Chapter 1: Coldwater, Maine: Present Day
Another hour and forty minutes in Bilogy class with Coach. No one knows his full name, since he prefers everyone calls him Coach. But hey, al least I sit next to Nudge (Monique), my best friend in the world (more like my only closest friend… or only friend?) I shrugged at the thought and went over to my seat, but stopped dead in my tracks. Mysteriously adhered to the chalkboard was a Barbie doll, with Ken at her side. They'd been forced to link arms and were naked except for artificial leaves placed in a few choice locations. Scribbled above their heads in thick pink chalk was the invitation:
WELCOME TO HUMAN REPRODUCTION (SEX)
.Compute. Nudge, beside me, groaned in disapproval and pointed to that.
"This is exactly why the school outlaws camera phones. Pictures of this in the eZine would be all the evidence I'd need to get the board of education to ax biology. And then we'd have this hour to do something productive—like receive one-on- one tutoring from cute upper-class guys," she said.
I cocked and eyebrow and smiled at her. "I thought you've been wanting for this unit to be taught already?" I asked her. She smiled evily at me.
"I'm pretty sure I know everything in this class and what isn't in it," she said suggestively. I snorted and shook my head. I love her, but she's just…let's say weird sometimes. Then the coach blew on his whistle, and we took the cue to sit down. Nudge skipped to her seat.
I took my time and was about halfway, when Coach blew his whistle. Again. I knew it was directed at me.
"Mrs. Ride, please take your time," he said, tapping his wrist watch.
"Okay," I said and slowed my pace. Everyone laughed and Coach rolled his eyes. I smiled and sat down. Nudge giggled next to me.
"Alright Ladies! You all should know that the deed is more than a fifteen minute trip to the backseat of a car…It's science and what is science ladies?" he told the class.
"Gee…uh…oh I know! It's boring!" said some guy behind us. We laughed. I placed my feet on top of the table and leaned back on my chair, until I rested my weight on the back legs. Coach's eyes landed on me.
"Feet off the table!" he barked. I just stared at him and crossed my arms. He sighed. I just shrugged.
"You know you'd make my job easier if you would follow the rules," he said, leaning forward from his desk.
"Okay…I'll keep that in mind," I said, tapping my head with my finger. Everyone in the room snorted and Nudge hit my shoulder playfully, her eyes pleading. Nudge is a goody goody sometimes…
I sighed and did as was told. The coach gave me a tight smile.
"Now that we're talking…what exactly is science, Max?" he asked. I let out a heavy sigh and answered.
"The study of something…Knowledge gained through experimentation and observation," I added. Yeah I'm kinda of a studious person you could say…
"Paraphrase," he said. Okay.
"It's an investigation," I said, casually with a shrug. Coach clapped his hands together once nodding in approval. The only reason I'm in this school is because of my grades…since I'm always kicking someone's ass.
"Exactly! Science is an investigation! Better yet, Science requires us to transform into spies!" said Coach; a bit too enthusiastically is you ask me. Well…when you put it that way…science almost sounds fun…
"Good sleuthing requires practice!" said Coach.
"Yeah? So does Sex!" said a dude behind us. Dear lord…I snickered and so did the class.
"That won't be part of tonight's homework." Coach turned his attention back to me. "Max, you've been sitting next to Monique since the beginning of the year." I nodded but I had a feeling about where this was going. "Both of you are on the school eZine together." Again I nodded. "I bet you know quite a bit about each other."
Nudge kicked my leg under our table. I knew what she was thinking. That he had no idea how much we knew about each other. And I don't just mean the secrets we entomb in our diaries. Nudge is like…my un twin.
She's got brown eyes, mocha colored skin, really curly brown hair and she's skinny. I've got dirty blonde hair, chocolate brown eyes and I'm skinny as well. She's a bit of a bad ass at times but most of the time she's, here it comes again, a goody goody. I'm a badass who never follows the rules, crazy, sporty, and kicks anyone's ass (especially boys). We're quite opposites. But there is an invisible thread that ties us together; both of us swear that tie began long before birth. Both of us swear it will continue to hold for the rest of our lives.
"In fact, I'll bet each of you knows the person sitting beside you well enough. You picked the seats you did for a reason, right? Familiarity. Too bad the best sleuths avoid familiarity. It dulls the investigative instinct. Which is why, today, we're creating a new seating chart," said Coach smiling at everyone. What the hell…
"Shit," I said. Coach looked at me and narrowed his eyes. He has a no cussing rule, which no one ever follows.
"What the fuck? It's April. As in, it's almost the end of the year. You can't pull this kind of crap now," said Nudge. I nodded, agreeing. And unless Coach didn't want me to beat up a lucky kid, I suggest he changes his mind…See? Even Nudge doesn't follow this rule.
