DEDICATED TO: MangaSockAttack, BlackVenom, and MCRDegrassi217!

I AM EXTREMELY AGGRAVATED WITH JAMES PATTERSON. I MEAN, SERIOUSLY? THE VOICE'S IDENTITY DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE AT ALL, AND NEVERMORE'S PLOTLINE IN GENERAL HAS THE SUBSTANCE OF A C+ LEVEL FANFICTION. GAHHHHHHH.

The weekend flew by, with me learning to navigate on crutches and Mom standing worriedly nearby as I unhappily drank the little cups of medicine James prescribed for me.

One in the morning, one at night. The liquid was thick and clear, and tasted faintly sweet with that familiar cough syrup tang. I hated taking this medicine, no matter how good it was for my ankle. It made me feel weak and tired after drinking, which I did not appreciate when trying to crutch around everywhere. I felt ridiculously drained all weekend long, lounging about in my house in sweats and a messy ponytail, flicking through the TV and catching up on the loads of assignments my teachers had decided I direly needed in my already hectic schedule.

Ah, that's the life.

And to make it worse, when I got to school on Monday, backpack dutifully slung over my shoulders and crutches in use, guess which two of my favorite people were making out by the front parking lot?

"Whyyyyy?" I groaned, crutching quickly past Nudge and Dylan. Nudge's eyes flew open and she hastily pushed off of Dylan's chest, but Dylan only lazily pressed another kiss on her nose before disentangling himself.

"Hi Max," Nudge squeaked, smoothing her hair down.

"Good morning," Dylan added cheerfully, smiling in greeting.

I only shook my head and moved on, wondering how many more times I was going to run into this couple publically shoving their tongues in each other's mouths. It was nauseating to see Nudge together with Dylan. Positively nauseating. She deserved so much better than him.

For example, Danny Armstrong.

With that lovely start to my day, it was only possible for it to get better, right?

Luckily, my positive thinking held through for once in my short, pessimistic life, and I actually made it to Miss James' homeroom to find that Lissa was nowhere in sight. Finally, a blessing. I fell into my chair, setting the horrid crutches awkwardly to the side as I pulled my backpack off. "I hate Mondays," I muttered, sprawling over the desk and burying my face in my arms. When could I go back to sleep again?

"How attractive," A voice teased beside me. I didn't even spare Fang a glance, simply groaning in response as he settled into his chair. "I take it you still aren't in top physical condition?" he continued pleasantly, ignoring my grumbling.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I muttered, finally rolling to the side to glare at him out of one eye. "Hence the crutches? I hate your dad's medicine. It sucks. A lot."

Fang shrugged, yawning slightly as he glanced up at the board. "I'll inform him of your dazzling reviews," he replied. "Have you seen Iggy this morning?"

"Nah, I was too busy being joining him in blindness by witnessing Nudge and Dylan's PDA," I grumbled. "What about him?" I sighed as morning announcements crackled on. Luckily, Lissa was still absent, even though everyone else in class had already filed in. There was one good thing about my day, thank the lord.

Fang frowned a little. "He's acting weirdly," was his only, vague remark.

"How so?" I yawned, digging my face back into my arms. I was so tired… and my back was really sore. It had been aching ever since I started using the crutches, and it was really starting to get to me… Maybe this was karma for fibbing to Fang at the doctor's office and saying I was frowning because of back pain caused by my crutches.

Damn.

"He's avoiding your sister, for one," Fang informed me, poking at my shoulder. "Wake up Max, this is serious," he reprimanded. "Iggy was head over heels for Ella last week, and now he's acting like he doesn't want to see her ever again."

I straightened up, somewhat alarmed by this. I hadn't noticed anything off with Iggy and my sister since Ella's little spaz out during our Cripple Crew meeting at the soccer game on Thursday, but I had been more than a little preoccupied since then. Now that I thought about it, actually, Ella had been acting a little down in the dumps over the weekend. Was it because of Iggy? "What's up with that?" I asked Fang. "He suddenly doesn't like her anymore?"

