Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.

Fang is the bane of my existence. He's a torment I've been subjected to endure throughout my entire school life. And even now, at the age of 18 and attending College, he's here. With me. Same class. The row in front.

Do you see my predicament?

We don't get on. At all. Never have and never will. On my first day in Kindergarten he stole my juice. But me being me, refused to be taken advantage of so lightly and pushed him. He pushed me back, so I pushed him harder and then it became a full on scrap and the teachers had to restrain us. Fang had even bit one of them, thus why I call him Fang. No one else does though; he's just plain old devastatingly good looking (latter description provided by my sister, Ella, and numerous others, not me!) Nick Ride.

Ever since that fateful day we have exchanged snide comments, pulled pranks (I so won that war), and numerous other ways to rub each other up the wrong way. Antagonising him usually provides a good source of entertainment, only it also gets me into heaps of trouble. For example, painting his locker pink and plastering posters of him over the school when he was a kid taking tap lessons (because his mom 'forced' him to, says he), earns you a two day suspension. Locking him in a cupboard costs you a weeks suspension (how was I supposed to know he was claustrophobic?). And then, adding up all the other 'incidents', notably Fang stealing my clothes from the locker room and leaving them on the roof (I'd never been so embarrassed), meant we'd come as close as you could get to being expelled. I'm pretty sure the only reason we'd been allowed to remain at the school was because of my mom, the vet, who had saved the Headmaster's cat Snowdrop. Only this time, I'm sure my mom's reputation will not secure my place here. I've promised her already that the old Max is gone, and the new, well-behaved Max is here to stay. It's just going to be harder than I'd first envisaged.

I hadn't realised he'd be majoring in English, much like myself, until I'd walked in and saw him sitting in the front row, girls flocking around him, gawking. I was devastated.

He'd been pretending to read his textbook when I'd walked in, feigning ignorance to his growing fan club. But I knew he was only too well aware of their less-than-obvious gawking because of the tenseness in his shoulders. He kept biting his lip, too, something he only ever did when he was nervous. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

I've never really understood the attraction most females feel towards him. I have yet to see how those physical attributes are so appealing: dark shaggy hair that has that just-got-up look about it; obsidian eyes that are the only way of discerning his emotions when he wears a permanent mask of reticence. Smiling is oh so rare for him. Although, when I'd entered the room and he'd looked up, I could have sworn, just for a second, that his lips had twitched upwards in the Fang equivalent of grin.

I'd scowled. His reply? A raised eyebrow.

The class is mostly full now, all save a few remaining seats towards the back where I sit.

A large bulging man suddenly enters the classroom with a decrepit briefcase in hand. He has grey thinning hair and half moon-shaped glasses that are perched on the bridge of his nose. He stands at the front of the classroom, moving back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

"Welcome," he says. "My name is Mr. Smith." He smiles.

"If you speak to any of my previous students, they will tell you I'm a hard task setter. They'll tell you that I'm unfair, that I don't understand that there's a party tonight and they just have to go and won't be able to write my 3,000 word essay for the next day. Well, I say tough. You're here to work, first and foremost, and if you have time, which you won't, you can do what you like."

A chorus of groans reverberates across the room. I have a feeling I may not be seeing all of these people tomorrow.

I slip my notebook out of my bag, knocking my pen off my desk. It settles under Fang's seat, landing next to his boot. Damn. He looks down, picks it up and turns round, his eyes locking with my own.

Give it, I mouth. An annoying grin stretches its way onto his face as he imperceptibly shakes his head. Jerk.

Fang turns round and begins tapping my pen then. It's so annoying! Tap-tap-tap… Ugh. I'm about to tell him to stop when a loud thwack draws my attention back to the front. Mr. Smith has smacked his ruler down in front of a Fangirl (see what I did there: fan becomes Fang in…oh, never mind), who had been practically drooling over Fang (no joke, there's saliva on the desk). How pathetic!

"I expect your sole concentration. Those of you who have also opted for the Creative Writing class will be fortunate enough to have me," he says, pauses, and then remarks, "please don't all cheer at once."

I smile. I wouldn't mind having him for both of my classes: I like his sense of humour.

"This term we will be studying a creative masterpiece: a contemporary romance novel written by Hayley Knight. The book is called Ambiguity and displays duel messages of how everything is not as it seems, and how easy it is to mistake loathing for love."

