Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.

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I manage to escape English with only a few minor inconveniences: a death note from a Fangirl, the finger from a Fangirl, glares and envious looks from numerous Fangirls, notably the Red Headed Wonder. And because of that (since I'm just weird like that), I leave the room with a whopping, big grin on my face.

Sam is waiting for me outside, craning his neck over the looming crowd to spot me. I go to stand right beside him, waiting for him to notice my presence. But then deciding it would be cruel to allow him going on his fruitless search, I nudge him and wave a hand in front of his face, surprise clouding his features before his eyes widen infinitesimally. "Wow," he says, "you look beautiful." He pauses, a look of panic suddenly flitting across his face. "Not that you don't normally, but more so 'cause of the dress and makeup and hair." He runs a hand nervously through his hair. "Um, I'm gonna stop talking now," he mumbles, and points down the hall, suggesting we head off to the music centre.

"It's ok," I assure him, "I understand what you mean, and thanks."

He nods, stealing a furtive look at me every now and then as we descend the steps.

My ears are instantly met by the rich sounds of a cello reverberating across the room. Dylan sits in the corner of the room, his hand completing a complex series of notes on the viola: a deft performance that can only be obtained through laborious hours of playing. As soon as his fingers have initiated the last note with a final pluck of the string, I clap, surprised and partially moved at what he'd just done. I've never realised just how good he is, as the viola parts we have in our arsenal are simpler and less demanding than its other string counterparts.

Just like when Sam first acknowledged my presence, Dylan dithers for a moment, fumbling to place his bow and viola down. His eyebrows are drawn up in surprise and a small smile is stretching its way onto his lips as he comes over towards us.

"That was pretty amazing Dylan," I congratulate, hoping to draw his attention back to his performance. I'm beginning to see this dress-thing as a bad idea: nobody ever expected to see me in one since I vowed to desist from them until…forever.

He waves off the compliment, instead saying, "You look pretty amazing." I'm not sure how to respond to that, having never been met by so many compliments before. "Thanks," I mumble. "Where's…"

I don't bother to voice my question because I hear the thump at the door, hear the "Yo guys", and know that the two other members of our little group have finally arrived. "Little help?"

I open the door, helping to manoeuvre the hefty case inside. Phil pants behind it, wiping his hand across his sweaty brow. He casts a swift glance over his shoulder, then turns to face me with a frantic look. "Hurry, we need to shut the door before she comes."

I raise a quizzical eyebrow, complying nonetheless. "What have you done?" I ask.

He stalls for a moment, shoving his weight against the now closed door. "Oh, you look nice," he commends, trying to divert the subject matter at hand.

I fold my arms and give him a hard look that speaks, tell me now or I'll kick your butt into the middle of next week.

He gulps. "I may have upset JJ a little. Well, actually, maybe a lot." He pauses, putting an ear to the door and continues, "she'd just brought a new bow and she was excited to show me. I don't see how it's my fault really, she was the one who put it in my hands."

Sam and Dylan come over to us now, a look of understanding dawning on their faces. I think I know where this is going, as well.

"I didn't mean to," Phil continues, "one minute it was in my hands, the next it was on the floor, the neck of the bow broken." He shudders. "I've never seen anyone that pissed off before. She started shouting and screaming, telling me I can buy her another bloody 1,000 dollar bow. I started running when she lunged for me." He looks at us pleadingly, "please don't let her hurt me. I'm too young to die by the hands of a sadistic violinist."

Sam shakes his head in disbelief and says, "Dude, you're so dead. You know she's a black belt in karate, right?"

Phil's eyes bulge and I'm sure, if this were a cartoon, they would have just popped out. "Thanks for that, man," Phil replies sarcastically, "you've made me feel loads better."

Dylan asks: "Can I have your cello after she kills you?"

"What would a viola player want with my cello? A viola uses a different key."

"I know," Dylan shrugs, "but I thought I could sell it on ebay or something."

Before Phil can protest there's a loud thump against the door and a screaming JJ. "Philip Matthews, open this door now!"

Phil struggles to hold the door back. Damn, JJ is strong.

"I'm really sorry," he pleads, "have mercy, JJ."

The banging stops. There's a moment of trepidation and apprehension before JJ shoves her entire weight against the door again, suddenly and unexpectedly, sending Phil forward.

The three of us place ourselves between them both, trying to futilely placate a rabid and manic JJ.

"I'm so sorry," Phil apologies again. "I'll buy you a new one. Don't hurt me."

JJ glowers, fiercely shaking her head. "You're so lucky I'm in a generous mood, because you'd be so dead by now."

I try and break the tension with, "Shall we get playing then?"

JJ nods tersely, her eyes still solely focused on Phil. I sit at the piano while the others begin taking their instruments out.

"If Phil's going to be buying me a new bow," JJ begins, "he's going to have to save up. Do we have any gigs or bookings planned?"

Sam brightens at this and proudly replies, "Actually, we do. Do you remember that dinner party we did last year, at Mulburry Hall? Well, they want us to play there again. That's next month. And then there's another dinner party two weeks after that, and then a wedding, and then I was thinking maybe we could try and promote orchestral instruments at a couple of schools. Sound good?"

"Really?" I ask, suddenly excited. I've never done anything like that before: paid for playing and doing something totally fun. What a way to earn a couple of bucks.

Sam nods, smiling at my genuine enthusiasm.

"Hey, Sam?" Phil calls.

Sam fails to hear Phil call, his eyes still remained solely focused on me. I feel heat enter my cheeks as I jerk my head to the side, indicating that he's wanted. "Phil called you," I explain, giving a small smile.

