Free Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure by James Patterson Page B

panic. Do I need to repeat how awful I am at this—this normal girl stuff? No. I don’t believe I do.
    But Sloan was a fifteen-year-old boy. I don’t care how nice the guy might be, that’s a walking hormonal disaster waiting to happen, in my book. There was no way I was just going to sit there and let him whisk Nudge away by herself, so to keep it from being horribly awkward, Dylan and I were double- whatevering with them.
    Kill me now.
    “So what movie are you crazy kids seeing, anyway?” Total asked fondly.
    “Blood City III: The Massacre.” I’d read the summary of it online, and frankly, it sounded like the directors had just decided to film my life.
    “Perfect!” Total crowed, wagging his tail. “A horror movie! You can cling to Dylan during all the scary parts.”
    Flabbergasted, I gaped at him. “First of all, sexist pig much?” I said. “I don’t buy into the whole damsel-in-distress thing, especially when I’ve saved Dylan’s feathery butt more times than he can count. Second of all, no. Just… no.”
    Total ignored me and hopped up onto the counter and opened the medicine cabinet with his nose, taking out a little white box and pushing it toward me.
    “What’s that?” I asked warily.
    Total winked. “Breath mints.”

30
    “NOOOO!” ON THE screen, a woman’s eyes bugged almost out of her head, and I tried not to scream.
    Tried not to scream in exasperation, I mean. The serial killer was right in front of her, wide open! Clearly, instead of weeping like a moron, she should be lunging forward and administering a swift uppercut to his chin. Then this entire pointless ordeal would be over with, and I could go home.
    Okay. I’ll stop whining. It wasn’t that bad, sitting there in the movie theater next to Dylan. We were in the row directly behind Nudge and Sloan—partly so we wouldn’t get separated, partly so I could knock Sloan unconscious if he tried anything—and, to be completely honest, I was feeling pretty relaxed.
    In a completely nervous, freaked-out way, of course.
    Because as soon as the words AND NOW… YOUR FEATURE PRESENTATION had flickered across the screen, Dylan had tentatively reached out and taken my hand.
    And I hadn’t stopped him.
    So that was the situation: dark theater, warm hands, terrible blood-drenched movie, and so much tension between me and Dylan that it felt like my brain was about to short-circuit.
    Basically, I wasn’t sure whether to just go with it and have fun (like a human) or panic and get the heck out of this pitch-black enclosed space (like a bird kid). So far, the human way was winning, but the jury was still out.
    To absolutely no one’s surprise, the stupid bug-eyed lady got stabbed, and wailed dramatically. I turned to the side and made a face at Dylan.
    “Well, you can’t blame her,” he whispered, and his eyes flashed like blue coins in the dim half-light. “She hasn’t exactly been trained for fights to the death.”
    “Oh, come on! She still totally just sat there and let herself get stabbed,” I protested. “In my humble opinion, she deserved it.”
    He snickered quietly. “You may be the only person who’s rooting for the serial killer.”
    We smiled at each other, and that was when my usual harshness came slamming back into me with a jolt, making me bite my lip and focus on the movie again. No time for blushing and admiring; make sure Nudge is doing okay! Check for escape routes!
    Sometimes my survival skills really get in the way of things.
    I stayed completely still through the rest of the movie, even when Dylan’s thumb began tracing fiery circles on my palm, even when my heart started pounding so loudly I thought people six rows away could probably hear it. Get it together , I told myself. Be calm. Be Zen. You are Buddha.
    Except I highly doubt that Buddha would be experiencing the same tingles down his spine that I was. And because of Dylan! Someone, anyone, just put me in a straitjacket and be done with it.
    Finally, the