Coach hinted at a smile. "I can pull this crap clear up to the last day of the semester. And if you fail my class, you'll be right back here next year, where I'll be pulling this kind of crap all over again."
Nudge rolled her eyes and hissed a curse. She huffed and almost and gave him the finger, well below the table, where I could only see. I smiled at her and squeezed her shoulder.
"Every partner sitting on the left hand side of the table—that's your left—move up one seat. Those in the front row—yes, including you, Monique—move to the back." My hands curled into tight fists, making my knuckles white
Nudge shoved her notebook inside her backpack and ripped the zipper shut. I bit my lip and waved a small farewell. Then I turned slightly, checking out the room behind me. I knew the names of all my classmates…except one. The transfer. Coach never called on him, and he seemed to prefer it that way.
He sat slouched one table back, cool black eyes holding a steady gaze forward. Just like always. I didn't for one moment believe he just sat there, day after day, staring into space. He was thinking something, but instinct told me I probably didn't want to know what.
He walked to the seat next to me and set his bio text down on the table and slid into Nudge's old chair. I hate guys. I've mentioned that right? The guy wore all black clothes, to match his hair that fell over his eyes…and his eyes? Yup his eyes look black. Black as night, showing no emotion, but only taking in everything.
"Max at least tell him what your name is. Everyone is already talking to their partners. And I'm sure he doesn't know you well" teased Coach. Ass. I glared at him and stuck my tongue out, making him laugh. I rolled my eyes and growled inwardly.
"I'm Maximum Ride," I hissed, glancing at him. I don't use my full name and everyone sticks to calling me Max, or else…you might get stuffed into a nearest small space. I don't usually beat up girls, only popular ones, but yeah, I usually beat up boys.
His black eyes sliced into me, and the corners of his mouth tilted up. My heart fumbled a beat and in that pause, a feeling of gloomy darkness seemed to slide like a shadow over me. It vanished in an instant, but I was still staring at him. His smile wasn't friendly. It was a smile that spelled trouble.
I refocused my eyes on the chalkboard, where idiot Ken and stupid Barbie smiled back.
"Right, well. Human reproduction can be a sticky subject-"
"Yuck!" groaned some students. I bit back a smile.
"It requires mature handling. And like all science, the best approach is to learn by sleuthing. For the rest of class, practice this technique by finding out as much as you can about your new partner. Tomorrow, bring a write up of your discoveries, and believe me, I'm going to check for authenticity. This is biology, not English, so don't even think about fictionalizing your answers. I want to see real interaction and teamwork." There was an implied 'Or else.'
I sat perfectly still. The ball was in his court—I'd smiled, and look how well that turned out. I wrinkled my nose, trying to figure out what he smelled like. Not cigarettes. Something richer, fouler.
Cigars.
I found the clock on the wall and tapped my pencil in time to the second hand. I planted my elbow on the table and propped my chin on my fist. I blew out a sigh.
Great. At this rate I would fail. Not that it mattered…Nope…Peachy just peachy.
I had my eyes pinned forward, but I heard the soft glide of his pen. The dude was writing, and I wanted to know what. Ten minutes of sitting together didn't qualify him to make any assumptions about me…Right?
Fitting a look sideways, I saw that his paper was several lines deep and growing.
"What are you writing?" I asked.
"And she speaks English," he murmured while scrawling it down, each stroke of his hand both smooth and lazy at once. I scowled and did something I haven't done to any guy.
I leaned as close to him as I dared, trying to read what else he'd written, but he folded the paper in half, concealing the list.
"What did you write?" I demanded. Gripping his wrist and getting ready to kick his ass already. Let's just say…I have a short temper.
He reached for my unused paper, sliding it across the table toward him. He crumpled it into a ball.
Before I could protest, he tossed it at the trash can beside Coach's desk. The shot dropped in.
I stared at the trash can a moment, locked between disbelief and anger. Then I flipped open my notebook to a clean page. "What is your name?" I asked, pencil poised to write. My hand trembling with anger.
I glanced up in time to catch another dark grin. This one seemed to dare me to pry anything out of him.
"Your name?" I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered.
"Call me Fang. I mean it. Call me," he said. He winked when he said it, and I was pretty sure he was making fun of me.
I laced my fingers through his, ignoring the warmth of his strong calloused hand and my speeding heartbeat. I've never done this. I smiled at him. I gripped his hand, tightly and painfully twisted to the other side, almost getting it out of its socket. He hissed in pain and pulled away. I smirked and crossed my arms, looking at my paper.
"What do you do in your leisure time?" I asked after five minutes.
"I don't have free time."
"I'm assuming this assignment is graded, so do me a favor?" I snarled, quietly.
He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. "What kind of favor?"
I was pretty sure it was an innuendo, and I grappled for a way to change the subject. I growled and curled my other hand into a fist.
