THIS STORY BELONGS TO KEEPDREAMING93. Keepdreaming93 has decided to delete her account and has given me permission to post her story on my account. Everything was written by her with no input by me at all.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, nor the song "What The Hell," by Avril Lavigne, or Facebook.

Perfection

Chapter One: Max

All My Life, I've Been Good

but Now, Whoa, I'm Thinking "What The Hell"

I think that the only thing Nicholas Martinez and I have in common is the amount of time we each spend in the principal's office.

But even that's not too accurate, because being sent to the Principal's office has a negative connotation. And it is a negative thing in Nick's case, because he's a bad boy, and so he's sent there for things like graffiti, and pranks, and inappropriate things. I, however, am always in there for positive reasons. I'm Principal Rantowich's favorite student. He even gave me permission to address him by his first name, Frank. Not that I ever will, because that's highly inappropriate, but still, only I and the staff get that particular privilege. Thus, this confirms my thought that I am, in fact, his favorite student.

Of course I am, though. I'm the epitome of perfection—at least school-wise. My grades are absolutely spectacular, I am very organized, and very involved in the school. I'm school president, as well as president of the ecology club, the writing club, Yearbook Staff, and the debate team. There's really nothing that I could do to make me more perfect, as a student, because I'm there already.

There are some disadvantages of being so perfect, though. One being the lack of friends. But it doesn't matter, really. When you think about it, all the popular people, who have cute clothing and bad mouths, and lots of friends (e.g. Lissa Hart, Nick Martinez, Ella Wexler, James "Iggy" Martinez, Fang's brother, Courtney Boie, ect.) are the people who will more likely than not end up not going to college, having a child at an inappropriate age, and live off of welfare, while people like I will end up being successful and happy in my later years (not that I'm unhappy now).

So maybe not having friends isn't actually a disadvantage, after all. Less distractions from what's really important: school.

I don't get out of the house much, either. Sometimes, when reading people's Facebook status', and their Check-In's, I get a twang of jealousy, since I never go to parties or dances or anything, or to little get-togethers. I don't have enough time, with my stacked schedule. Really, I rarely have any time to eat, much less "hang out". It's pointless, anyway. Studying is what will get you anywhere, not "chilling with your peeps" (this will get you nowhere, also seems to make you cold) (cold, as in needing a sweater, not as in "cold" toward people or ideas).

So really, my life doesn't actually have disadvantages, when I think about it.

"God, I don't know what to with that boy," Frank tells me now (I only refer to him as Frank in my mind, not aloud).

"Gosh," I correct, and he nods. You see, I'm not actually religious, but I understand that there are people in the school that are, and using God's name in vain can be offensive. I sigh. "In all respect, Mr. Rantowich, why don't we—you—just expel him? What benefit is he to Ridgeville High? That's what you really need to consider. He comes in this office just as much as you do, he's constantly in trouble. And there are more than enough incidents marked on his record to get him expelled like that."

I emphasize that with a snap of my fingers (showing how easy/quick it would be to get Nicholas Martinez transferred to another school).

Frank sighs, running his hands down his face, and then he opens his eyes again and slides a file across his desk to me. With a curious look, I flip it open, and am met with many papers, on top being Nicholas' High School transcript. This is our senior year—he has three years worth of grades on file already.

Three years worth of perfect grades on file.

Literally, perfect. Not a flaw. There are AP courses on here, he's on my level of mathematics and sciences. Actually, he's on my level of everything. With his AP and Honors courses, he has a 5.0. A 5.0, just like me. He is in clubs. President of the Guitar Club, Captain of the Varsity soccer team, Founder of the Art Club, and Editor of the Newspaper. He was perfect, on paper. He was perfect.

No. No. NO.

"No," I whispered, then repeated it, "No."

This could not be happening.

"There—there has to be some mistake," I told Frank, voice low and trembling. "There is no way."

Frank leaned his elbows on the desk and gripped his hair. "There's no mistake, Maximum," he told me. "Of course we have to keep him here. He's perfect on record. He didn't miss one question on his CSTs all three years, nor the CASHEE. He's just as valuable to this school as you are."

Not one problem wrong?

Not one? Surely there was a mistake. Because I missed one (it was very tricky and deceiving). I only missed one.