"I don't know what happened," Fang confessed, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

"When did this really even start?" I asked, cocking my head to the side as I thought. "They had their date, and Ella was overjoyed afterwards, so I doubt anything went wrong then."

"Iggy was over his head in bliss," Fang agreed, a hint of a smirk sidling onto his face. "He wouldn't stop talking about it." He paused, the smirk instantly disappearing. "Until, now that is," Fang concluded.

"What happened after that that could have made him act like this?" I demanded. This was starting to seriously confuse me. "Did she do something to make him mad?"

"I don't know," Fang retorted, giving me a look. "That's why I was asking you."

"Well we need to get to the bottom of this," I decided firmly. "Who has first period with him that we can have talk to him?"

"Well, Gazzy does, but…" Fang hesitated, his brow furrowing again.

"But what?" I asked, somewhat dreading the answer. "Has he mortally injured himself again? Broke his knee? Fractured his leg? Got a concussion? Oh no, is he out for the season!?"

"No," Fang shot down all of my morbid suggestions with a single word. "He's just not in a very good mood either," he finished, somewhat anticlimactically in my opinion.

"Gazzy has been acting dreary for days," I moaned, my head slumping to rest back down on the desk. "Do we have any friends who aren't so dramatic?"

Fang cocked his head to the side contemplatively. "Iggy's avoiding Ella, Gazzy is PMSing, Nudge is dating Dylan, Terra is preoccupied because Gazzy's in a mood, and you're acting all weird because you're high off of meds," he concluded. "Nah, we're screwed."

"I'm not weird," I denied indignantly.

"You look like you're dead and you just used the word 'dreary' in serious conversation," Fang informed me matter of factly. "Weirdo."

I waved away his evidence. "What about you?" I demanded. "You don't get to be the sane one in our group."

"Oh no, I'm the one who's insane enough to want to put up with you," Fang teased, brushing his hand over mine. I smiled involuntarily at the gesture, my fingers curling to catch his.

"You seem to enjoy it enough," I retorted, grinning cheekily at him.

"Ella is paying me," Fang explained airily, nodding superiorly. "Ten bucks a week."

"Only ten? What a rip off," I mumbled, rolling my eyes. Fang snorted, but didn't comment. The announcements clicked off within a minute, and as the bell rang we both rose to head to science. "So Gazzy is out for asking Iggy what his problem is," I continued, going back to the immediate problem at hand. "Don't you have English with Iggy second period?"

Fang nodded. "Yeah, I'll try to talk to him again, but the last few attempts didn't go so well," he admitted. "He's just silent and moody."

"So he's impersonating you," I cracked. Fang just raised an eyebrow coolly at me, and I continued on without any acknowledgement of my hilarious wit. "We should probably figure out what's up with Gazzy as long as we're going to be playing therapist to everyone," I decided. "I'll talk to Iggy in history fifth period if you can't get anything out of him."

"And I'll talk to Gazzy third period," Fang added. "I have history with him."

"And if Gazzy won't say anything to you either I'll see what I can do in fourth period English," I finished. I grinned at Fang, suddenly satisfied with how well-organized we were being. "Hey, we're good at this," I remarked. "Maybe we should see if we can get paid for doing it."

Fang rolled his eyes. "You want to hire us out as mercenary therapists?" he asked skeptically.

"We could totally pull it off," I argued earnestly as we turned the corner to science. "Come on, it's a legitimate idea!"

"Yeah, you really are high off those meds," Fang muttered. He disappeared into Mr. Lundom's classroom before I could plead my case for my sanity, and I had no choice but to follow him inside. Obviously he didn't know a high caliber moneymaking idea when he heard one. Our plan with Iggy and Gazzy was bound to have them coughing up some information sooner or later.

Our master plan was promptly ruined as soon as I was supposed to put my role into action.

I stepped into fourth period English, revved and ready to confront Gazzy and demand to know why he was acting so moody. I had even procured some bribery items (parmesan goldfish- for some reason Gazzy adored them) and coerced Gazzy's usual desk mate, a freckly boy named Kevin, into switching seats with me for the day. Everything was going according to plan…

"Hey Gaz," I chirped cheerfully, grinning at him as he stood beside his desk.