"Free time," he repeated thoughtfully. "I take pictures."
I printed Photography on my paper.
"I wasn't finished," he said. "I've got quite a collection going of an eZine columnist who believes there's truth in eating organic, who writes poetry in secret, and who shudders at the thought of having to choose between Stanford, Yale, and … what's that big one with the H?"
I stared at him a moment, that's the longest sentence I've ever heard him say. And I didn't get the feeling it was a lucky guess.
He knew. And I wanted to know how—right now.
"But you won't end up going to any of them."
"I won't?" I asked without thinking, thinking of a way to beat him up after class.
He hooked his fingers under the seat of my chair, dragging me closer to him. Not sure if I should scoot away and punch his face, or do nothing and feign boredom, I chose the latter.
He said, "Even though you'd thrive at all three schools, you scorn them for being a cliché of achievement. Passing judgment is your third biggest weakness."
"And my second?" I said with quiet rage. Who was this guy? Was this some kind of disturbing joke?
"You don't know how to trust. I take that back. You trust—just all the wrong people."
"And my first?" I demanded.
"You keep life on a short leash."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're scared of what you can't control."
That's it. I shot up, gripping the collar of his shirt and raising a fist to punch his face.
"Son of a-" I was interrupted by the coach's damn whistle. I narrowed my eyes at the coach.
"What?" I hissed.
"Already beating him up? I thought it would take you an hour…now sit down!" he demanded. I let Fang go and sat back down. I gripped the pen, glaring daggers at coach. I didn't even notice when the pen snapped in half. I calmed down after what seemed like forever.
"Do you sleep naked?" he asked. That did it. I punched his stomach, causing him to let out an oof and fall back. Coach blew his whistle.
"You two done!?" shouted Coach.
"No!" I shouted back, ready to kick Fang in the ribs. Coach stopped me.
"Unless you want detention I suggest you stop!" hissed the coach. I rolled my eyes and sat back down.
"You okay?" asked coach to Fang. Fang nodded and sat back in his seat. After some time, he began asking questions again.
"Ever been to a shrink?"
"No," I lied. The truth was, I was in counseling with the school psychologist, Dr. Henry. It wasn't by choice, and it wasn't something I liked to talk about.
"Done anything illegal?" he teased.
"No." That wasn't a lie. I mean yeah I'm a badass, but doing something illegal? That's just something I would not do. "Why don't you ask me something normal? Like … my favorite kind of music?"
"I'm not going to ask what I can guess."
"You do not know what the type of music I listen to or who I listen to."
"Ramones and you like old rock and roll. I bet you play … bass guitar?" He said it like he'd pulled the guess out of thin air.
"Wrong." Another lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin. Who was he really? If he knew I played the bass guitar, what else did he know? I also write songs but not so much…
"What's that?" Fang tapped his pen against the inside of my wrist. Instinctively I pulled away.
"A birthmark."
"Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal, Max?" His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him laughing. "Parents married or divorced?"
"I live with my mom."
"Where's dad?"
"My dad passed away last year." I swallowed the lump in my throat. I closed my eyes tightly and let out a long sigh, then opened them again.
"How did he die?"
I flinched. "He was—murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don't mind."
There was a count of silence and the edge in Fang's eyes seemed to soften a touch. "That must be hard." He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Fang was on his feet, making his way toward the door.
"Really? I didn't even get nothing on you!" I called to him. He turned back and walked toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking all the time questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking like I didn't know how to open my mouth.
At last I said, "Like hell I'll call you, nimrod." Smooth, Max. Smooth.
He grinned and was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me on purpose? So I'd fail? Did he think one flashy grin would redeem him? Yes, I thought. Yes, he did.
"I won't call!" I called after him. "Not—ever!"
"Have you finished your column for tomorrow's deadline?" It was Nudge. She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. "I'm thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning."
"My new partner," I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Fang. He had an annoyingly confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded T shirts and a cowboy hat. Fang wore neither. He was a dark Levi's , dark henley , dark boots kind of guy.
"The senior transfer? Guess he didn't study hard enough the first time around. Or the second." She gave me a knowing look. "Third time's a charm."
"He's a total weirdo. He knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said, 'Ramones and old rock and roll.' " I did a poor job of mimicking his low voice.
"Lucky guess?"
"He knew…other things."
"Like what?"
I let go of a sigh. He knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. "Like how to get under my skin," I said at last. "I'm going to tell Coach he has to switch us back."
"Go for it. I could use a hook for my next eZine article. 'Tenth Grader Fights Back.' Better yet, 'Seating Chart Takes Slap in the Face.' Mmm. I like it," she said, miling to the air.
At the end of the day, I was the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my demand to rethink the seating chart. It appeared I was stuck with Fang.
For now.
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