A/N: I've seen Beastly. I would say it's okay, since the movie left out some good parts from the book. Like Kyle's mythical chatroom. You guys know what I'm talking about? Anyway, both my hands - rather, all of my fingers - hurt from all the tying and blowing up balloons. I think I mentioned before that I would never hold a balloon ever again. If I updated too slow, it's because my fingers are red and throbbing.


Chapter 8

Fang

Never have I ever felt this way before. Holding back is just. . . beyond my control. I just want it to keep on going. To continue and never end. Kinda like forever, y'know?

(I am successfully adapting to the 21st century slang. It is really interesting though some phrases don't make sense to me. It sure does not sound like me.)

Five days ago, I kissed Max. I was not sorry about it. I definitely did not regret it. In fact, I have always wanted to do it, ever since we came back from Spain. Unfortunately, I underestimated my self-control.

With Max, it's all rush. You decide before you think. Only moments later do you regret that decision. As much as I like Max, I hate that trait of hers. She should really get a conscience for Christmas this year.

These past five days, I managed to ignore Max. When my instincts say she's going to come in a room, I will leave. For work, I would wake up two hours earlier than Max. (She always wakes up at around 7.) Since the coffee shop I work on does not open until nine, I would spend the next four hours walking around. You would not believe what people are doing at five in the morning in their apartments.

Work hours are the hardest times to ignore Max. Wearing that provocative skirt and apron, it's just plain impossible to not think about Max. But I thought of a solution. I managed to persuade the manager of the shop to make me the replacement for the chef. The chef got into an accident involving eggs and a butter knife six days earlier. Let's just say she won't be able to cook for a week.

It was easy being the replacement of the chef. I got to spend all of my work hours inside the kitchen, making pastries and drinks. It was. . . "a piece of cake", like you 21st century people would call it. Making pastries is not a new thing to me. I spent three years in Paris being the apprentice of a famous pastry chef who - even though his patisserie is really small - is still very successful because his pastries were famous for having a heavenly taste and practically melts in your mouth.

Not to bring offense to anyone, but Emma's pastry recipes are too sweet and too unhealthy, so I made adjustments here and there. Once Emma found out I changed her recipes, she came barging in the kitchen. I half-heartedly assumed she would fire me, but her grabbing and hugging me is such a relief. She told me the pastries I made were the best and that the customers wondered if she, the manager, hired a new chef. (I took that as a compliment.)

I don't know what Max thought of it, but the manager hinted that Max had a taste of my dark chocolate mousse. Emma said Max practically melted and that Max's friends had to mop Max's remnants off the floor and squeeze them out over the bathroom sink. I laughed, pleased that Max liked my cooking.

But I wished I could have seen Max's expression while eating my mousse. That way, I would have known that I'm not the only one suffering.


Sixth day, fourth hour, thirty-third minute, fifty-sixth second. PM.

I lay down on the black leather one-armed couch, my arms stretch out in front of me, my hands holding a leather-bound copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, and my head resting on the arm. I cross my legs and flip a page. It's nice to know that I can still understand Old English, after all these weeks living in the 21st century.

I'm all alone in Max's library. It's not really hers, since this condo is her father's. But most of the books in the shelves here are owned by Max. Her signature is in every title page of every book that she owns.

The door opens and I ignore it. Not until I feel a sharp pain on my leg, as if someone slapped it with a whip. I slap the book close angrily and sit up. I'm ready to kill the person who did it, but what greets me is Max's beautiful and furious face.

My anger flushes away and I sit comfortably. I cross my legs and my chin on my left palm. I look at Max happily. "Yes? To what do I owe this pleasure?" I ask. God, it's been so long since I saw her. How I missed her so much!

She looks down at me, her anger clearly obvious behind those pretty brown eyes. I look down at her hands, and I see her gripping a leather belt. Close but no cigar, I think mentally.

"'Yes'? That's all you can say? You ignore me for five days and that's all I get from you?" She growls, her hands tightly gripping the belt. Now that I see it, it's actually mine. Why does she have it?

I stare at her.

"Don't look at me like that!" Her jaw clenches and unclenches. Ooh. . . I'm about to have a taste of Maximum Ride's wrath. "Answer me!"

"You didn't ask a question!"

Max stomps her foot angrily. "Don't turn into a philosopher on me! Why were you ignoring me?"

I close my eyes for a second and open them again. I look at Max before saying, "Max, baby, you don't get it, do you?"

For a moment her face becomes confused. Abruptly, it turns to anger again. How nice. "Get what?" That vein on her clear forehead is threatening to burst, from the way it's throbbing.

I dramatically sigh. I open my book and fold the corner of the page I was reading. I close it, lay it down on the couch, and stand up. I walk past Max, but not before I run a finger across her right cheek.

I leave the room, run a hand on my face, wondering what Max is thinking. Knowing she will never get it.


Max

I want to scream. Scream until I lose my voice. Scream until all the pent-up stress, frustration, and anger inside me is out of my body.

Why does Fang always bring out the worst of me? Why does he always make me angry? For the love of God, SOMEONE ANSWER ME!

I drop Fang's belt to the floor and take a number of deep breaths. I have never been this angry before. Not even that one time when Ella burned my favorite mystery book by James Patterson, personally signed by yours truly.

I rub circles on either side of my forehead - because it's threatening to explode again - for the umpteenth time today. For five days, Fang ignored me. Acted like I was some ghost. Shunned like I never existed. FIVE FREAKING DAYS.

My eyes open and they travel to the book Fang left just moments ago. I pick it up and see that it's my copy of A Tale of Two Cities. I almost smile that Fang was actually reading this cursed classic, but then I remember that Fang is a criminal for ignoring me. It amazes me how fast my anger resurfaces.

I turn to the page he marked by folding the corner. My eyes skim through the page; they stop when I read a highlighted line:

"It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh - almost like a sob."

Even though I never finished reading the classic, that line is my favorite. Sydney Carton's unrequited love is so heartbreaking that I hated the sappy love between Lucie Manette and Charles Darnay, who I - by the way - truly hate with a passion.

But my mind is not thinking about how pathetic Darnay really is; instead, it's on Fang. I know he's always talking with a certain common sense that it makes me feel stupid, just hearing him speak. His words now are stupid. Stupid because I have no idea what I "don't get."

WHAT THE HELL IS IT? I'M DYING HERE! I NEED ANSWERS!

Now I know what I want for Christmas.

Answers.


A/N: OMG! DID YOU GUYS HERE ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO JAPAN? Poor Japanese people who live in Japan. I would like to donate, but I spent all my allowance buying ingredients for the pastries I'm gonna make in the future. So guys - yes, you manga and anime otakus out there and you people who's obsessed with all things Japanese - help the Japanese who's currently suffering from dehydration and lack of food!

Aside from that, RnR?