Gazzy shot me a suspicious look. "Max? What are you doing in Kevin's seat?" he asked warily.

"Nothing. I just wanted to talk to my favorite forward buddy," I replied flippantly. "Are you gonna stand there all day?"

Gazzy stared at me for another few seconds, obviously wracking his mind for reasons why I would be doing this. He apparently came up blank, because he just shrugged and slung his backpack to the floor, slouching into the seat beside me. "Are those parmesan goldfish?" he asked, his blue eyes lighting up like a child's as he spotted my snack.

Perfect. "Why yes, they are," I confirmed, pretending to act surprised. "Want some?"

The bag was snatched instantly from my hand. Gazzy pulled it open and stuck his hand in instantly, shoveling a handful of fishies into his mouth. "You're not getting this back," Gazzy informed me thickly. "I've had an extremely stressful time lately, and I need goldfish."

Yes, yes! This was going swimmingly, all thanks to my little goldfish. Hehe. "What do you mean by stressful?" I asked innocently, flipping open my binder and looking away from him so as to seem casually unconcerned. Gazzy would spill more than he intended if he didn't think I was paying much attention, this I knew.

"Well, Dylan is kinda pissing me off," Gazzy admitted, sighing slightly as he stuffed another nine goldfish into his maw. "He's grossing me out with all of his PDA on Nudge. And he keeps trying to suck up to everyone, with his 'turquoise eyes' and 'sweet personality'," Gazzy quoted sarcastically. "Gag me."

Now this was going somewhere. I was so bragging to Fang about my expertise in being a therapist. You could just call me Dr. Ride. "So Dylan's antics are the only thing bugging you?" I queried, flipping through my notes. "You seemed kind of off lately."

Gazzy opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated slightly. And with that hesitation came the huge disturbance in my excellent sleuthing of Gazzy's problems.

"Max, you've been called to the counselor's office," Ms. Niota informed me from the front of the room. My head snapped up from my carefully innocent studying of my essay notes, and I stared at her incredulously.

"What?" I asked, my mind whirling. I couldn't leave now! Gazzy was about to tell me what he was so upset about!

"Go to Mr. Reynolds' office," Ms. Niota repeated, looking at me skeptically. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, not at all ma'am," I murmured, internally groaning as I hauled myself out of my chair and onto my crutches. Richie had such horrible timing. I would need to have a serious talk with him about pulling me out of classes other than history. "Later, Gaz. We'll continue this conversation, right?"

Gazzy avoided my eyes, staring down at his desk and continuing to shovel goldfish into his mouth. "Yeah, whatever Max," he muttered.

Mission: failed.

"Max, come in," Richie greeted me when I finally made my way to his office. His head still bent diligently over his laptop, but when my crutches clicked on the floor as I started forward he looked up immediately. Richie's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What happened to your foot?" he asked, sounding concerned.

I crutched my way over to my chair, settling myself into its cushions before answering. "Sprained my ankle playing soccer," I replied. "Nothing serious."

"Okay then," Richie said hesitantly. He peered down at my wrapped ankle, obviously wondering if he should say anything further on my injury.

I decided to prompt him a little. After all, I was curious to know why he had called me out of English class. Usually he always took Iggy out of history, and had told me he would do the same for me. I wouldn't have been complaining of course— English wasn't exactly my forte, and MLA formatting was never exactly a scintillating topic in my opinion— if I had not been in the midst of an incredibly important mission to dig up all of Gazzy's secret reasons for his moodiness. "So why did you call me here? To talk about my ankle?" I asked, setting my backpack and crutches down on the floor beside me.

Richie immediately stopped looking at my ankle, instead lifting his gaze seriously to my face. Uh oh. "Max, the first day I met you, you told me you didn't have anger management problems and that you didn't talk to therapists after one talked to you about your dad leaving," Richie started, his brown eyes serious. I stiffened slightly, wondering where this could be headed. Nowhere good, obviously.

