Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.

"Next!" JJ calls.

Ugh. It's not going well. At all. And after having heard just eight violinists, I've heard enough. The last player had been just painful to endure: the screeching, the pitch problems, the bowing problems, the…there were just too many problems. It just highlights how Sam's abilities superseded theirs: he's in a different league, a substantially better player. Why did he have to break his hand?

All the other previous players had been mediocre. They weren't particularly bad, but the disparity in the level of playing we require is just too great.

When nobody else enters the room, I slump in my seat and let out a heavy sigh. We're doomed.

Sam sits to the left of me, with Dylan on my other side. I feel squished and slightly claustrophobic huddled together like this, around the table. Whenever I move, my arms inadvertently bump theirs. JJ and Phil don't have to contend with this problem, both having situated themselves on the opposite side of the table where two people can sit comfortably.

"We need someone who's at diploma level," JJ begins, "and a decent sight reader. Do we know anyone?"

"What about your sister?" Sam asks, directing the question at me. "You said she played the violin, right?"

"Yeah," I begin, "but she's not up to the standard we need."

Phil rests his forearms on the table, repeatedly banging his head on the backs of his arms, crying, "We're doomed, we're doomed, we're so doomed, we're…" JJ nudges him hard with her elbow, cutting him off in mid flow as his head smacks against the table, his head having missed the backs of his arms. Ouch.

"Careful, JJ," Dylan lightly reprimands, "don't make it so we have to replace a cellist as well."

"Yeah, JJ," Phil childishly chides, rubbing his forehead.

I glance at my watch: class will be starting soon.

"I'm gonna have to head off, guys," I say. "Can't be late for class, else Mr. Smith will grille me. Literally."

Sam sharply turns his head to me, disappointment clearly written across his face. "Now?"

I nod, giving him a small smile. "Um, maybe we could meet up later? I want to ask you about some music stuff," Sam says, eyes fixed firmly on the cast encasing his broken hand.

I can hear JJ stifling laugher, covering it up with a poorly conceived cough. Phil is also suppressing a smile, and Dylan…he just glares at Sam, who seems totally impervious to the look. A blush creeps its way onto Sam's cheeks as his eyes flit to mine.

"I was just gonna go home straight after class, but if it's really important…" I trail off, waiting for his response.

"Yeah, it kind of is." He nods enthusiastically. "I'll wait for you outside class."

"Ok. See you guys tomorrow," I say.

As I pass though the doors, I hear Phil whisper, "Are you really going to ask her?"

Ask me what?

"Class dismissed," Mr. Smith declares.

I let out a deep breath, relieved. The last hour had just been an agonising taunt: the Red Headed Wonder had been making goo goo eyes at Fang, practically sitting on his lap (no exaggeration), which he'd allowed her to do. He'd even made conversation with her! Fang, the non-converser, spoke willingly. When Mr. Smith had issued a few glares at their not so inconspicuous whisperings, they'd resorted to writing on a sheet of paper, and since I was conveniently sitting right behind them, on the next tier of seats, I'd been able to mostly discern their written conversation.

It had transpired as this:

RHW: I like you a lot. Do you like me?

Fang: I don't really know you

RHW: We could get to know each other

Fang: I'm sort of busy these days. Work and College, so not a lot of time

RHW: We could make time. I'm very accommodating

I hadn't been able to decipher the rest, as Mr. Smith had cast them a suspicious glance, preventing Fang from responding. My straining in my seat to read the written conversation may have also had something to do with it, in which Mr. Smith had asked whether I was still paying attention. Fang had turned round sharply, his eyebrows raised as he noticed my hunched forward position, my neck craning to see what was written on the paper. It had clicked as well, what I had been trying to do, it being clearly evident when a grin had alighted on his face. Jerk.

I gather up my stuff quickly as everyone files out the room, furtively glancing behind me to see the Red Headed Wonder lingering behind with Fang. My jaw clenches and I'm fuming inside.

Sam' s there, waiting for me outside, his lithe form leaning against the wall. His face lights up and he smiles when he spots me. I smile back.

"Hey, so what…" I say, with Sam in unison asking, "do you want to go out with me tonight?"

"What?" I ask, wondering whether I'd heard correct.

He takes a deep breath, his cheeks a flaming red. "Um, I was wondering…if you, maybe, wanted to go out with me to dinner? With me? Tonight? Although another night would be fine too if you were busy or something."

I don't know what to say (and that's saying something). I like Sam. A lot. But the thought of him and me together has never really entered my mind. He's kind-caring Sam who holds doors open for me, greets me with warm smiles and makes me laugh. I've only ever considered him as a friend, but…looking at him, right now, in a new light, makes me question as to whether my feelings for him are not solely restricted to friendship. He's cute, no doubt, with wiry hair that curls at the tops of his ears and at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a hazel colour: warm and welcoming, but, right now, looking anywhere but at me.

