Fang: A Maximum Ride Novel (20 page)

I feel like I’m going to HURL. Which, even if I wanted to do, I couldn’t do, because I haven’t eaten. I can’t even drag myself out of my room. And while I’d be able to muster the strength to roundhouse Fang until he begged for MERCY, I’d be mush around an Eraser. In fact, all I want to flipping do is lie on this bed with our old laptop and catch up on my Hulu. Apparently, being heartbroken is not leverage enough to get Nudge to give up the NEW computer, so I’m stuck with the old laptop.

But what to my wondering eyes should appear, the very moment I turn the thing on?

What did that stupid deserting crap-bag ex-boyfriend, ex-best friend with the most perfect stupid hair do? He DIDN’T delete his crap off the desktop before he fled my life and left me all alone. That’s what he did.

Do I open it?

Do I open it?

Of course I freaking open it!!!!!!

MaxProCon.doc

Unpostedblogs.doc

Chad, Africa

Hot, Hungry, and Thankful Not to Have HIV O’clock

Here we are in Africa, where the focus is not on us and our problems. It’s on the crippling injustice in the world. The GDP (“gross domestic product”—don’t ask me; just look it up!) of Chad is 16.1
billion
dollars. The GDP of the USA is 14.3
trillion
dollars. Chew on that.

It’s pretty overwhelming. What can I, in the tiny scope of one life, possibly do to make a lasting and large change in the world? I’m a bird kid and a borderline celebrity at this point … but still, I’m just a drop in the bucket.

I’m down tonight, so here I am blithering on like Nudge. Max is asleep, and so is everyone else. Strange. We bird kids don’t take sleep for granted, you know? Occasionally things chill out … but they never really chill out. We just forget how crazy everything is… .

Okay. The bottom line is that what Angel said scared the bejeezy out of me. There. I said it.

’Cause I’m going to die
“first”
and
“soon.”

I could string that sinister little mind-reading Shirley Temple up by her pinafores for her total lack of elaboration. Except Max about beat me to it.

I’m lucky. Somehow I got the “unable to visually emote” genetic modification. Because inside, when Angel said that, my blood froze and my bird bones ached.

So what’s her prediction worth anyway? Where does it come from? From a Voice, like Max’s? Doesn’t mean it’s right. We only assume it’s always going to be right, because it has the power to invade her brain and be so FLIPPING CREEPY. But creepy doesn’t mean all-powerful.

It’s like I’m trying to talk myself out of this. Of course we’re going to die. And it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. And it’s not going to be fun. Look at the life we lead.

Twelve hours ago were we not being shot at by crazy guys on camels with semiautomatic weapons?

That’s what I thought.

Crap.

Sigh.

Fly on,

Fang

I’m Not Telling, Colorado

The Day Before Our Birthday O’clock

So, we have on
The Gift List
:

Iggy
—Gory, gooey, blood-spattering audiobook on CD.
CHECK

Nudge
—584,395,004,981 fashion magazines.
CHECK

Gazzy
—Illustrated history of blowing crap up for eons.
CHECK CHECK

Angel
—Angel? A camera, a great gift for a smart, creative kid.
CHECK

Max
—…

Max
—… Roses? They die.
LAME

Max
—… Poetry? And she beats me up….
OW

Max
—… Jewelry?… Pretty?… Can’t be used (easily) as a weapon?

What could possibly be right for Max? That girl is fiercer than a rattlesnake. Pft. In fact, the first few times we kissed, I thought she was one. That girl was a regular old teeth-banger. (And they call
me
Fang.) Thank goodness she was genetically engineered to have good teeth. If she had braces, my gums would have been ground beef. But I wouldn’t care if she was the worst teeth-banger in a pool of every high school student on the planet. In fact, I like her more because of it.

Man, I don’t know. I’m really not sure. The secret to gifts is… ? Right, ask me, the fifteen-year-old (tomorrow) bird man. I know
everything
about gift giving. I learned in charm school.

I think the secret to a great gift is that it should be personal. It has to prove that you know and care about someone enough to know what she’d love. And I’m so dead.

I hope I made the right choice. That ring, I want it to mean something.

She’s going to think I’m the corniest guy on the planet.

Fly on,

Fang

Las Vegas, Nevada

We Won the Jackpot—If by Jackpot You Mean You’re Willing to
Deal with Exile—O’clock

Welcome to the funhouse, Faxness. You’ve arrived in fabulous Las Vegas, otherwise known as the most genetically modified city on the planet. Looks can be deceiving, folks. Unnatural bliss, ladies and gentlemen, unnatural, impossible bliss.

Last night Max and I arrived in Vacationland—and promptly proceeded to stuff as many corn nuts, funnel cakes, spumoni cones, sushi rolls, heroes, falafels, cheese steaks, burritos, and wasabi peas into our mouths as we could find.

So romantic, I know. But it was, though. It was awesome. It was about seventy-five degrees and crisp and dry out. It was perfect, walking down the streets, licking spumoni. The city was lit up like neon heaven.

But it was sad too. I thought that by going somewhere we’d blend in, we’d be able to escape. But the thing about Vegas is that it’s impossible, even for one second, to forget that this city is totally false. There’s even a
fake Paris
.

It reminds me that being here in Vacationland with Max, just being alone together doing outrageous fun things, that’s false too.

Or short-lived, anyway. How long did it take for Dr. HagenDoodie to find us? Less than twenty-four hours? Exactly.