Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.
Responding to a review, a minger is an unattractive and slovenly person. A merchant, in regards to 'windup merchant', is someone who deals with winding people up the wrong way. Massacre was an unnoticed spelling mistake (oops, sorry), it was meant to be mascara.
Responding to another review, Ambiguity is a fictional novel I created to gain creative interplay between the two stories.
I enter the music room with a mild feeling of apprehension. It's the day after my date and the day after I invited Fang to join our quintet.
I find Sam sitting at the piano, randomly pressing keys with his good hand.
"Hey," I call.
He turns round sharply, responding to my voice and grins, a look of remembrance passing between us of last light. I blush.
After I'd spoken to Fang, Sam had remained mostly quiet, picking at his food. Fortunately, he'd perked up somewhat during desert and I'd been able to engage him in conversation, talking about College and family and stuff. It turns out we are both avid listeners of Ludovic Einaudi, a wicked pianist, and both enjoy Bach's many movements. Our interests, however, do not extend as far to novels. Sam isn't much of a reading enthusiast, having not even picked up a novel since high school. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
It had been your stereotypical date (minus Fang's unexpected appearance), where the guy pays for the meal (although I had insisted on paying my share), where he walks you to the door, lingering for a moment or two before leaning forward and lightly pressing his lips against yours. It was nice, and I'd eagerly kissed him back, albeit after my internal freak out. We broke apart when the porch light blinked on. I'm pretty sure Ella had been peering not so inconspicuously through the curtains, watching us. He'd pecked me on the cheek before leaving then, and, according to Ella, I'd had a 'happy glow' when I'd walked inside that was 'blinding'.
"Yo guys," Phil calls, lugging his hefty cello case behind him. JJ soon follows, with Dylan just on her tail.
"Hey," I begin, "I need to talk to you about a potential new player."
As if on cue, there's a light knock on the door and Fang's head peeps inside. His eyes roam the room before they lock on mine and he comes in with his violin case in hand.
"F-Nick here," I begin, jerking my thumb at Fang, "is a pretty good violinist."
"How good?" Dylan asks, sitting down in his normal seat, crossing his arms and legs. I get the feeling (being the empathetic person that I am), that Dylan doesn't like Fang being here. JJ, on the other hand…
"Let's give him a chance," JJ says. "I have a feeling he'll be good. Call it player intuition. Show us what you've got, Nick."
Fang simply nods, getting his violin out and plucking a few notes, turning his adjusters until he's satisfied with the tuning. He plays a stereotypical performance piece: Czardaz, grinding his bow across the strings in the opening passage, completing a complex series of notes until Sam holds up his hand, halting him in mid play.
"Wow," JJ says, a look of wonder evident on her face. I can't help but agree with her. He's as good as Sam, if not superseding him in some ways. Fang has great musicality, lacking more so in the technical side, which was one of Sam's primal strengths: his playing always looks extremely impressive. Fang, on the other hand, instills more emotion into his playing, reflecting the desired moods and tones of a piece. We can correct his technical faults, whereas his ability to connect with the music in such a way cannot be achieved through rigorous practice. You either have it or you don't, and boy, does he have it. Fang is just full of surprises.
"Dude," Phil begins, "that was awesome." He fleetingly meets eyes with all of us, receiving nods from both JJ and I. Dylan and Sam are a little more adamant, however, and require pointed looks from both JJ and I: we can't be too picky about who we choose now. We need someone, and that is that. It's just unfortunate my archenemy turned out to be such a damn good violinist. Life just ain't fair.
"Welcome to the group," Phil shouts, and claps Fang on the back. "We better show you what we're playing and tell you our rehearsal times."
"Cool, thanks," Fang says, "but I'm kind of restricted to playing time. I can't practice any later than quarter past two: I have to pick up my siblings from school and watch 'em while my mom's at work."
Phil raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Isn't that a bit early for school to finish. Couldn't you stay til 3 o'clock? That's the time we normally finish, and we're gonna be needing a lot of practice."
"There aren't many frequent buses to wear we live, and there's a train journey involved," I supply. Travelling here via public transport is a nightmare. Thank God I have my own car.
Phil asks: "You guys live in the same village?"
Both Fang and I nod.
"Well, can't Max just give you a lift back? 'Cause 45 minutes a day is kind of a lot."
WHAT?
I suppose it would solve our problems, but spending even more time with Fang, in an enclosed space, does not appeal to me one iota. A 45 minute loss of practice isn't that long, is it?
