Disclaimer : We do not own. Comprende?
Blackiee : FangIsFexellent, did you note my amazing use of Spanish there? (goes to check if it was actually Spanish) and in case you did not notice, b4k4 r3dux has changed her name. Take note people!
FIF: Excellent work, blackiee. I applaud you. And yes, for those who are mentally challenged, I am no longer b4k4-r3dux. I got bored of it. So sue me. If blackiee changes hers to .Radiators it will make my day. And anyone who wants to murder James Patterson, just pop over to my page and review my story "This Is Not Fang's Fault!" Because you may be able to take part in the fangirl hoard I am collecting for a murder plot, led by Fang himself. Now, without further ado. ON TO THE CHAPTER!
Blackiee: Did you really just do an author advert on MY profile?
FIF: It's my story, too. And you wanted in.
Blackiee: True. True. Now have fun with the chapter!"Rhett! Rhett! Don't leave me!" Iggy adopted a falsetto and stood on a chair, clasping his hands to his chest and batting his blonde eyelashes. The class was in stitches. The teacher was not amused. However, it was the last day of school, and it's not like we were doing anything anyway. Except, of course, watching Gone With The Wind, possibly the dumbest movie known to man.
"Mr. Griffiths, please put your gluteus in a chair," Mr. Rochelle said in a dry voice, fixing Iggy with his spectacled glare. Anyone else would sit down. Iggy? Not so much.
"But Mr. Rochelle! Rhett's leaving me again! And my Bonnie is gone, and the South has fallen, and my life is just so terrible!" He started sobbing dramatically into his hands.
"Ig, go back to Tara," Kenny drawled, poking him in the leg with a pencil, causing him to yell in surprise, because he of course couldn't see it coming.
"Seriously," I added. "Do us all a favor."
"You don't love my acting skills?" he said, sounding offended, sitting back down, putting a hand to his chest and twisting his face into a grotesque expression.
"No," Kenny, Lesley and I said at the same time.
He gave us a look of mock despair. I reciprocated with a death glare of my own, then said "I'm glaring harder than you," to him, making him pout, turning his face so the class could see his expression. They all sniggered at him, and I silently applauded as the bell rang and we slung our bags over our shoulders.
"Come on, hot stuff, what's our next class?" I elbowed Iggy as we battled through the crowd that had materialized right outside of the classroom door, taking hold of his shirt lightly to make sure he didn't get swallowed by the freshmen swarming to God knew where.
"We don't have a class next, shorty, it's lunch." He this time elbowed me, before resting his arm on my head and steering me in the direction of the cafeteria. I scowled up at him, ducking out of his way and moving next to Ana, who had managed to catch up with us in the corridor.
"Hey!" She wrapped her arm around my shoulders, yanking me against her bony side. "What did you just have?"
"Chemistry." She winced. "We watched Gone With The Wind."
"Aah, I'm so glad I took Bio, dude. We watched Mean Girls. It was epic, you should have seen the look on Jake Spencer's face! If only I had a camera . . ." She trailed off in a wistful voice as we ducked and weaved through the crowd. I laughed; Jake Spencer was the most popular guy in the school, the quarterback of the football team. Thinking about him watching such a girly film totally made my day. He was probably sneaking looks at the hot girls that played the Plastics when he thought he wouldn't get caught by his football buddies.
School lunches don't get any better on the last day, so we were doomed to yet another day of a selection between fake fish, questionable chicken strips, hot dogs that bounced (Rico tried), and cookies that didn't even deserve to be called such. But it was that or starve, and we had important things to do that day that required full stomachs. I watched the door while Jeremy got my lunch—if Dylan didn't show, I swear I would have murdered him.
However, he did. Dylan, of course, was the only one that had already graduated from our hell of a high school, the only high school available to us in the downtown where we lived. So all eleven of us went to the same school. It was pretty useful at times. I slapped him a high-five when he came in the door.
"Hey, shorty," he said, making the second time in three minutes I'd been called that. I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could, but it barely seemed to faze him. I grimaced and he laughed at me again. "Where's the food?"
As always, the guys had basically just gotten a mountain of food and we ate it buffet-style, passing plates and stealing things from each other. Dylan got permission to eat with us today because of the fact that we were going to perform a set for the school right before final bell, and he was the captain of the dance team and everything. I cracked a bag of chips and threw a few at Iggy, sitting across from me. He jumped in surprise and proceeded to hurl a chicken finger at me with perfect aim. It made it right down my t-shirt, and everyone started laughing.
"What'd I hit?" Iggy asked.