My name is Maximum for a reason: maximum intelligence, maximum perfect grades, maximum club involvement. Maximum everything. I was the maximum amount of perfect that there could be in a child my age!

And perfect is only perfect if you're being perfect...alone.

~[*]~

I woke up the next morning feeling deflated, lost, and without energy. My phone beeped, telling me that it was time to take my run. I dragged myself over to my dresser and slipped on shorts and a tee shirt, put my hair into a neat ponytail, and turned on my iPod to a my morning play-list, which included songs to pump me up and get me wide awake, but this morning they were only bringing me down.

The beats were dead.

After a mile down the street, I recorded my time in my iPhone and turned around. When I entered my house at 5:45, just on time, I went upstairs and took my shower, but the water wasn't refreshing. Then I got dressed in my button up and jeans, my sweater, my converse. Each loop laced evenly. My schedule called for me to eat my cereal (with a great source of fiber), and after that, it was time for me to brush my teeth. At 6:40, it was time for me to drive to my zero period class. With my Tazo tea in hand, my flashcards and novel in my bag, I got into the car and drove.

I pulled up just in time with my schedule, right on time, just enough to get to my locker and get some extra studying time in for the English test first period (not that I needed it—I'd studied hard the previous night).

Calculus AP, a class that I normally thoroughly enjoy, since I have a talent in math, was very slow and tiring. I just wanted to get out of it. That's how depressed I was.

After the long class I went to my locker, and Nicholas happened to be in the bay there, talking with Lissa, his steady girlfriend since this summer (not that I'd been checking or anything). He was twirling a strand of her hair around his finger and had his other hand wrapped around her, resting on her butt. It wasn't appropriate, but that's not what I wanted to talk to him about. I wanted to talk to him about how he was sabotaging my life.

With determination, I slammed my locker shut and marched over to them. They were too wrapped up in each other to notice my presence until I was right there, stabbing one of my stubby nails into his chest, thus causing the two of them to break apart.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded with anger, and his dark eyes widened, eyebrows hiking up on his forehead. Lissa came closer, shoving me away from him so she could stand there.

"Um, talking to his girlfriend?" she guessed, looking at me evilly. "What are you doing?"

I didn't really care to talk with her—I was here for Nicholas. I turned toward him again. "You're ruining my life. Did you know, that on paper, you're just as valuable as me, even though you spend more time talking with your girlfriend and using drugs than studying, when that's what I spend almost all of my time doing? What are you trying to do here, Nicholas? What did I ever do to you?"

He gaped at me. Seconds passed before the silence was broken.

Lissa said, "His name's not Nicholas. It's Fang."

I ignored her.

Nicholas didn't say anything for awhile, then he finally argued, "I don't do drugs."

Honestly, I didn't care too much about his internal conflicts and addictions. He could use drugs all he wanted—I just wanted to know what he was doing with his grades.

"Just—whatever you're doing, you need to stop."

His eyes widened even further. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, you're good!" I shouted, smiling. "You're real good at innocence! Maybe you should join the drama club, as well as all of the other things that you're in just to ruin my plans!"

Lissa chose to say, "He shouldn't be in drama club. He's not even dramatic and exaggerative, he's down to earth. You seem to belong in a club for drama-addicts."

This confirmed my suspicions of Lissa Hart being dumb as a rock: she thought drama club was for people who were dramatic, as opposed to for actors. Also, exaggerative isn't a word.

Nicholas rolled his eyes subtly. I caught it, though.

"Look," he said to me, "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do anything to you."

But he did. And he knew it.

Lissa said, "Get lost."

I said, "I don't get lost. Ever." I have a GPS not only in my car, but also on my iPhone. And, after proving my point, I stalked away toward my English class, to get 100% on my test.

But really, I needed to do something about this huge problem.

~[*]~

At lunch, someone sat down at my table, smacking their tray on the empty seat across from mine, interrupting my essay writing on the topic of poetry, something that Mr. Banner, my English professor, assigned me to do specifically, for him to teach the class. It was very interesting (not to mention well-written), and I was very into it, so interrupting me instantly made me in a foul mood, before I even realized who it was.

But once I did, my mood was brought down lower.

Nicholas Martinez, my arch enemy.

In my room, there is a large cork board on the wall. Here are the names of people that I should remember for some reason, all written and pinned there, should I ever need to go back.