Richie continued, his eyes flicking between me and his computer screen. "But now I look up your file, and it turns out that those were both total lies." He clicked his mouse for emphasis, looking thoroughly perplexed. "Why?"

I fidgeted restlessly in my seat. Richie was cool, as far as guidance counselors went, but I wasn't exactly ready to share my entire past with him. I had already told Fang the story about Mike yesterday, and I wasn't exactly feeling ready to divulge any more secrets with anyone else right now. "I'm a compulsive liar?" I offered half-heartedly.

"Max."

"I don't like to reveal my whole life with total strangers," I replied carefully. Richie obviously was not going to be satisfied with silly answers. "So my apologies if I wasn't going to tell you about my childhood problems the moment I met you."

Richie nodded, accepting my words as the truth. And it was the truth. After all, why would I have told him about my violent tendencies from fifth grade with zero prompting in the midst of a discussion on Iggy's blindness?

"So would you like to tell me now?" Richie asked, locking my gaze in his.

"Not particularly," I answered truthfully, staring levelly back at him. "No use in picking at scabs, right?"

"These scabs need to be picked, though," Richie informed me firmly. "It appears to me that these issues were never fully resolved." He paused, a wry little half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Or if you're still going with the scab metaphor, they aren't healed over," he added.

"Trust me, I'm perfectly fine," I assured him. I stared the guidance counselor straight in the eye, willing him to believe me. Richie looked at me skeptically in return, and I scowled. "What? It's the truth!" I insisted. "It might not have been the truth yesterday, but it is now!"

"I'm sorry Max, but some of your acts recently have shown otherwise," Richie said seriously, leaning forward and resting his elbows on two of the few clear spots on his cluttered desk. "Those black moods you get into, running the track to the bone, hitting Lissa," he listed off. "There have been repeated incidents."

I frowned again, narrowing my eyes suspiciously at him. "How do you know about my moods and running?" I accused. That was weird. What did Richie do all day, stalk me?

He just smiled. "Because my window looks out onto the track," he explained, waving towards his window. I glanced over, and sure enough there was a wide window letting in sunlight directly across the room from his desk. It did show off a nice view of the track and athletic field, and I could very clearly see kids in their PE classes running laps.

Okay, so he had an alibi on that one. What about the moods?

"And about your little tiffs," Richie continued, as if reading my mind, "teachers gossip, you know. Ms. James was remarking on how you had stormed into homeroom on occasion with the most awful aura surrounding you, when usually you were pleasant enough."

"That's creepy," I informed him unabashedly. "Teachers gossiping about their students' moods?"

"We also discuss Teen Wolf and The Hunger Games," Richie replied airily.

I ignored his commentary. "So if I ever discover that I have a stalker, I'll know it was you, right?"

A muscle in Richie's cheek twitched suddenly, and I stared at him suspiciously. "Of course not Max," he replied, a beat too late. "I'm here exactly to prevent that from happening to you."

"I thought you were here to talk to me about my 'unresolved issues' that need to 'heal over'," I retorted, leaning back comfortably in my chair.

"That's only a cover story," he deadpanned. "And now that you've reminded me…" Richie grinned wickedly as I groaned. He tossed me a donut in sympathy, pulling one from the never ending stash beneath his desk. "I want to hear about what other therapists have talked to you about involving your father."

"Sorry Richie, no can do," I replied instantly, pulling up a falsely bright smile as I bit into my powdered donut. "I can tell you why I got in a fight with Lissa though. That's because she was being a bitch about my boyfriend. And about those moods I get, that's just some weird quirk that I've always had, some sort of genetic defect I guess. But you know what you could do for me? Figure out why Iggy is avoiding my sister."

Richie smiled suddenly, leaning forward across his desk. "Ah, I sense a negotiation!" he crowed. "I already know why Iggy is avoiding Ella!"

"You do? What is it?" I demanded incredulously, sitting bolt upright in my chair. Had Iggy vented to Richie about Ella? What did he know?

