez," Cindy greeted her, shaking her hand.

"Please, call me Val," Mrs. Martinez corrected.

"This is Max," Kelly continued, pushing me ahead a little. I tried my best to look charming and angelic, and it must have worked because she smiled back.

"Oh, yes, Max. We've been expecting you sometime today. I even roped the kids into cleaning the house a little. Not that it helped," she winked at me and ushered us into the house. She pointed up a set of stairs and said, "Your room is the last door on the left, if you'd like to get settled. We'll be in the kitchen finishing up some paperwork if you need anything." I nodded and padded up the stairs in my sock feet. I already liked Val Martinez. She seemed very cool, giving me my space. For that I was grateful.

On my way to the last door on the left, my room I guess, I counted the other doors as I passed them. Ten, including mine and the one at the very end of the hall. They were all a dark mahogany, and some had names on them. One said Nudges, in swirly, multi-colored lettering; another said Gazzy, in blue; Angel, in sparkly pink printing, with a smaller Total underneath; Ella, in green and yellow cursive; and Fang, in plain black block letters.

I wondered if these were nicknames. I mean, Fang? Gazzy? Nudge? Who would name their kids that? I suppose I really shouldn't be talking, seeing as Maximum isn't all that common, but still. Weird much?

My door was blank. Cautiously, I pushed it open as though there was a bomb attached to it. The hinges didn't even creak. I stepped inside slowly, my feet sinking into the shaggy, cream-colored carpet. I must say, I actually liked it. It had that Max Charm.

The walls had been painted a navy blue, with white curtains drawn over tall windows. A cherry wood bed was situated in the middle of the room, a matching cherry wood table next to it. There was a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed that I didn't see at first, so I stubbed my toe on it and swore. Loudly. The window seat under the tall windows was upholstered in white with two swirl blue patterned pillows resting in it. A desk made out of, you guessed it, cherry wood was to the left of the window seat, pushed into the corner, chair and everything. The closet was huge, with shelves and cupboards and racks tucked symmetrically around each other. A dresser was settled underneath the racks, and a full length mirror hung on the wall next to the closet doors. A sort of vanity table was situated around the area.

I dumped my bag out onto the stripped bed and sorted through my stuff. My clothes went into the closet, obviously. I put my poor girl hat and gloves, which had earned me a good share of money on street corners, in a cupboard drawer. My books were left on the desk. The trunk was begging for something on it, so that's where I plopped my fleece blanket down on. Carefully, I took my jackknife and my money and hid them in a pair of socks in the dresser, out of sight. Didn't want anyone finding those on accident. The smaller stuff went into my bedside table. The picture of me at the park, smiling a huge smile that was missing a front tooth, I put on the bedside table, almost longingly. I kind of missed the days where I didn't have to worry about food and shelter and work. I finished by tossing the now empty book bag onto the top of the dresser and closing the closet doors. Even with all my worldly possessions in it, the room still looked barely lived in.

When I was done, I wandered back downstairs and found the big kitchen easily. Cindy and Kelly were gone and Val Martinez was mixing something at the counter. She smiled at me when I entered, put down her spoon and wiped her hands off on her apron, gesturing for me to take a seat at the extra long dinner table. I did. She sat across from me.

"Hi Max. I'm Valencia Martinez, your foster mother, but there's really no need to be so formal. Call me whatever, just not Mrs. Martinez. That sounds too old." She extended her and for me to shake. I shook my head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I don't..." Mrs. M was cool, but that don't mean beans in my book. She caught on quickly.

"Oh, okay. That's alright. I get it. I should probably fill you in on how things work around here. Why don't you help me finish this batch of cookies, and I'll talk while we work." I chose not to tell her that I couldn't cook anything and stood. She would find out pretty darn fast. Mrs. M handed me a spoon and set me on mixing, which I could actually do, while she added things to the bowl. As promised, she explained at the same time.

"I have five foster kids already, and now you, and I also have a daughter of my own, Ella. She's fifteen this year. Now, as far as the other's, there's Jeff and Nick, who are both sixteen like you, Monique, who is fourteen, Zeke, who is twelve, and his sister, Ariel, who is seven." She added three eggs. "There are two bathrooms upstairs, one for the guys and one for the girls, one on the main floor, and one downstairs." Flour.

"On weekends, curfew for you older one's is midnight, and eleven on school days. The kitchen is free game, when you're hungry, but we have supper every night at six." Sugar.

"I work during the day, as a vet," Oh, so it's Dr. M, then. "So I expect you kids to start dinner. Everyone pitches in for dishes. You're on your own for laundry and cleaning your room." A teaspoon of vanilla.