"Let's just say you scored a point in cleavage basketball." Shawn was nearly throwing up with laughing as I shook the piece of meat out of my shirt. Iggy pumped his fist in the air and cackled in triumph. I circled the table quietly and shoved ice from my tea down his pants.
If you've never heard Iggy scream, I can't describe the sound. I'm going to go for a general "AEEEEIIEEIIGHGHGHHHHHHH" right now, but whatever it was had the whole table with their foreheads in their plates, ribs nearly breaking with how hard we were laughing. Iggy jumped up and put me in a headlock, messing up my layered brown hair with one of his massive hands, then pinned me down on the floor and covered my eyes. I tried to get up, but it was useless.
"Excuse me," an icy voice said from behind us. I looked up and around, and so did Iggy, though he couldn't see the person. Oh, dear lord.
"What's up, Brigid?" Nathan asked easily, putting his Converse on the table and leaning into her personal space. She moved her miniskirted ass away from him with a look of disgust and gazed down at me, still pinned to the floor and being held down by Iggy.
"Will you two please stop having sex on the floor?" she said in a deceptively innocent voice, her red hair fluttering. I mean, fluttering. In a hot, bustling cafeteria with no wind to make it flutter. It must be in the Prep Code that invisible wind follows you wherever you go. "I'd like to get to my seat."
My face flushed, but Iggy just picked himself up gracefully and drew up to his full height, almost a foot taller than her. I just barely saw her flinch, and wanted to cheer.
"Would you prefer you be down on that floor?" he said in a seductive voice, and her face went redder than her hair, I swear it. I was almost peeing myself trying not to laugh. Only Iggy. "Because I can arrange that."
"You are such a perv, James Griffiths!" Lissa piped up. Oh. I hadn't even realized that she had been standing behind the Queen Bitch. If Brigid was the queen, then Lissa was the wannabe princess.
"Oh, sorry Lissa, I didn't see you there." Iggy had recognized her voice—it wasn't that hard. The girl talked like how a fast train brakes: shrill, squealing, and annoying. With lots of sparks. The venom in that one word he uttered made it doubly hard to not laugh. Iggy wasn't done, though. "But I love the way you say my name. Care to take Max's place? Your friend doesn't seem too interested." Her hair, which matched Brigid's, looked pale against the fiery blush that spread across her face. You could practically feel the heat. Go, Iggy!
"Who would ever?" Brigid sneered, trying to redeem herself, but Lesley stood up and delivered the final hit.
"If you must know," she said in her lilting accent, taking Iggy's hand and drawing him closer to her, "Iggy's my new love. And I have to tell you, he's really quite good when it comes to—"
"Ugh, you guys are all disgusting!" Lissa squealed, then pushed past Iggy, nearly stepping on me. I grabbed her ankle, precariously resting on a very high-heeled sandal, and she tripped and almost fell, ruining her dramatic exit. I then bared my teeth at Brigid, who was passing, and snarled. She gave me a look of deepest loathing and stalked off after Lissa.
I got up and sat back down, and we looked at each other for about two silent seconds before we started laughing so hard we couldn't breathe.
"Dude. Come on, we have to go!" I kicked Iggy on the arm from my position on the table. It was the second to last lesson, and we had done absolutely nothing for the past hour. We were going to watch the horror that is Gone With The Wind, again, but I managed to put a stop to that one.
Mainly with the aid of Iggy, a pen and a piece of fudge.
So now our small class of ten was lounging around in various points throughout the room. I was lying on a table shoved against the wall, staring blankly at the wall, with Iggy sat on the floor next to me.
I grabbed the wall and sat up, my legs dangling either side of Iggy, who was unknowingly staring at Jenny Innings, a girl who was . . . aesthetically challenged. I mean, I'm not one to judge, but this poor girl . . . braces, untamable hair and a serious lack of fashion sense (this is coming from Miss Show Me A Skirt And Die).
Jenny turned round to see his sleepy expression, and blushed madly. I smashed my legs together, hitting him on the shoulders with my knees and making him jump up in surprise.
"Come on, dipstick, we needed to be at the stage five minutes ago. Dylan's gonna slaughter us." I reached up to grab his hair and proceeded to make my way to the door. I saw Rico jump up from the other end of the room and untangle himself from the arms of his girlfriend Bryonie and heading over to Iggy's side.
He whispered in his ear how he was staring at Jenny earlier, a devilish smirk on his face, and watched as Iggy went suddenly pale as we walked out of the door. I laughed and slapped him lightly on the arm.
"Don't be so judgmental. And anyway, you can't even see her and it wouldn't harm you to go and get a girlfriend. You know what they say, it's what's on the inside that counts."