"Ah ah ah Max, I can't tell you," Richie tutted. "Confidentiality of all students." I groaned and slumped back into my chair at his annoying morals. "However…" Richie continued, his eyes amused as he watched me. "My tongue might slip if you happen to mention to me what I want to know… a little trade off, hmm?"

"You're dastardly, Reynolds," I muttered, scowling as I crossed my arms. I really needed to know what was up with Iggy, and for some reason I had a sinking feeling that Fang was not going to scrounge up any information from the blind boy himself. Richie might be my only chance. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Sweet victory," Richie gloated, smirking as he pulled his laptop closer to him, hands poised to type. "Now Max, I'm going to ask you only a few simple questions.

"How many different places have you lived in?"

"Eight different states, lots of different towns,"I said nonchalantly, swiping my hair out of my eyes.

"List them."

"Colorado, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Nebraska, Ohio, Florida, Nevada, and here," I reeled off, counting on my fingers. Yep, that was all of them. These were much easier questions than I expected. This was a simple trade for the information on Iggy's sudden avoidance of my sister.

"Who are your biological parents?"

I swallowed hard for a moment, frowning deeply at the thought of my dad. "Valencia Martinez and Jeb Batchelder," I bit out at last.

"Where were you born?"

"Colorado," I muttered, still stinging a bit from having to say his name out loud. "Why are you asking me all these dumb questions? Don't you have these answers on file somewhere?" I demanded.

Richie didn't answer, simply staring at his computer screen as he asked yet another question. "How many problems have you had with anger management, Max?"

"I don't have anger management problems," I replied stubbornly. If he wasn't going to answer my question, why should I answer his?

"Max, we both know that's a lie," Richie informed me, his eyes finally flicking up from the screen. "Tell me how many."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I repeated. "You must have the wrong information or someth-"

"I know what you did to that boy in fifth grade, Max," Richie informed me suddenly, his eyes serious. My words died in my throat, shocked at his bluntness. He didn't just stop there though. Richie kept going, full speed ahead. "And I know that there have been other cases like that with you as well. I just don't know how many, since only a few are recorded on your files, the main one being the case of Mike B-"

"Don't say his name!" I yelled, my hands clenching on the armrests of my chair. "I don't care about why Iggy's mad anymore! I'm not answering your questions." I took a deep breath, trying to focus my furiously pounding vision as I stood up. "I'm going back to class."

"Max, sit down," Richie ordered.

"Make me," I spat back. Why did I ever think he was cool? I did not like these questions. Not one bit. He was trying to command me to do what I didn't want to? Who did Richie Reynolds think he was?

"Are you aware that about 90% of the answers you gave to my questions are dead wrong, Max?"

I stopped, turning to glare at him. "What are you talking about?" I snarled.

Richie was unfazed, holding my angry gaze with a steady stare straight back. "You don't know all of your history, Max," he replied calmly. "You weren't born in Colorado, for one."

"And why would you know that?" I demanded. "I didn't know you until this year."

Richie didn't reply immediately. Instead, he sighed a world weary sigh and idly plucked a donut from the seemingly ever present box on his desk. "Do you know Max Baxter?" he asked instead, irritating me further with his irrelevance.

"Who the hell is Max Baxter?" I spat, scowling. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in the chair. Richie was not even remotely close to my good side at this moment. If he was wise he would tread carefully with his next reply.

"He goes here," Richie answered calmly. "Max knows who you are, so I assumed you knew him too. He's a soccer player too, but he's not on the Cromwell team. Tall, grey eyes, red hair-"

"Wait," I interrupted, my eyes widening on their own accord. "Max II?"

Richie raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "So you do know him?" Richie confirmed.

"Yeah," I agreed, my eyebrows furrowing again at the thought of the redheaded boy. "He was nice to me when I first got here, but then we had a falling-out. Why are you even bringing him up anyway?"

"I was asking you about Mike for a reason," Richie replied carefully, his eyes locked on mine. "Max Baxter - Max II, you called him- is Mike's foster brother."