"Oh." Sam suddenly jolts back, aware of Phil and the others.

"Can you hold my cello for me while I tune it? My G is way out," Phil says.

Sam reluctantly walks over and holds the neck of the cello with his left hand. The large expansive cello case lies across a table. Sam rests his other hand on the bottom half of the cello's case, supporting himself as he takes the full weight of the cello. Phil frowns, biting his lip as he turns the G's peg, plucking the note to establish how far he is from it being perfectly in tune. Later Phil will tell me that the string is old and perhaps he plucked the string a little too hard, because the next thing we know, the string snaps and Phil jerks back, Sam releasing his grip on the cello and falling back. The top half of the cello's case snaps shut, the hand that had been resting against the bottom half of the case clamped in between both parts. The case has closed on his hand. Sam lets out a shrill cry, swearing profanities as he lifts the top half of the case upwards, pulling out his red and already swelling hand. Oh no.


The verdict isn't good. The doctor declares that Sam has fractured his hand and will not be able to play for at least another two months. We've been booked by several people and will have to cancel each and every one of them: Sam is our First Violinist, and inadvertently the glue that holds our little group together. He brings us in on time in different sections of the music, dictated bowing, and is the most experienced of us all. We're devastated. Sam is absolutely distraught: no playing for that length of time will set him back big time. Practice and persistence with an instrument is vital if you are to succeed in performance. So, as I said, we are all devastated.

"I'm so sorry, man," Phil says for the umpteenth time. He's certainly doing a lot of apologising today.

Sam waves the apology off once again, his mouth drawn down and his eyes sad. "It was an accident. You couldn't have known the string was gonna snap like that. Just bad luck."

"I'll handle everything," Phil continues, "explain to the people who've booked us what's happened."

Sam frowns. "Don't do that. You guys can still play, you just need someone to replace me."

"Yeah, right," JJ says sarcastically. "You're the best violinist at this College, I don't know anyone who plays even close to your ability. And there wouldn't be enough time to teach a newbie our pieces, either."

Sam shakes his head. "There has to be someone. We can hold auditions."

I'm about to protest then because it still wouldn't be the same playing without him. We need him.

"There will be someone who can take my place for now. We can't cancel on them, the money's way too good," Sam continues.

We all give him a hard look, implying like we care.

He continues nonetheless. "Phil needs the money to buy you a new bow, JJ," Sam says, looking pointedly at her. She shrugs and Phil sighs. He then turns to Dylan and cajoles: "You need the money for that car you've been saving up for." I'm the last one he directs his convincing strategy on, and says, "You were really looking forward to performing, and seriously, wedding bookings pay really well. You'll need the money to fill that car up of yours."

He directs his attention to all of us then. "Plus the fact, I wouldn't want to cancel on some of these people. I can imagine the bride being a little like Godzilla if we were to cancel now."

I suppose he has us really: caught in the grasp of the persuasive hand he's dealt. It will only be for a short time, too, because in two months, we'll be able to perform together again, just in time for the Christmas performances.

But who will be our First Violinist?


An extract from chapter 8 of Ambiguity

Samantha sighs in despair as she leans her elbows on the bar, her chin resting on her knuckles. It has been two weeks since her interview and she's heard zip…nada, from the College. With each day that past the formidable monster of rejection nears ever closer, rendering her hopes of an offer as brittle and easily broken. Surely she would have heard from them by now if they were intent on offering her a place, right?

She glances at the clock for the umpteenth time that hour, her thoughts focusing back to another relentless question. Where is David? She feels partly relieved and saddened at his absence: two paradoxical emotions, with the latter she feels unable to explain. It's 6 o'clock now, his arrival always at 5 o'clock. She vaguely wonders whether he's tied up at work or sick. Maybe he has a girlfriend, and he's taking her out to some fancy, swanky restaurant. But, if that is the case, then why has he plagued her with his incessant requests to take her out to dinner all week?

She irritably shakes her head, trying to dispel such thoughts. She doesn't care whether he shows up or not.

"Samantha, can you come out here for a moment?" The request came from her manager, Bob Sherman, a man in his mid-40s with grey thinning hair that had receded entirely on top, a small outcrop circling either side of a wide forehead. He's overweight, quite substantially, a beer belly straining against a thick black belt. But although he appears somewhat rough and tough around the edges, he's a kind-hearted man, placid and patient: a father figure with whom she'd adopted after having began working here four months prior.

Right now, he stands half in the kitchen, half behind the bar. His hand is outstretched, making a come here gesture. Samantha complies, eyebrows raised.

"We have a new chef. I need you to just give him a small tour, tell him where everything is and stuff," Bob explains. "He says he knows you, the new cook, I mean. He's a regular here."

They're walking towards the back of the kitchen where a tall, broad shouldered man is clad in a white apron, diligently prepares today's special: the chilli con carne. The new chef hears their approach and looks up, his dark locks spilling into his eyes before he brushes them aside. He smiles when he sees her approach because he'd been so looking forward to this. She'll most likely grace him with a glare that could curdle milk, issue a sharp comment that would offend most, all save him, who'll smile and issue his own retort, enjoying every minute of their witty exchange.

Samantha's eyes lock on his and he grins at her. She scowls and his grin stretches even wider.

Bob looks between David and Samantha, confusion clouding his features before he asks, "You ok, Samantha?"

"I'm just peachy," she mumbles. "I take it you are our new chef?" She directs this question at David, who nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I am," David replies. "I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

She gives a tight smile. "I guess we will."