"Hello, mother Max." He mumbled, and I this time slapped him harder, before grabbing his arm and taking down the unfamiliar route to the auditorium. It wasn't often we ventured there; it was always full of the Drama Club, who were honestly beyond irritating, what with their fake British accents and Hollister gear.
I could hear Dyl's raised voice from the end of the corridor and sped up suddenly; dragging Iggy with me, causing his sneaker-clad feet to stick on the grubby floor and send him flying headfirst into a wall.
Thank God for my ninja-like abilities, yanking him back so he missed a painful collision.
"Stop being such a spaz," I teased him as we continued to jog down the narrow hallway.
We burst through the doors in time to see Dylan and the rest of the crew stood in a little cluster just below the stage, with Dylan waving his arms wildly, looking worried. I'm telling ya, the day that guy doesn't have a panic attack, I will shoot myself. And then him. Because the world will have officially been screwed.
"Where the HELL have you been?" Dylan screeched. I gave him a flat glare, watching his heaving chest and wide eyes.
"Dude, calm. We're all of five minutes late. It's not like we skipped out." I rolled my eyes, walking forward with Iggy and Rico until we had joined the rest of them.
"That's irrelevant! What if you're even later next time? What if – " I jumped forward to wrap my hand around his mouth, effectively stopping him from speaking. He gave me the death glare and I smirked.
Then he licked my hand, the freak.
"Ew ew ew! You disgusting freak!" I shrieked, taking my hand back and wiping it on Iggy's shirt repeatedly. I heard everyone else laugh, one or two of the guys even high-fiving Dylan; everyone loved to get one over on me.
"Do I even want to know what Max is wiping on my shirt?" Iggy said in a scared voice. I grinned madly.
"No. Not at all." He winced.
"Okay, okay, as amusing as making Max scream is—" Dylan started.
"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID," screamed Jeremy and Marvo. I glared at them and they took two steps back, looking frightened.
"Anyway..." Dylan tried hard to keep from laughing, but it really didn't work too well, and his next words came out as sort of a choked snort. "We better...get...rehearsing..." He took a deep breath, and suddenly the old Dylan was back, nervously spastic but totally lovable. "Everyone go get changed...if you didn't bring your Converse, I am going to rip out your spine and beat you with it."
Everyone brought their Converse, so no spine-ripping went down, thank the lord that protects crazy street dancers. We all brought everything, in fact, because our meager reps were at stake. We weren't performing for strangers—we were going to be dancing in front of multitudes of people that we had known for three years and would know for one more. So if we sucked, we were forever gonna be known as "those poser dancer people."
Not that we cared about our reps or whatever, but none of us were posers, and didn't really want to be known as such.
"Alright!" Dylan clapped his hands like a typical teacher, and I rolled my eyes, exchanging a meaningful look with Juan and Kenny before turning back to look at him. We paid attention to him, after all, even if we teased him to death for acting like he was ten years older, instead of just two. "Max and Iggy, I want you over there practicing Piece Seven. The rest of you, come over here and we'll work on Lay the Beats." They nodded and dispersed, me and Iggy breaking off from the group. I led him to a corner where we could practice on the stage, and he spent a few minutes wandering around, getting his position and bearings down so he would be able to face the right direction. Dyl gave us a CD player with a copy of our set disc already loaded. Iggy and I would be going last. As in last. As in, we would be the very last things that everyone would see about three seconds before the final bell rang.
We were kind of an unorthodox street dancing troupe, more actual dancing than hip-hop kinda stuff. I wasn't too good with the hip-hop anyway. Juan, Marvo, and Kenny did a real hip-hop set about halfway through the performance we would be doing today, but I usually stuck with the very energetic normal dancing. Piece Seven was a sort of modern-jazz thing, a lot of partnering involved, lifts and stuff. I even had my own special costume that I used when we did it on a stage. It was already set behind the curtain—a sparkly shirt with a matching top hat.
What? I have a weakness for top hats.
Iggy and I ran through Piece Seven a few times, but we had it down so well already there was really no point in doing it again. We joined in the group rehearsal of Lay the Beats, then when that was done we did an entire run-through of the whole performance. It was pretty damn epic, if I may say.
The principal's dry voice carried over the intercom, sounding like he swallowed a Brillo pad...it didn't make for a very pleasant sound.
"All students please report to the auditorium. I repeat, all students to the auditorium at this time. Thank you."
"Oh, shit!" Nathan said loud enough to draw stares from a passing janitor, yanking the CD out of the player and sprinting up the stairs to the tech booth to give it to the pimply guy working the lights and sound. We just had a few simple cues—we weren't accustomed to performing in such luxury. Like, with an actual floor. And a stereo system we didn't have to bring ourselves. And no Cords of Death threatening to trip us up.
