As much as I had tried to suppress all memory of that incident, it rushed back to me in vivid Technicolor. “The color of my eyes is like barfed-up chocolate?” Despair settled over me. There was no hope.

“No, the chocolates before they were barfed,” Angel clarified.

So there you have it, the extent of my charms: brown hair and eyes like unbarfed chocolate. I’m a lucky girl.

“Max,” said Angel. “You know Fang is the best guy ever. And he loves you. ’Cause you’re the best girl ever.”

With anyone else, I could ask them how they know that and then discredit them. Not Angel. She knew because she’d seen it, in his mind.

“We all love each other, Ange,” I said impatiently, hating this whole conversation.

“No, not like this,” she went on relentlessly. “Fang loves you.”

Here’s a little secret you might not have picked up on about me: I can’t stand gushy emotion. Hate crying. Hate feeling sad. Am not even too crazy about feeling happy. So all this – the vulnerability, the longing, the terror – I desperately wanted it to all go away forever. I wanted to cut it out of me like they’d cut out that chip. (See book three; I can’t keep explaining everything. If I’m gonna take the trouble to write this stuff down, the least you can do is read it.)

But right now, I needed Angel to shut up.

“Okay, maybe I’ll give him a break,” I said, rolling over and closing my eyes.

“Maybe you should give him more than that,” Angel pressed.

My eyes flared open as I didn’t dare to think what she might mean.

“He could totally be your boyfriend,” she went on with annoying persistence. “You guys could get married. I could be like a junior bridesmaid. Total could be your flower dog.”

“I’m only a kid!” I shrieked. “I can’t get married!”

“You could in New Hampshire.”

My mouth dropped open. How does she know this stuff? “Forget it! No one’s getting married!” I hissed. “Not in New Hampshire or anywhere else! Not in a box, not with a fox! Now go to sleep, before I kill you!”