Marilyn Cosrow, Editor of the Anaheim Tribune.

Travis Smith, judge of the National U.S. Poetry Contest (who sent me $10,000 when I scored first place)

Dr. Harrison, highest paid psychiatrist

Mr. Barrack Obama, President of the United States

Etc.

And then I had their contact information, and any special notes.

Marilyn Cosrow, Editor of the Somerset Tribune

—MA_Cosrow . Yahoo . com

—256-4431 ext. 341

—Does not like grammatical errors, especially

—Takes three pumps of Hazelnut in her coffee

Travis Smith, judge of the National U.S. Poetry Contest (who sent me $10,000 when I scored first place)

—SMITHsonian005 () AOL . com

—Enjoys "dark" themes

—Lives in a 3 acre mansion off of Westridge

Dr. Harrison, highest paid psychiatrist

—Prefers tea over coffee (Lipton)

—Carter_Harrison () gmail . com

—Wife named Mary, beautiful, teaches at USC

—Daughter named Clarissa, talented ballerina and tap dancer

—Prefers to be addressed as Dr. C (in a slightly ghetto way)

Mr. Barrack Obama, President of the United States

—no personal contact information available

—Signed and handed me "The President's Award" for academic excellence

—Invited me for tea on May 3 2010 in regards to a (now published) biography on him

—His tea does not actually taste as good as it should

As of yesterday, this has been added:

Nicholas Joseph Martinez, arch enemy and threat to title of "best student" and "valedictorian"

—A.k.a "Fang" (a very stupid, unimportant, irrelevant nickname)

—More than perfect grade marks

—President of the Guitar Club

—Captain of the Varsity soccer team at Ridgeville High School, Anaheim, California

—Founder of the Art Club

—Editor of the Newspaper

—Dark brown eyes, black hair, long lashes

—6' 1", an estimated 165lbs.

—11 out of 10 on the "hotness" scale

—Fang_is_sexy () gmail . com

Just stating the facts, here. Anyway, he is now important enough to have his own place on my famous cork board of important people (important in a bad way).

Back to the present, Nicholas is sitting across from me, sliding into the seat across from my own, like he's suddenly allowed to sit there, without my permission. Glancing up from my laptop, I meet his eyes (see description above), and he has this little smirk on his mouth that tells me he knows something that I do not.

This rarely ever happens, with the exception of things pertaining to celebrities and movies.

Then he slides two pieces of paper over to me, stapled together. It does not even cross my mind that this could be my death wish when I first see it, but then I realize that it is, in fact, my death, on a sheet of paper, with a highlighted place for me to sign.

"Mr. Rodney recommended you," Nicholas tells me, not seeming to care at all that I am dying. "You're the best person to get me back on track. So, if you'll just sign...here...and here, that would be great. What days are best for you?"

I felt like I was going to throw up.

"I don't have to sign this," I informed him, not picking up the pen he passed me. "I won't sign it."

He tilted his head to the side. "Actually, you do. Mr. Rodney had such confidence in you, that you would do this, to help out a fellow student. Because you're just that involved, right? Why not take on one more thing to the bazillion things you do here?"

He got me there: rejecting this form was going to lower my reputation with Mr. Rodney.

But I had to weigh both sides: not tutoring him only had one negative consequence. But doing it had so many. He would waste my time. My IQ had a chance of being lowered. I would have less time to study. I would be helping the enemy. Having some sort of relationship with a boy who uses girls and does inappropriate things on campus, along with just getting in trouble so much that the bad boy blood could seep onto me, and I could become a bad, misbehaving child.

I signed the paper. I don't know why, I just did. I didn't even think about it before I reached out and scrawled out my signature. I didn't even think about it as Nicholas smirked, slid the paper back over to his side of the table, and left. I didn't even think about it as I continued writing my essay. I didn't even think about it for the rest of the day, until I got into my bedroom, sat down at my desk, and realized that I just sealed the deal—I was helping the enemy.

Then I screamed bloody murder.

I never even read the contract.

The number one thing to do regarding contracts, and I'd forgotten!

~[*]~

The next day, I had a mission. I loved these moods, when I was determined, because when I was determined, I always got it done. No matter what. And my mission for today was to:

a) Kill Nicholas

b) Read the contract

c) Un-sign it

Not particularly in that order, but you know what I mean.