Dylan gave us the usual pre-show pep talk. "I have the Bus," he said when it was done. "Tacos and ice cream after?" We all nodded, but groaned at the mention of the Bus. That was the car that he had bought for himself after he turned eighteen. Though I think calling it a car would be an understatement. It does fit all of us, however, so we wouldn't need separate rides to Taco Bell. I would probably end up sitting on Iggy's lap, though, in order to squeeze everyone in. Again. I, for the millionth time, cursed my lack of freakish tallness.
"Maybe Brigid will come meet us there," Iggy said, putting a hand over his crotch. Everyone burst out laughing again, so hard the microphones squealed in protest and the tech guy glared at us.
"Waaay out of your league. Sorry, Stud." Juan placed a hand on Iggy's shoulder, and Iggy stuck out a lip, pouting, his big blue eyes open wide. We didn't dwell on Iggy's sexual problems, however, and went backstage as people started pouring into the auditorium. Dylan stayed out, fiddling with the microphone, earning another hard look from the tech guy as it squealed again. He jumped back and stopped touching it. We had worked out a routine for the introduction, and it was going to be an epic start to an epic show.
When everyone seemed to be in place, even the teachers, standing around the edges of the auditorium like they were expecting a riot to break out or something, Dylan spoke, and everyone looked up at him. I heard a whole bunch of female whispers and rolled my eyes at Jack, who made a gagging motion with a finger.
"Hey, guys!" Dylan said to the audience. "I'm Dylan, a bunch of you know that, and I graduated here last year. Today I've come back because a group that is very special to me is going to put on a show! Are you guys ready?" There were a few mumbled "uh huh"s from the crowd. "Oh, come on. You guys can do better than that. ARE YOU READY?" This time a whole bunch of people said "YEEES" pretty loudly. Dylan decided it was good enough. "Alright, without further ado! I give you, JACK!"
Jack ran out onstage, did an epic round-off, and ended smack in his place in the lineup for Lay the Beats, our first set.
"RICO!" He rolled the R, and Rico flipped onstage with his insane acrobatic skills.
"JEREMY!"
"JUAN!"
"NATHAN!"
"KENNY!"
"MARVO!"
"IGGY!" People gasped when Iggy ran onstage, because of his blindness and all, but the Igster was so well-adjusted he ended up perfectly in his spot, about four feet behind Rico, finishing it off with a backflip that took him facing forward.
"JACK!"
"ANA!"
"LESLEY!"
"And, last but not least, MAX!" I had worked on this set of tricking for months to get it right, and now was the time to do it. I started off running a few steps, then immediately went into a cartwheel, round-off, then two back handsprings that landed my Conversed feet in my spot, drawing applause. I grinned as I stood in my spot at the very front, glad I had pulled it off. Dylan backed off and took his spot right behind me.
"Ready?" he muttered. "One...two...three..."
And we all threw our hands up, shouting "Kick it up!" for all we were worth, and the pimply tech guy laid down the music.
It seemed like we could do no wrong with this performance. Every set was better than the last. And when Iggy and I stepped out for Piece Seven, we literally set the stage on fire.
Well, I guess not literally. Because that would suck.
The very last position in Piece Seven had me straight over Iggy's head, held up in a cocky position that would have been impossible to pull off had Iggy not had such muscular arms, and the audience exploded into cheers.
Then the final bell rang, and they all cheered harder.
Iggy put me down and slapped me a discreet high-five, and the rest of the troupe came out onstage, Dylan yelling "THANK YOU" in the general direction of the microphone before coming and wrapping me in a hug that nearly broke my ribs. "You were freaking amazing," he told me after letting me go, leaving me gasping and massaging my bruised bones. "You too, horny Igster."
"Anyone see Brigid?" he responded with barely a beat, and I started laughing again, making my ribs hurt more. A tap on my shoulder made me spin around, ready to leave a handprint across the face of whichever guy off the team had snuck up on me. But it wasn't anyone I knew. I'd never seen this guy before in my life.
"Are you Maximum Martinez?" he asked in a semi-formal voice.
"Um, yeah...and you are?"
"Jeb Batchelder. I'm from the International Talent Agency."
Just those last six words were enough to make me focus exclusively on him. I took in his appearance; modern looking blue wash jeans with a black tee and blazer. He looked to be in his late thirties, and as I was taking this is he withdrew a small plastic card from his jacket pocket.
He held it out to me and I quickly took it, scanning it and realizing that this guy was legit. I looked up at him again.
