Joanne fumbled through the books on the shelf, worrying out loud.

"Will they come?"

Kirsti shrugged, drumming her perfectly-manicured fingers on the olive wood table.

"Of course!" she reassured.

Joanne threw a few books onto the table.

“These are good,” she said, taking a few notebooks and tossing them over her shoulder. Her wire-rimmed glasses slipped to the very edge of her nose as she rushed around, finding everything she could. As she set a cup of pencils on the table, she began more ancy, glancing at her watch.

“They’re supposed to come soon,” she sighed.

Kirsti looked at her.

“Calm down.”

“Will they come, Kirsti? Honestly?”

Kirsti blinked.

“Yes!” she smiled, her voice teetering.

“You’re a bad liar.”

Kirsti smiled meekly.

“This probably won’t work, Joanne. It’s okay, though!”

Joanne frowned at Kirsti. Suddenly, there was the sound of a ringing doorbell. Almost dizzy with excitement, Joanne leapt up. She squealed a little to herself as she rushed down the hallway, joy bouncing in her full mind.

She opened the door. There was a girl. The girl’s jet-black hair, streaked with various shades of red, cascaded to her black-sleeved shoulders. Her outfit consisted of two colors: purple and black. Her highly-mascaraed eyes didn’t smile.

“Hello,” she greeted, welcoming herself into Joanne’s hallway.

“Hi,” breathed Joanne, her dizziness not receding. She didn’t think people would actually come. She had hung the sign:

Writer’s Club, meet 12:30 on Saturday at 10234, Kital Lane

in the grocery store.

“I’m Nicky,” said the girl, striding down the hallway, her black hair flowing out behind her. Joanne shut the door and followed the girl into the carpeted room that lay at the end of the hallway.

Kirsti tossed a glance at Nicky was up on her feet.

“I see you have a friend,” she said, “so I’m going.”

Kirsti walked up. Joanne hardly noticed, she was too busy pushing away books and notebooks and pencils so Nicky could sit down. Nicky lifted her eyebrows at busily-working Joanne and sighed.

“I can sit anywhere.”

She plopped down in a chair. Joanne joined her, across the table. There was an awkward silence, both of them trying to think of something to say. Joanne’s brain worked furiously, attempting to find something to say.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

It was the best she could do.

“I have to trust you,” said Nicky, dumping her mysterious, lumpy, leather bag onto the table.

“You can trust me, we’re in a club together now,” assured Joanne, picking up a pencil and flicking it against a notebook.

“I write about death and pain—love and life. I write what I feel.”

Joanne nodded, understand her words.

“When I was thirteen,” began Nicky, her voice dark and cloudy, “I cut my wrists. I regret that more than anything I’ve done in my life. My dad was what you would call…erm…abusive. Kicking people around, coming home, slurring his horrific words. My mom wasn’t like the moms in the books, she never stood up for me. Instead, she cowered in a corner, weak and stupid. She ran away when I was 13. I didn’t know where to go, ya know? So I cut my wrists, thinking it was the only thing I could do to make myself…happy. It didn’t work. It just made me more upset and…frustrated. My dad was caught when I finally stuck up my ignorant head and told somebody. I was a foster child, hoppin’ from person to person until I was old enough to come here.”

Nicky was obviously finished. She leaned back, her eyes glazed and faraway, probably somewhere far back in her past.

Joanne stood there, amazed.

“That makes an interesting story,” she choked.

“I wrote a story about it…but it was a stupid story,” said Nicky, pushing hair from her pale face.

“I wanna see it,” smiled Joanne. “I’m sure it’s great.”

“I was a stupid kid.”

Joanne nodded. Immediately regretting it, she added quickly, “Um, well, lots of thirteen-year-olds are upset.”

For some reason, that sparked something in Nicky, making her face stormy.

“Oh, and never—never—call me emo.”

Joanne crumpled in her chair, a bit intimidated. She nodded weakly. Nicky sat back, obviously pleased. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Joanne leapt up. She almost skipped down the hallway, Nicky trailing behind her. More people? She hadn’t expected this.

She creaked open the door. There stood a girl with long, luscious, red-orange hair. She smiled, her rosy lips curling. She had perfectly-toned skin for her sparkling green eyes, somewhere in-between tan and pale. Her figure was covered in bulky clothes: a green turtle neck and a long, wool skirt. Joanne, a bit surprised by her appearance, considering it was summer, paused for a moment. Then she broke out into a gracious grin, sighing her thanks.

“Thank you so much for coming! Welcome!”

The girl nodded.

“I’m Lucy.”

“I’m Nicky.”

“I’m Joanne! Follow me!”

Lucy lagged behind Nicky even as the three trailed to the dining room. Joanne cleared way for Lucy, tossing a few books to the opposite side of the table, a few accidentally landed in Nicky’s spotless place. Nicky shrugged, not bothering to move them.

Lucy put down a few packets of computer-typed work.

“So…Lucy…tell us a bit about yourself?” suggested Joanne, smiling in a very real, overjoyed smile.

“Sure,” agreed Lucy. “You’re gonna meet him anyways.”

Nicky looked questioningly over at Lucy.

“Who?”

Lucy sighed.

“Ok, it was high-school. I was fifteen and stupid…pathetic, really. I thought I was so great, walkin’ on top of the school, top of the top, dating George. George was…fantastic. He was popular, his hair perfectly set on that handsome head…ugh! Well, bottom line—he made me have a baby. Scared away by Nick, the child, he left me a single mother. So I just came here, where else would I go? I mean, it’s the ‘Young Adult’s Living Area’ and I guess that means we all help each other.”

Joanne was upset, still hanging on the words “he made me have a baby.” She knew that meant that Lucy had been a teenage mother. Joanne detested teenage mothers, thinking they were revolting.

“That’s wrong,” she snapped.

That obviously pressed one of Lucy’s buttons.

“What do you know?” she yelled. She stayed in her seat, her face red. Then, obvious embaressed, she tried to clear her face of its angry redness. “Sorry,” she mumbled, thumbing through the pages of a book on the table.

Joanne didn’t comment. Nicky did, though.

“We donno anything, just like you don’t know anything about being emo.”

Nicky explained, once again, her childhood tale. Then there was a tense silence, all of them getting used to their odd personalities.

“Well,” said Joanne honestly, “you can’t say this is going to be boring.”