Nicholas was sitting with his group of friends, sort of. All of the popular people, they sit at a few tables in their free time. Everyone was sitting there, and so was he, but it's like he wasn't, also. He was sitting on the grass, leaning against the seat part of the bench. Lissa was on top of the table, long, tan legs extended down, underneath a tiny dress. She was talking to a guy named Dominique Wolfe, and he had his hand on her thigh. Nicholas didn't seem to mind.

Ella and Nicholas' brother, Iggy, were flirting on the same table, him reaching out and tugging on a zipper on her shirt, one that ran from her collarbone down to the top of her jeans, one that, when opened, could expose all of her. She was hitting his hands away. Everyone else was doing whatever they were doing: talking, texting, laughing, flirting, annoying each other. But there was Nicholas (this is where I talk about how he wasn't really sitting with them), sitting on the grass, eyebrows scrunched together, pencil moving carefully down a notebook page.

With everyone else preoccupied, I managed to stand pretty close without anyone really saying anything (although I got a few curious glances) (Lissa was too involved in Dominique to shout anything), and I peered over his knees to the notebook. He was sketching. And he was good.

No, more than good. He was amazing.

It was some weird woman, with straight black hair and bright makeup, loose clothing (well, what clothing there was. One of her breasts was exposed, the other being covered by her hand.) I normally would of thought this crude of him—drawing naked girls, I mean—but it wasn't really. It was just good.

Suddenly the notebook snapped shut, and I stood face-to-face (or more accurately: looking up into the face of) a very hot, very angry Nicholas Martinez.

"Hey," he breathed, "Do you mind getting the fuck out of my business?"

Really? Did he really feel the need to use foul language? I was only curious!

Curiosity killed the cat.

It also killed the Maximum Ride.

Darn it.

"I'm sorry," I blurted, two words I rarely ever used, and never thought I'd use to him. "I was only curious. I didn't mean to invade your privacy."

"Yeah, well you did."

Everyone was staring, now. Not only the people in his group, but other people walking by. I watched Dominique look at Lissa, and her at him. There was definitely something going on there.

"Listen, just stay the hell away from me," he said, harshly knocking into my shoulder as he stormed by. There had to be something else with that picture, more than I thought. Was it his secret lover or something? Or, did he believe in angels? I didn't know.

"I wanted to see that contract!" I called after him. "I never got to read it!"

He spun around to face me, shoving the notebook into his bag. Then he dug around, came back to me, and gently opened my folder, slid it in. After he closed it, I went to walk away (why would anyone want to stay longer?), but he grabbed my wrist.

"Stop judging everyone," he said, low and harsh. "Stop judging me, before you know me. Stop judging Lissa before you know her. Stop judging everyone. It's not your place. And just because they're not exactly like you doesn't make them a bad person. You are so stuck up. And don't think that just because you're smart, you can come up to me and accuse me of random shit, and get into my business, when you have no right." I thought, you don't know me, either! But I think, that he did.

Crap.

That sure gave me something to think about.

He spun back around, releasing my wrist (I'm pretty sure he left a bruise), and called out, loud and for everyone to hear, "And get the fuck off of my girlfriend, Wolfe."

Well, then.

~[*]~

For the rest of the day, I had to think about what he'd said, about me being stuck up, and judging people and all that stuff. I tried not to—I'd never cared about what he'd said before, why would I care now—but it's really hard, because I had to wonder whether or not he was right. Was that really what people thought? Was that really how I am?

No. I don't judge people before I know them.

Okay, so maybe I did sometimes. But not all the time. And...

Oh, god.

I was really stuck up.

This is not good.

Nicholas came into my sixth period class, when I was answering a question on the SmartBoard. Everyone, everyone's heads turned in his direction, and it was in slow motion: the flip of his hair, the "swag" in his walk, every step, every breath, the slight sagging of his jeans, so that I knew if he were to stretch his arms above his head, causing his t-shirt to ride up, I'd see a stripe of boxers before his skin.

Not that I was thinking about it or anything.

Oh god, I was thinking about it!

No wonder they were staring. He was like...I don't know...he was something else.