"I want to be able to reach all my children at all times, so a cell phone will be showing up soon for you. I expect you to carry it all the time, everywhere. School starts in a week for you, on Monday for the others." Suckers. Dr. M tossed in some salt and continued.

"We have a computer in the office that everyone uses. Nick, or Fang, as the kids have affectionately named him, has his own laptop, but good luck convincing him to let you use it. He treats that gadget as though he gave birth to the stupid thing." Chocolate chips, and did they look good.

"No sports in the house. No parties. No muddy shoes on the hardwood or the carpet, and try not to get arrested. The cops around here seem to target my foster kids, for some reason, so be careful of them. And I think that's the basics," she concluded, dusting her hands off. The dough was all mixed, so we moved on to spooning it onto cookie sheets. Dr. M showed me how to do it, chuckling a little at my inability to do anything remotely domestic. It was silent for a while before she attempted small talk.

"So, Max. Tell me about you. Is Max short for anything?" I hesitated answering her, wondering if I should stick to my "lie low, keep your head down" plan.

"You don't have to tell me anything, if you're not comfortable," she apologized, staring fixedly on the little balls of dough lined up on the sheet, like little soldiers lined up for battle. I instantly felt bad; she was a really nice woman, and telling her my name wasn't so horrible, right?

"Max is short for Maximum," I muttered. Dr. M glanced up at me. "Maximum Ride." Her eyebrows rose.

"I named myself. When I was eight. It was for my birthday. I thought it sounded cool." I felt weird, explaining myself to her, but she just nodded in understanding.

"It's a nice name." I knew she was just saying that to make me feel better, but it still worked.

"Thanks." That was it. She didn't pry, didn't pester me with questions until I wanted to pull my hair out. She was satisfied with me telling her my name, nothing more.

I really liked Dr. M.

***************************************

Once we finished baking the cookies, I was given the grand tour, while munching on one of those chocolaty chipped chunks of heaven Dr. M calls cookies.

After the kitchen, there was the living room, with its flat-screen TV, the laundry room, Dr. M's painting room, her office, the upstairs, which I had already explored, and the basement. That place was cool.

A huge entertainment centre dominated the east wall, covered in millions of DVD's, CD's, and Xbox games, which went with the Xbox. Four beanbag chairs and a low-to-the-ground futon were situated around it. An old pool table was set up in one corner, and there was a short bar with a fridge to the side and a microwave sitting on the top. Some amps and a high-quality drum set were spread out off to one side, and an electric guitar rested on its stand. There were posters pasted all over the walls, with subjects ranging from Simple Plan to Rihanna, Pete Wentz to Alex Pettyfer, and even one for the Cirque De Soleil.

Despite the whole claustrophobia-from-being-underground thing, I figured I'd be logging a few hours down here.

By the time we had made the circuit of the whole house, a few of the others were awake and in the kitchen. Well, sort of awake. There was a tall, strawberry blonde boy flipping something in a frying pan by the stove, whistling to himself. A younger blonde boy looked like he was passed out on the table, but he croaked out a "Hurry up!" every few minutes, so he wasn't dead. An adorable little girl with white blonde curls the same color as the passed-out boy was perched on the island with a teddy bear in a pink tutu in her lap. She reminded me of Angel, only a lot bigger.

Apparently, the strawberry blonde was making paninis, whatever the heck those were. And, apparently, the other blonde boy was, and I quote, "So hungry my stomach is devouring itself from the inside out!" To which the strawberry blonde replied with a "Suck it, Gas!" The little girl sighed and shook her head as the two bickered back and forth some more. I laughed and the little girl turned to me. A bright smile erupted across her childish face and she jumped off the counter to throw herself at me.

"Max! Oh, god, Max, I missed you!" she cried, and I patted her blonde curls. There was no way this could be my baby girl. Things like that just don't happen. Carefully, I pulled her long hair back to reveal her neck and, if this really was Angel, the old scar from a cigarette butt she had laid on when she was a baby. It was there, pink and long healed over, and I almost started bawling right there. It was my girl. And she was upset.

"I was so scared, Max. I was just waiting for you to come back, and then there was this man, and he picked me up and took me away. I cried really hard, but he wouldn't stop." I felt the red hot anger bubble up deep in my gut. Angel was sobbing onto my shoulder now, soaking my shirt, and I was crouched down to her level. "He left me in some big office, and a whole bunch of people asked me all these questions, and I wouldn't tell them anything important, like you taught me, so they just assumed stuff and sent me here." Angel sniffled, and I swear my heart actually cracked in two.

I picked her up and sat down on a kitchen chair. She curled up into a ball and buried her face into my neck, just like she used to. We sat there until she calmed down, me rocking her and smoothing her hair, and eventually her sobs faded into hiccups, and then disappeared completely. Angel sat up and wiped her eyes.