"Could you?" JJ asks, looking hopeful.
Damn. Fang will need every bit of practice we can offer him, if we are to deliver our desired standard of playing.
Fang looks at me, the impassive mask fixed in place. He's giving nothing away, save his eyes, which seem to watch me very carefully, scrutinising me for some reaction.
"Ok," I sigh.
A fleeting smile situates itself onto his face: thank you.
Practice progresses with only a few minor blips. Fang shows clear talent in regards to sight-reading, having been able to somewhat blag his way though all the pieces. Why does he have to be good at everything? But while JJ and Phil are accommodating, slowing down for him and indicating which bars they're at if he loses his way, Dylan says nothing. Sam also offers little in regards to support, slandering him rather than giving him helpful advice on bowing and positioning. I'm going to have to talk to them both, I think. I almost feel sorry for Fang. Almost. But it's clear he can handle himself when he retorts to a snide comment issued by Sam, that if he wants him here he should keep his comments to himself, unless it's some helpful advice, because otherwise, he's out of here. "I've got better things I could be doing," Fang says. "I'm doing you a favour here." Although that last comment is aimed at Sam for the most part, his eyes flit to mine briefly.
And so, at the end of practice, that leaves Fang and I in my car. Alone. Oh, joy (note sarcasm). Surprisingly, Fang had offered little in regards to conversation during practice. It had been almost strange us not verbally snapping and jabbing at each other. We'd almost been…civil, towards each other. It's kinda scary. But then I realize that perhaps Fang isn't as comfortable around the others as he is with me. He'd known them for three hours, while he'd known me for fourteen years.
"Sam's a jealous wiener," Fang states as he straps himself in, sitting beside me in the passenger seat.
I sigh. "He's not a wiener and there's no reason for him to be jealous. I like him, not you."
I start the car as Fang turns to me with his eyebrows raised, that silly smirk of his playing on his lips. "I didn't mean he was jealous that I might steal you away from him. I meant that he was jealous of my amazing violin skills."
A blush creeps its way onto my cheeks and his grin stretches even wider. Way to go, Max. Just stick your foot in it, why don't you.
"Then again," Fang continues, "he's probably noticed all those flirtatious looks you keep giving me. He's probably guessed that you love me by now. It's not fair you stringing him on like that, y'know?"
I force a laugh and pull out of my parking space, using driving as an excuse not to look at his smug face. Jerk.
"Let's get a couple of things straight, Fangie. First of all, I don't like you. At all. You are the biggest pain in the ass I have ever met, and the only reason I invited you to join our group was because we were desperate. We'd held auditions previously and they hadn't turned out well, ok? Second of all, Sam is a brilliant player. We would never replace him. And third of all, did I mention I hate you?"
Fang chuckles and says, "Maybe once or twice. I'm just waiting for you to tell me you love me, 'cause I'll start counting then."
I let out a small, frustrated sound, instantly regretting it as it spurs on another round of laughter from him. It's a shame, really, because Fang actually has quite a nice laugh. It's just unfortunate I only ever hear it when it's at my expense. Jerk.
"You know," I begin, "if you don't cut out all this love crap, I'm going to stop this car and make you walk."
"You wouldn't dare," he says, suddenly serious.
"Oh yes, I would."
He latches onto the fact that I'm serious and remains quiet. Wise move. Although the silence isn't been awkward like I first anticipated it would be, I prefer Fang quiet, and so to deter him from uttering any more nonsensical remarks, I switch on the CD player. The Bruch concerto in D major tinkles softly though the speakers.
Fang turns to me sharply, his face taking on a look of surprise. "You like Bruch?"
"I love Bruch," I say. "I'd love to see this piece performed by an actual orchestra. The bass part is amazing." I imitate the bass part in a somewhat low, bass-like hum and instantly blush, realising just how stupid I must sound.
I stop at a red light and my eyes flit to his, anticipating some snide comment that will only fuel my embarrassment. But he doesn't, he's staring straight at me, smiling. Not a Fang-smirk, but a real smile that reveals a set of brilliant teeth. I can't help the small smile that tugs its way onto my lips in response, and I can't help but find myself lost in eyes so dark and holding such depth, that they seem to glisten with...something. I just can't discern what. We stay like that until a cacophony of horns and shouting passengers blare behind us. The lights have turned green and I still haven't moved. Damn. I drive quickly, cursing quietly under my breath.
What the hell was that?
I know this is a short chapter, but I promise the next one will be much longer.
Peace, love and coca cola!