Politely, he explained to our teacher that he'd missed a day when he was supposed to take his test in English, and that he needed to take it, if it was okay. Girls behind me had already began to whisper about him. Our teacher agreed, and he made his way to the back of the class, to sit in a seat only a few over from mine (where I was not sitting). Nicholas said hello to a few people before taking his seat, and beginning his test.

I continued my problem, but nobody was really paying attention anymore.

Darn him.

I tried to drag it out, the problem. Writing extra slow, making mistakes just to take time erasing it and starting over. I really didn't need to sit in close proximity to Nicholas after he kind of yelled at me today, but it was inevitable—I had to go back sometime.

I don't think I've made it clear that Nicholas and I are not complete strangers. I mean, we're not friends, but I've been attending the same school as the boy since Pre-K, when he ran into me with his little tricycle and didn't even apologize, in Elementary School, when he picked me up and pushed me, face first, down the slide, and when he pushed me on the swing and made me fall into the sand. He went to school with me in Junior High, when he "accidentally" threw a volleyball at my head. I accidentally kicked him where it hurts after that.

In High School, it was easier to stay away from each other, with the different classes and things. We'd see each other in the hall sometimes, but we weren't the type to say hi. My point is, he's known me since we were young. He's seen my achievements, and hasn't been completely evil the whole time. Okay, yes, he has been, apart from one little case, where I was crying in the hall after my dad died (he did not know this), and he went and got me a tissue box and waited out there with me until I was done. But he never said anything, and we didn't talk about it afterward, either.

And then, during High School, I'd seen him in the principal's office, and we'd shared one or two classes.

So he wasn't just some random guy with a high GPA. He was a guy who I'd known for awhile, with a high GPA.

Who was sitting two seats away from me, still angry with me. Despite what you may think, I don't just find pleasure in making people upset. It wasn't like I was going to fix this, but I wasn't having a good feeling about sitting next to him.

He worked hard at his test, concentrating. I noticed that he had a thing for putting his mouth on the end of his pen, pushing his tongue out and clicking it on and off, when he was reading a question.

I decided to stop staring and instead pay attention to the lecture.

Then there was a little folded up paper in front of me.

My heart beat fast as I unfolded it, for a few reasons. Mainly because I'd never passed notes during class, so this felt bad. Really bad. The teacher was trying to do a lesson, but I was passing notes, instead. The second being that it was from Nicholas, who I'd previously gotten in an argument with.

It said, scrawled in neat but still boyish writing:

Sorry for being a douche—but that's my personal stuff. You don't know me, but I don't know you, either. I don't need tutoring. Trig AP is easy shit. But I want to change that—not the easiness, the getting to know you. So you can come over tonight, to tutor me. I'll make you Mac and Cheese.

I thought: What the heck? He wanted to, like...hang out? What is going on? This had to be a trap. Some prank.

I said:

I hate Mac and Cheese. And slid it to the other side of the desk, in a very stealthy manner.

...How about chicken Alfredo?

No noodles at all. Why don't we go in public?

What are you, scared? I'm not planning to murder you or anything.

Of course not. I would sense something. Wait, why dinner, anyway?

So we can get to know each other.

Why would we want that?

I heard him sigh.

Maybe because I want to?

Well, okay. I like banana smoothies and tacos.

That's a strange combo. But okay. I can do that.

I gave him a shy smile. He smirked back.

What time?

I'll pick you up at like 5? I have some studying to do tonight, so it can't be late.

So he does study.

Okay.

You're the cream colored house on the corner, right? Like, next to the soccer field?

Everyone knew where I lived. It was really annoying, especially on nights when they felt like T.P.-ing, because I was the convenience.

Yeah.

Okay.

I wanted to cancel, as soon as it was confirmed.

I hadn't gotten any of my missions done today. This boy was really doing something to me and my ways of living.

I could say that I actually had plans, or that I really had to study. I could cancel, right this instant, simply by writing it on the paper and passing it across our desks. I could walk away right now, burn the contract, and never have anything to do with him again. Easy peasy.

I stared at it, looked across to Nicholas, who had his chin resting in the palm of his hand, a small smile on his lips, like he was actually happy to make dinner for me (or I'd fallen into a trap of his) and have me over at his house, and thought that I'd never done anything like this before.

Then I thought: what the hell.

And wrote back: :)

"You say, that I'm messing with your head, but I like messing in your bed, yeah I like messing with your head." —What the Hell, Avril Lavigne