Bam.

Wait, what's that stuff again? That stuff I need to survive? Oh yeah, oxygen. Isn't that supposed to be in my lungs?

Well, not anymore.

I don't remember much of what Richie tried to tell me before he finally gave up and sent me back to English class. In fact, I don't remember much of any of the remaining classes I had before lunch. Learning a mind blowing, lung crushing, completely unexpected piece of information can do that to a girl.

Max II was Mike's brother. Mike's brother. How the hell was I supposed to deal with that? I had almost killed his brother in the fifth grade! And now I had been treating him like dirt. How's that for compassion?

Oh God oh God oh God oh God-

The lunch bell rang at last, and I automatically stood up from my seat next to Dylan. Iggy had been called out of history to go to Richie's office again, so Ms. Hell had once more deemed it fitting to sit me next to Blondie while my true partner was absent. Apparently Dylan had been trying to talk to me or something the whole class period, but seeing as I was kinda busy with my mental breakdown I had never answered him. He seemed to be steaming slightly over that, considering his stormy expression and unusually grumpy aura. Whatever. He could go make out with Nudge now and pep himself up again. I had some serious issues to deal with right here.

It figures that right after I've dug my exceedingly painful past out of its well-earned grave is the time when Richie decides to drop this bomb on me. Memories of Mike and Jack, Darla and Omega, they were all newly fresh in my mind. The confusion, the fighting, the hurt, the betrayal, the blood-

If I didn't stop this soon I really was going to be going through a mental breakdown.

"Hey, Max," Fang said suddenly, materializing next to me. It was proof of my numbness that I hadn't even fully realized that my legs (well, actually my arms, since I was still on crutches) were carrying me automatically toward the cafeteria, or that I hadn't even reacted to Fang's special popping-out-of-nowhere trick. I simply kept walking, staring straight ahead as Fang fell into pace beside me. "So I was talking to Gazzy and I got nowhere, but I managed to get out of Iggy that he's been feeling awkward about Ella because of the whole age gap thing." Fang actually smiled a little, apparently proud of his accomplishment in prying Iggy's jaws open. All I could think was that if I had known Iggy was going to tell Fang his problems in the first place, I never would have had that horrible conversation with Richie. Damn. "So," Fang continued, oblivious to my thoughts, "we can take that information and work out a way to make him see-"

Fang broke off suddenly, and I glanced at him slightly, wondering what had caused him to stop talking. He wasn't looking at me anymore. Instead, he was glaring across the cafeteria, muscles tensed and face set in a hard mask. "That bastard," he growled. "Why does Nudge like him at all? I'm going to have to do something about this. He can't act like that while he's dating my friend."

I realized dimly that something significant must be happening on the other side of the room, but I couldn't bring myself to care too much. After all these weeks of trading insults and hate with Max II, I find out that I'm eternally indebted to his family for their not pressing charges and suing my mom for my attack on Mike all those years ago. They had simply taken their bloody, broken adopted child and allowed my mom to pack up and flee the state with me in tow. I had gone berserk on Mike, and they hadn't even bothered to visit and scold me for harming their foster son. And now… Mike was somehow Max's foster brother. How the hell did Mike's foster brother get all the way across the country and enrolled in the same school as me? What kind of cruel fate was that?

"Max?" Fang asked, apparently realizing that I wasn't joining in on his rant, and instead spacing out alarmingly.

"Mmm?" I murmured back, closing my eyes slightly as another wave of guilty horror washed over me. I felt like I was a separate person, watching my body drown from a distant shore.

Fang reached out and enclosed my shoulder in his hand, making me open my eyes and look blearily up at him. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, tugging me gently closer to him and making me crutch forward in order to stay balanced.

"I don't know," I found myself whispering back. Stepping forward, I tucked my chin down and dug my head into his shoulder. Fang let his hand slip off my shoulder and folded me carefully into his arms instead, holding me steady in the storm of hurt and confused guilt.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

And he just let it go, holding me against his chest in the middle of the cafeteria. I could feel his breath on my neck, and the rhythm of the warm air pressing against my skin helped to steady my breathing as I thanked every deity I could think of that Fang was mine.