Why? I hate romance novels. I loathe mush. It's just so unrealistic and so dramatised that it makes the chances of the events in Stephen King's work more likely. Love at first sight in juxtaposition to ghosts influencing the actions of a caretaker: I'd go for option number two as the more likely probability of actually happening.

I sound bitter, perhaps, but that stuff never lasts. My mom had divorced Jeb (I couldn't call him Dad after all he'd done – after all he hadn't done) when I was 5. He'd been cheating and I'd caught him. He said he'd stop, but he didn't. I didn't say anything to my mom, how could I? We were a family and I didn't want to split the three of us up (Ella had yet to be born). But it didn't matter, because a few months later, he finally told Mom and left us to be with her. I haven't seen him since. A year later my mom had a boyfriend and it had looked pretty serious, like they were going to get married and we'd be a family. I'd liked him a lot, too. That had ended as well when Mom told him she was pregnant with my half-sister, Ella, and just like Jeb, he left.

"I want you all to read Chapter 1 by tomorrow for an in-depth discussion," Mr. Smith continues, "because if I allow you to roam the campus now, I will expect your full attention tomorrow." He gives us all pointed looks from behind his desk.

"Those in my Creative Writing class will also be given the day off. But I will, however, be expecting to see a sample of your work tomorrow. I don't mind what genre: poetry, a short prose, whatever. I don't care what it's on as long as it's good and shows me what I'm dealing with."

I'm excited, and practically revving to go. This is exactly what I want to do: write, and immerse myself in cleverly constructed prose. And I like my teacher: he seems as if he's going to work us hard, stretch us and throw (not literally) book after book at us. I can't wait. The only downside to all this is that Fang is in the class.

"Disperse," Mr. Smith barks. And as one, we all stand up, and file out of the room. I walk behind Fang, glaring daggers at his head. If he can turn round, I'll finally know whether looks can actually kill.

He's leaning against the wall when I enter the hall, his lips twisted into an unholy grin as I give him my best death glare.

I continue glaring. And he's still there. I guess looks can't kill. Damn. I'm just going to have to take a more direct approach if I want my dream to reach fruition.

The redhead that had sat next to Fang is also waiting at the end of the hall, watching us intently. I wave at her, plastering a fake smile onto my face in which she reciprocates with a dirty look: slitty eyes and firmly pursed lips. So scary (note sarcasm).

"What the hell are you doing here?" I snap.

"Going to College," he replies. "What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?" He's grinning from ear to ear, humour dancing in his eyes. Oh, I so want to wipe that sorry smirk off his face.

"Don't flatter yourself," I growl. "I have better taste."

He places his hand over his heart (as if he had one), feigning hurt. "That's cold. I may have to write a formal complaint about you for verbal abuse. But luckily, I have a pen here," he tauntingly swings my pen in front of my face, provoking me. I leap for it, only to have it pulled from out my reach at the last second. He begins swinging it just above my head then, which is way out of my reach since he's a good four inches taller than me. The height difference is just another reason to despise him.

"Just give it me back, Fang," I snap. "Now."

"Manners Maxie?" I let out a shrill cry, my hands clenching into tight fists. I hate that nickname, and everybody, including Fang, knows that it's a big no no.

I lean in closer. "Listen Fangie," I begin, his eyes narrowing at my own nickname for him, "you don't like me, and I ain't so fond of you either. What say we try to get along this year?"

He strokes his chin thoughtfully.

"Don't think too hard," I say, "I don't want you to override your brain for tomorrow."

He rolls his eyes. "Just thinking of some terms and conditions."

I shake my head. "The only term is we avoid each other. I ignore you, you ignore me. It's simple."

He grins. "Could you really ignore this?" he asks, his outstretched hand indicating his body.

"Trust me, my eyes will be so relieved. It causes me a lot of pain looking at that."

"Causes you a lot of pain knowing that you can't have that," he amends, "though I never actually said I wasn't interested." He smiles then, not a grin, but an actual smile…with teeth. My heart gives a tight squeeze: he has a nice smile. He leans in closer then, his minty breath washing over my face. We're so close that I'm sure just another inch closer and our noses will be touching. My breathing hitches.

I jolt back, unnerved by our close proximity. Jerk.

His grin instantly disappears in exchange for the mask. I look to his face, but he refuses to make eye contact, almost like he's embarrassed. Only Fang is never embarrassed.

He shoots a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall, turns on his heel, and doesn't look back.

What the hell was that?