"Um, I…"

I cut off, the high-pitched laughter of the Red Headed Wonder reverberating across the near-empty hall. I turn round, instantly noting how close Fang and her are. My eyes lock with hers and she grins at me. She slips a piece of paper into his hands and says, "Don't forget to call me," giving him a flirtatious smile before she struts off, grinning triumphantly at me as she walks by.

My jaw clenches and my hands curl into fists. My blood boils.

Fang's eyes snap to mine, his face impassive.

I know what I'm going to say to Sam then, not hesitating once as I turn to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Yeah, I'd love to go out with you tonight."

His eyes light up and he graces me with a broad smile, teeth and all. "Great! I'll pick you up at 6?"

I nod. "You'll need my address," I say, ripping a scrap of paper from my notebook, scribbling a barely legible address down. I hand him the paper and we walk out, with me not once glancing back at Fang.

"I'm home," I call.

I can smell chocolate chip cookies, but the sumptuous aroma does not suffice enough to settle my escalating nerves. I know nothing about dating…zip…nada. So why had I agreed? What if I make a fool of myself? What if he tries to kiss me?

I enter the kitchen and force a smile onto my lips, trying to quell my mounting anxiety.

"We've got your favourite tonight, Max," Mom reports, hunched over the cooker, stirring a pot.

Ella's diligently chopping carrots, and issues a short, "hey."

"Actually," I begin, deciding I might as well just be forward and tell them about the date, "I'm going out tonight."

"Oh," Mom says, her attention still occupied with the pot, "with friends?"

"He's a friend," I agree.

Both Ella and Mom's head snaps towards me. "Wait," Ella starts, "when you say he, do you mean you actually have a date?"

I nod.

"That'll be fun. But be careful," Mom says. I roll my eyes, and she fixes me with a hard look.

"I'm just being a little protective," she continues, "I've never met him before. Does he have any tattoos? Piercings? He's not picking you up on a motorcycle, is he? Because I prohibit you to ever ride on one of those death traps."

I laugh, surprisingly relieved. "No, he has no tattoos or piercings. He has a car and will be picking me up at 6 o'clock. It's Sam, the boy I was telling you about from the string group."

This seems to ease her concern and she nods approvingly.

"I'm getting you ready," Ella informs me. "Give me five minutes to finish these vegetables, and we'll get started."

WHAT?

"Ella, you really don't have to," I say.

She goes back to chopping and retorts, "Five minutes, Max. Meet me in my room, I need to de-minger-fy you."

I sigh dramatically. "Thanks Ella."

"You're welcome. What are sisters for, eh?"

It's five to six. Sam will be arriving any minute.

I tuck a curled strand of hair behind my ear. Ella has once again transformed me into someone who I can barely recognise as myself. The girl in the mirror wears a light blue dress that reaches just above her knees. It's neither too formal nor too casual: perfect for a dinner date. Makeup lightly touches her eyelids in the form of a pale blue colour, her eyes further accentuated by mascara and eyeliner. Her lips are coated in a thin sheen of lip-gloss, also.

Ella stands to the side of me, hands on hips, a triumphant smile on her lips. "I do a good job, don't I?"

"Not bad," I agree. "I look really nice."

Ella rolls her eyes, her outstretched hand indicating my reflection. "You look beautiful," she corrects.

I smile, my nerves returning with avengeance when I hear the knock at the door, hear my mom cheerfully greet with, "You must be Sam. Come in."

I take a deep breath, hoping I don't suddenly puke.

"Have fun," Ella says, practically shoving me out the door.

We're in an Italian restaurant, situated in a far off corner. Exotic paintings hung in thick gold frames, depicting geographical wonders that stretch across the globe: waterfalls, forests, mountains. Couples are dotted around, here and there, holding hands across the tables, making goo goo eyes at each other. We don't look like that, do we?

Candles are situated on every table, creating a romantic ambience. The tablecloth is white and I vaguely worry about whether I'll get sauce on it: I'm a messy eater, and somehow always manage to inflict stains wherever I go.

Sam's face is hidden behind the menu, while mine is placed closed in front of me, having already decided what to order. We've made only stilted conversation so far, Sam seemingly quiet and perhaps a little uneasy since we arrived here. Occasionally, after casting a sweeping glance round the room, my eyes would return to his and he quickly looks away, blushing. He's commented a couple of times already how beautiful he thinks I look, with me equally commending his appearance, his attire consisting of dark trousers and a blue shirt.

He places the menu on the table and gives me a small smile. "Ready to order?"

"Yep."

He tries to catch the eye of one of the waiters, all of who are huddled in the corer beside the stage. I know they sometimes have acts performing here, although tonight, I'm not sure whether there'll be any music. I'm really hungry and don't want to be kept waiting, so I wave at them, trying to grab their attention.

One of them spots me, a female, and she comes over.

"Do you guys want to order?" she asks, her pen poised on her pad.