"So . . . you're from the Agency for . . .?" I trailed off under his gaze.
I know, I know, the great Maximum Martinez not dominating a conversation? Not whipping out snide remarks? But this guy was legit; if he thought I was the real deal, I could be in with a chance of getting to England.
"I was told that there was to be a performance here . . ." He looked around the room distastefully. "And that Maximum Martinez would be here also. I had it on good authority that you were worth my time." His gaze landed on me at last, his pale, watery blue eyes boring into my brown ones. "So I was given permission by your principal to sit and watch today."
I instantly felt worried; had I not performed as well as I thought I did? I mean, it felt like I didn't miss a step, that everything was in time, that is was-
"I am pleased to say that they were right, Miss Martinez. I was quite impressed by your talents; you seem to have a passion for dancing." I saw the hint of a smile race his stiff features, and I felt my heart soar.
"..." For once in my life, I didn't know what to say.
"I was also informed of your desire to get into the International Talent Agency Competition . . . And I would be delighted to offer you an interview at our Philadelphia office sometime next week."
I felt my eyes widen. I was being offered something that no other had ever had; the chance to get an interview without a previous audition.
Usually, anyone willing to enter the competition had to wait and see where the nearest audition was, before travelling there, hopefully in time. Then there was the panel of judges to face, usually consisting of around five extremely talented people who had previously won the competition with honors. The fact that I had skipped out on this nerve-wracking part made the whole process so much easier.
The age limit for the Competition was sixteen, meaning that I was only eligible for entering last year. I had tried to get my mom to take me to the auditions in New York, but she had complained about how New York was far too busy at this time of year, crowded with tourists. So I was planning on finding the auditions this year, which were being held in Washington D.C.
But now I didn't have to.
"Th-thankyou! Thankyou so much! You have no idea what this means to me, seriously!" I gushed in my happiness, grinning madly up at this guy who has, for lack of a better way to explain it, made my dreams come true.
He smiled ever so slightly. "You don't have to thank me, Miss. I would thank your friend over there." He pointed to Dylan, who was chatting with Nathan at the back of the hall. He noticed us speaking and gave me a wide smile and thumbs up. "He's the one who contacted me and asked me to come and see you in action.
He handed me a small card with a dotted line on it along with a pen. "If you could write your number down here please, Miss Martinez, then I can contact you when the details are finalised."
I quickly scribbled down my cell number, rolling up and down on the balls of my feet in my excitement. I handed the card and pen back to him with a stupid grin still plastered on my face.
"Here you go, and thank you so, so much Mr. . . . Batchelder." He smiled back at me for a brief moment, before turning and getting swallowed in the crowd of students leaving the hall still.
I stood still for a few seconds, allowing what had just happened to sink in. Then I turned on my heel and sprinted towards the back of the hall, where Dylan was still standing. He turned around just in time to throw out his arms as I leapt forward, sending the pair of us tumbling down to the floor.
"Thank you thank you thank you thank you! I love you Dylan!" I shrieked in his ear, wrapping my arms around him with difficulty and hugging him as hard as I could.
"Hey, s'okay shorty. Anything to help." He dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and I drew back and flicked him in the head.
"I'm grateful, but not that grateful," I smirked at him. He looked a little hurt for about two seconds, then I hugged him again so tightly I heard his breath whoosh out of his lungs and tackled him down, pushing him into the first row of seats.
"Anyone care to tell me why Max and Dylan are rolling around on the floor together?" Iggy casually asked, sitting backwards on one of the crappy plastic chairs that he found near the door.
"Dylan got her a place in the ITAC." Nathan said, rolling his eyes as me; I was still hugging Dylan with all I had, looking like an idiot on the floor.
"Oh." Was all Iggy had time to say before I had jumped off Dylan and was heading towards Iggy at 100 miles per hour, almost flying because I was honestly that happy.
"Dear God, Max, I know you love me, but it's just not polite to rape the blind guy," Iggy said, returning the hug and speaking into my hair. Damn my shortness, once and for all.
"I don't care," I said into his chest, and he laughed and ruffled my hair in pure Iggy fashion, then took me away from him.
"Okay, guys, seriously," he said, and everyone made their way down to us, slapping me high-fives and congratulations. "I need some Brigid love. Let's go to Taco Bell!"
And we all piled into the Bus, with a complete lack of Brigid-ness, much to Iggy's dismay and sadness. I told him to just go get it on with the Taco Bell clerk and he nodded distractedly.
And yes, even though I had just gotten my life dream, I still had to sit on Iggy's lap as we drove to Taco Bell.
We wrote this in two days. A record? We think so.