"You okay, sweetie?" I asked her quietly and she nodded. She looked a little pale, but otherwise, pretty good.

"Yup. I missed you."

"I missed you too, hun." She smiled again, and then slid off my lap to grab the teddy bear she had dropped on the ground. Something buzzed and I tensed, uneasily glancing around the kitchen.

Dr. M pulled a small grey pager out of her pocket, and glanced apologetically at us.

"Emergency and the clinic, guys. Be careful, try not to hurt anyone, don't run off, and don't blow anything up," she warned sternly, sending hard looks at the two blonde boys. Then she disappeared out the door. We all heard the front door slam shut a minute later.

"Blow stuff up?" I asked stupidly.

"Yup," the younger blonde boy said, grinning. "Explosives are awesome! I'm Zeke, but that's a stupid name. I prefer Gazzy."

"Which is short for the Gasman. Don't ask. Just stay upwind. I'm Iggy, the blind kid who cooks."

"Are you serious? How does that work?" I asked. Iggy just shrugged.

"I'm amazing like that," was his reply.

"Where's Fang?" Angel asked in her sweet, little-girl voice.

Iggy dumped his panini things onto a plate and dropped them in front of Gazzy with scary accuracy. Gazzy attacked them happily.

"Off being his moody, emo self? I don't know. I haven't seen him since last night, 'cause he's up at the butt-crack of dawn every day," Iggy replied, slumping down in a chair across from the Gazzy-saurus. He frowned when he heard all the disgusting noises Gazzy was making.

"He talked to me yesterday," Gazzy admitted, once he had swallowed. It was shocking that he didn't have an entire half a sandwich wedged in his esophagus at the rate he was eating.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Only it was more like yelling. With a lot of swears in it."

"What'd you do?"

I got up and pulled a glass out of a cupboard and poured some water.

"I may have, um, accidentally set his pants on fire." I spit my mouthful of water out, spraying it all over the counter, and laughed. Iggy frowned at Gazzy, disapproval evident on his pale face.

"What!" Gazzy exclaimed indignantly. "It was an accident . . . sort of." Iggy's face never moved. I laughed even harder. "She thought it was funny!" he yelled desperately, pointing over to where I was clutching the counter for support, snorting with laughter. Iggy stared at me for a minute, and then he cracked a smile.

"Nice, man." The two boys' bumped fists while I composed myself, and wiped my spit-water up with a paper towel. Angel rolled her eyes at them as they got into a deep discussion over what kind of ignition Gazzy had used, and how well it worked. She slipped her little hand into mine and pulled me out of the room, to give me a tour. I let her, even though Dr. M had already shown me the ropes, because she looked really excited about it.

She had a story for every room. Like, in the living room, there was one time that Iggy and Fang were fighting, and Iggy's nose started bleeding, so Dr. M made him stick a tampon up it and wear it all day. In the office, Monique, who Angel called Nudge, had gotten a funny email and wanted everyone to read it, so they all sat on her in the office chair and broke the legs off under their combined weight. The stories were funny, but I was happier to see the smile on Angel's face as she told them. It made me feel a lot better to know she had been having fun these past few years.

She begged and pleaded for me to watch a movie with her, and I agreed once she flashed me the Crocodile Tears. We curled up on the couch downstairs and watched Anastasia. Angels just laughed at all the scary parts and awed at all the romantic parts. Dr. M called and said she wouldn't be home for dinner, so Iggy ordered pizza in and he and Gazzy joined us downstairs for The Little Mermaid. We didn't even make it through, shutting it off and starting Guitar Hero, which I completely schooled Gazzy at. He didn't take it well, accusing me of cheating. I smugly reminded him that I had never played it before, so there was no way I could cheat. He didn't take that well. Needless to say, brownies were promised from Iggy to calm him down.

Angel insisted I tuck her into bed for old time's sake. I did, making sure she had Celeste, her bear, before I shut myself in my own room, lounging on the window seat in my holey sweats. I promised myself that I would get the deets on how Angel is related to Gazzy in the morning.

It occurred to me that I had only met half of the household. Fang had been MIA all day. Monique/Nudge and Ella had slept over at a friend's house last night, so weren't home today. I hoped I got on as well with them as Gazzy and Iggy, but I wasn't holding my breath. I tended to relate to guys more easily than girls. Call me quirky, but it's true.

I lay down under my covers, thinking. For one whole day, I had been Max instead of Maximum. I had been normal.

And it felt kind of cool.


There you go. My masterpeice. Or whatever, I don't really know what to call it.

You know the drill people.

REVEIW. Or Max and the flock will come in the night and draw cows all over your face.

I SWEAR THEY WILL!!!