"Yeah," Sam begins, "I'll have the tagliatelle and a coke."

"I'll have the spaghetti bolognaise and a water," I say.

She repeats our orders and leaves to get us our drinks.

Neither of us speaks for several minutes, so I listen to the murmured conversations of the couples around me. Nerves still plague me, our silences growing longer and more protracted. Say something, Max.

"This is nice," I say.

He nods, smiling. "Yeah, I'd actually been meaning to ask you out for some time."

"Oh?"

"It'd just taken me awhile to work up the courage to ask you."

He's completely sincere, his cheeks lightly flushing at the admission. My hands are resting clasped on the table and he reaches across with his good hand, holding his hand in mine. I notice for the first time just how long and slender his fingers are: they're violinist hands.

"I'm glad you asked me here tonight," I say, and I am. Yes, I'm nervous and totally out of my depth and am plagued with silly worries like: are my hands too clammy? Am I gripping his hand too tightly? But, irrelevant of all those worries, I'm happy for having been asked out by such a nice guy.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a deep voice calls on stage. The man is middle aged and thick around the middle. His hair is receding and he's clad in a dark suit. "Allow me to introduce this evenings entertainment: Nick Ride."

I don't join in with the clapping, stunned into disbelief.

"Max?" Sam tries to get my attention, but I don't supply a response.

My eyes remain solely focused on the stage, watching as Fang steps onto the stage with a violin in hand. He plucks his opening notes and, when he's satisfied with the tuning, he securely places the violin under his chin and lifts up his bow and begins to play. I recognise the piece instantly as Chanson de Matin, having heard Ella play it sometime last year. I love the piece, and what's more, I love Fang's interpretation of it. He's a truly captivating performer: his upper body swaying gently with the music, his bow moving fluidly, his hand moving from position to position with such precision and accuracy. His tone is rich and his performance holds contrasting sections of loud and quiet, building momentum and volume as the piece reaches its climax.

When he finishes I clap along with everyone else, all save Sam, who sits frowning, jaw clenched. "He made some mistakes," Sam declares, "and his bowing needs work. I've heard better."

"Have we?" I ask. "He's ten times better than those we saw earlier today. We need another player, and he's the best we've seen. We have three weeks until our first performance and we need someone quick." I'm mildly surprised at my own eagerness to have Fang as our new player, but then remember that we need someone, and soon, even if that person happens to be the devil incarnate.

Fang plays a few more pieces: a contrast of concertos, jigs, and film music. As he leaves the stage, I scrape my chair back, forgetting my half eaten meal to corner him.

"Fang?" I call. His head snaps round instantly, his eyes widening infinitesimally: the Fang equivalent of utter shock.

"Max? What are you doing here?"

"I'm on a date," I state, "with Sam."

He raises an eyebrow. "Sam the wiener?" He shakes his head, disproving. "You could do a lot better. Let me take you out instead."

I give a short laugh. "He is better. He's a great guy and I'm having a wonderful time."

"Then why are you here talking to me, Max? Shouldn't you be with lover boy?"

I clench my teeth, trying to keep my calm, but man, did he rile me to no end. Perhaps spending more time together would be a bad idea. "I didn't realise you played violin," I begin, trying to keep my anger in check. "We could have used you in the school orchestra last year."

"Couldn't get enough of me?"

I roll my eyes, regretting ever thinking I could have him playing with us. It would mean even more time with him, and class on its own is more than enough.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he says. He appears sincere, his eyes boring into mine with such intensity. I can feel my lips involuntarily tugging upwards, until I remember that this is Fang and he's most likely pulling my leg.

"What did you think?" he asks, looking expectantly, referring to his playing. He's grinning, but it appears forced and he seems suddenly tense and apprehensive.

"I think," I pause, vaguely wondering whether I'm going to regret this, "that you're good. Very good."

The grin becomes a smile and my heart gives a small squeeze.

"Which is why," I continue, "I'm going to invite you to play in our quintet. We need a temporary player, just for the next two months. We've got a few gigs lined up, and we need someone to play First Violin." I pause, then add, "You'll get paid."

"You don't need to sell it to me anymore, Maxie," he says, "spending more time with you will be reward enough."

I cringe. "On second thought, Fangie, I retract that offer."

He holds up his hand in peace, his violin and bow in the other. "Even if I promise to behave?"

"You'll have to perform in front of the others, and they'll have to give you the thumbs up. But you're the best we've seen so far, and our first performance is in three weeks."

"Little last minute, don't you think?"

"Sam broke his hand last week," I explain.

"I noticed before. How'd he do that?"

"Shut his hand in a cello case."

Fang begins to chuckle and I frown, intent on defending Sam. "It wasn't his fault," I continue, "it was an accident."

"Well, yes," he says between bursts of laughter, "people don't normally shut their hands in cello cases on purpose. He's such a weiner."

"Hey," I say, smacking his arm.

Ouch, he mouths.

"Wimp."