When school let out that day, Fang didn't let me out of his sight. We both collected our stuff from our lockers, with me mentally thanking the deities once more that Lissa was absent today, and consequently our little locker corner was deserted. Once that task was over with, I was planning on walking with Fang out to the soccer field and watching the Lynxes practice. Even if I couldn't play, I really had nothing better to do and I could always learn something from just watching.

We had just made it to the front of the school when we were met with a sight that made me stop in my tracks.

Max II, stepping forward and draping his arms around a familiar blond girl as he gave her a greeting kiss. She giggled and smiled as he said something to her, fluttering her heavily mascaraed lashes.

"Is that the Barbie?" Fang asked incredulously, seeing where my line of sight was headed.

I nodded dumbly, unable to do anything but stare at the odd couple less than twenty feet in front of us. The Barbie and Max II were together? What were they doing, having a Let's-See-Who-Can-Injure-Max-The-Most club meeting? If they were, Barbie was winning. She had sprained my ankle, whereas Max II had only given me a black eye.

By now, Max II had caught sight of us, standing there frozen while students milled all around us. "Hey Maximum," he called out, purposely ignoring Fang. "I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Frida."

Frida? Now why did that sound familiar?...

The Barbie smiled poisonously at me, her eyes flitting over my crutches and bandaged ankle. "Oh dear, I didn't hurt you that badly on Thursday, now did I?" she purred.

Anger suddenly sparked through me, instantly dissipating the fog of guilty despair that had plagued me since my chat with Richie. Who did this bitch think she was? "Oh not at all," I replied saccharinely. "This is all just for fun. You know, crutches are really an excellent upper body workout."

"Oh really?" Barbie/Frida asked, her immaculately plucked eyebrows rising. "I might have to try it sometime then." Sarcasm dripped from her honeyed voice.

"I'd be happy to supply you with a reason to get crutches," I offered.

"Now, girls," Max II cut in smoothly. "Stop with the veiled threats. Frida obviously didn't mean to sprain your ankle, Max. In fact, she wanted to apologize for the incident, so since her school had a holiday today she came right after our classes ended to see you."

"Max doesn't need an apology," Fang interrupted, stepping slightly in front of me and crossing his arms. I noticed Frida's attention switch instantly from me to Fang, and scowled as her sugary sweet expression instantly switched to something far more seductive and flirty. It wasn't even a bad flirty face, like Lissa's- Frida was very skilled in the art of seduction, it appeared. I couldn't even gag obnoxiously as she crept minutely closer to Fang. Her actions were very stealthy, not obvious at all to Fang, but horribly obvious to his girlfriend who was standing right next to him.

I fought the urge to slap Frida silly. No more violence, no more violence, no more violence.

Meanwhile, Max II's face was darkening as Fang spoke. "No one asked your opinion, Fang," he retorted sharply. "It's not your place to decide if Frida gets to give an apology or if Max accepts it."

I snorted. "I don't need an apology," I confirmed, agreeing wholeheartedly with Fang. An apology from Frida? That would only make me hate her more, frankly. I just wanted her to get away from me (and Fang) as soon as possible. Preferably taking Max II with her.

Oh God- Max II was Mike's foster brother. I was acting so awful right now- how could I do that to him, when I had harmed his brother so badly? My conscience slammed into my heart so hard that it ached, and I instantly fell silent. "I'm sorry, Max," I said quietly instead, turning to crutch away, "But I'm perfectly fine without your girlfriend's apology. Thank you for offering though."

A strange, half-satisfied, half-disappointed expression flitted briefly across Max II's face, but was quickly replaced with a sneer. "Whatever, Max," he scoffed. "I guess you don't believe in apologies, do you? You never did apologize to Mike, did you?"

