Author Rant plus added disclaimer: I don't own anything except her past and thoughts and the general character expansion. James Patterson owns it. Which means he could do what he wanted with it, and chose to pander to the commercial masses with a load of drivel full of plotholes, from some hillbilly's plotgun.
Author Rant The Second: I have no idea why I continue to write for this fandom. Half the writers are idiots. (The other half are brilliant.)
This story is in response to the people who hate the character this is about..
I'm too pretty for my own good, I think.
Few of my friends think like this, and I know I will be officially expelled from the golden girls by Chari Lewis if she ever finds out that I've even thought those words. (In her opinion, you can never be to thin, you can never wear too much make-up, you can never eat too little, and you can never be too pretty.) I don't agree with her. I rarely do, but she's Chari, and no-one goes against her without consequences.
I hope I'm not stupid enough to say those words, especially not to her face, and I've been playing the social game since I was old enough to understand what it was. I know how to make my face show what I want. I know how to small talk to keep people, the popular people, happy. I know how to treat my parents like dirt because they're poorer than Chari's stockbroker father. Because Mom has to work for a living, and I get hand me downs from my older sister, Rebecca. Because Chari's Dad's already bought her a Ferrari, cherry red, and I'm maybe going to get Beccy's shit-brown, clapped out Holden when I'm sixteen.
My friends have always been the desirables, the ones who wear the expressions that say we've just come from something terrifically exciting, and will soon be doing something spectacularly new and fun sometime in the near future. The faces that attract everyone – we're pretty and popular, and we know it. All the girls want to be us, and all the boys want to be with us.
I know how to give enough to keep the suspicions at bay, without making myself physically sick. At least not most of the time. Chari's convinced I'm bulimic, that I throw up on purpose to keep myself thin. She goes on about it, how brave I am, how jealous she is - she couldn't do it. I can't tell her that it's because she makes me sick. That living like this, this lie, makes me sick.
I hate it.
I'm a liar.
I'm a bitch.
I'm a whore.
I slept with Tyler Evans last year. I was thirteen, and he was seventeen, and a senior. I got drunk, rather, he got me drunk. I hate him, and I hate me for it, but I can't turn back the clock. I've been careless since then, senior and juniors, the Jock-ish ones, looking for the cute redhead who'll sleep with anyone.
The senior girls quietly hate me because I sleep with their girlfriends, but they know better that to bad mouth Melissa Lewis's little sister's best friend. Nobody in my year talks, because Chari won't let them even though she's jealous of me for this too, because although she's had Chad for the last six months, they've done nothing more than kiss.
I can't tell her how lucky she is, because there's nothing worse than a drunken grope in the dark, with a guy who's only concerned about himself. I can't say how bad it felt, going to the community health clinic, getting tested for STD's and pregnancy.
I can't tell her that I spent two days crying, that I was a snotty, ratty-haired mess afterwards, that Ty doesn't even know who I am, looks through me when I walk past him on the street. That wouldn't be cool.
I was so lucky the tests turned up negative.
I don't know how to be anyone else. I can't say sorry to my parents and my sister. I don't know how, or where to start. I wish I had a friend who was a friend, how I didn't have to guard my tongue with. Someone who I could tell, and who wouldn't judge.
I met a boy.
The ugly ones, the chess nerds, the computer geeks, the punks and Goths all fade into the background. They're not worthy of a Golden Girl's attention. I can only be seen with someone with looks.
The ones with looks that will do anything for a feel up, for even a kiss.
He's a boy with looks – Tall, dark, handsome, mysterious.
He doesn't look at me like he wants me. He asked to share my textbook in English, and didn't try to get closer, and closer, didn't try to touch me. He was polite, he said thank you. He's quiet, doesn't try to impress me, which impresses me the most.
I want him. Because he doesn't see me as a walking quick fuck. He doesn't tug my hair in the hall between classes. He doesn't try to kiss me. So I push him up against the wall, and kiss him. He hesitates, but he lightly puts his arms around my waist, doesn't grab for my ass, and kisses me back.
I break the kiss, and he looks at me surprised. "Lissa?"
I smirk. This boy must be gay, not to have wanted a piece of this. "See you 'round, Nick."
Or maybe, just maybe, there is something called a nice guy.
Chari's going to flip when she hears about this one.
Max and Fang are not the only pairing out there. To quote Professor Trelawney, "Broaden your minds…see beyond the mundane!"
I don't own PT either.
Why not try Fang and Nudge? You can see it in the clifftop scene. Why not pair Iggy with someone other than Ella or Nudge? Jeb's not evil. Neither's Angel, or Ari, or Anne. The director is not cardboard cut out evil, just psycho.
There are not thousands of flyboys or Erasers.
The chances of Max and Fang having a kid that doesn't have massive genetic defects is slim.