My heart tore at the taunt, hurting even more because it was the truth. After our last, bloody meeting, I hadn't seen Mike again before moving away from Florida. There was no chance to apologize, and honestly, even if there had been, I would've had trouble taking advantage of it. "Bye Max, bye Frida," I mumbled instead, quickly turning away and moving as fast as the crutches could take me.

Max II's harsh, mocking laughter followed me as I fled.

"Max, Max! Wait up!" Fang jogged to catch up with me, his face furrowed in a frown as he glanced backwards at Frida and Max II. "What happened back there?"

I swallowed thickly, debating whether to tell Fang what Richie had told me. Should I?

"Max," Fang repeated softly. He touched my arm, making me stop in my tracks.

Of course I should tell him. I took a deep breath, then looked straight into his black eyes. "Max II is Mike Baxter's brother."

Confusion, recognition, dawning understanding.

"Oh," Fang said finally, staring at me with wide eyes.

"Yeah," I managed to choke out. "So I guess this-" I gestured to my sprained ankle, my healing black eye, "-is only retribution. I deserve anything Max II dishes out to me. I nearly killed his brother."

"Max-" Fang tried to interject.

"Why can't I get away from the past anywhere?" I continued, my voice strangled. "When will bad memories stop following me around?" Mike, Sam, Bridgit, even that one nasty school in Ohio- I couldn't shake off the awful things I had done and the cruel things that had happened to me and those around me.

"The past is what makes us who we are," Fang said gently, reaching out a hand to touch my cheek.

I jerked my head to the side, avoiding his fingers and his gaze. "Then," I said, my voice trembling, "I don't know if I really want to be Max Ride."

Someone's POV

"Is the operative making any progress in getting closer to her? I mean, she obviously still is infatuated with that boyfriend of hers," the boss pointed out, sounding annoyed.

I winced, fully aware of my connection to both 'her' and 'that boyfriend'. "The operative thought that approaching her through a relationship with her friend might be a smart move, but since it has proven unsuccessful, has been taking lengths to start getting out of the relationship."

"He needs to make progress now."

"I am aware, sir, but the operative is doing his best."

The boss sighed impatiently. Fingernails tapped in frustration, a sure sign of a thinning temper.

"What about the plan with the Baxter boy?" the boss asked, fingernails still tapping.

Maxwell stepped forward at this point, eager to share his information. "She is fully convinced that Mike was always a part of my family" he explained, his chest puffed up importantly. "And if we should bring him to meet her again, I'm sure that it will be a crushing blow to any confidence in herself, as well as intensely distracting her, sir."

The boss thought about it for a moment, the gears working in all of our heads as we tried to deduce whether this might be a smart move. "We will think on it, Maxwell," the boss finally decided. "An excellent, idea."

Maxwell beamed.

"And you, Doctor," the boss added, turning to me again. "Make sure your part in this is going according to plan. We don't want anything unfortunate to happen if you were to mess up your extremely important role in this, now would we?"

I thought of my family, and hardened my resolve. This was for the best. "Of course not, sir."

"Good. Now make sure that the other operative breaks it off with that other silly girl soon. It's a waste of time."

My jaw tightened at the boss' careless dismissal of the innocent girl's feelings, but I knew better than to think that her emotions would be considered in any way important. "Yes sir," I said simply.

I couldn't wait for my part in all of this to be over.

SORRY SORRY SORRY TIMES A MILLION. Highschool SUCKS. I HAVEN'T GOTTEN MORE THAN EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP IN LITERALLY MONTHSSSSS.

I've been wondering for awhile… has anyone noticed anything about my writing? Like for instance, I avoid using the word 'said' as much as possible, an effect of my third grade teacher drilling 'Said is DEAD' into my HEAD for a year. Also, I absolutely despise and loathe the word chuckle. I hate it so so so so much it's not even funny. I have never, not once, used the word chuckle in my writing. If I ever use chuckle when writing about a particular character, you can guarantee they will turn out to be evil. Just an FYI.

Chuckle…. UGH. It just looks and sounds so gross…

And for some reason it really bugs me when people say 'orbs' instead of 'eyes'. Idk why, really. XD

~TMI~