Young Writers Society

"I... think..." Ella stammered.

"Sure you do" Sienna said in her ever-whispery tone; she raised that impossibly arched eyebrow an inch higher than I'd ever seen it go.

Ella wasn't exasperating because of her set of shifty eyes, or the way she sometimes smelled like the inside of a new plastic bag, or her ambling way of getting right in your face. The trying thing about the girl was her forced ignorance of the subtle hints people would drop, trying to let her know "gently" that she wasn't wanted. She was fiercely existent and, in that, more obliviously happy to be present than the rest of the crowd.

Amy kicked my foot under the table, the only time she'd recognized my presence all day. Sienna was still glaring at Ella.

They were wolves. Sleek and graceful, with glints of pure villainy beneath those mascara-caked lashes. I never quite fit the bill, usually hung around as the goofy sidekick type.... the one who fed them their lines. They were the ones who spiked it with malice, at least that's what I promised myself: It was my niche in the group, and I needed it. Never one to be greedy, I didn't need to be liked-- just occasionally noticed.

I choked on my frap, but nodded submissively to Amy. The night air blew her daffodil hair back in a way movie cameras should have captured. I was sitting in the opposite direction, so my wind-whipped bob looked decidedly less enchanting.

Ione seemed bored with the whole situation, swinging her long legs as she sat, somewhat precariously, on the thin metal fence. I despised Ione, though words couldn't explain why. She was as close to my equal as the crowd could offer. We both knew it and competed in dead silence.

The conversation had slowed to mumbles, but Sienna never let that sort of peace last long. She was prodding Amy with something, repeating it only for the ears of her current best friend forever.

"...Well you know what he can do with his version of the truth?" Amy finally raised her voice and accompanied the statement with a gesture raw enough to make me turn my head away, squinting into a streetlight. I noticed a boy in the grocery store parking lot, leaning nonchalantly on the hood of Mustang. I knew for a fact the car wasn't his, but his attempt at pretending was mischievous, self-deprecating. Attracted by Amy's sudden outburst, he glanced over. None of the others were looking his way, so he grinned at me.

How dare you, I thought, suppressing a smile. I shifted my glance back to Ella, who was dipping a finger absent-mindedly in her ice water. The girl never drank coffee, tea, anything... always ice water. I attributed it to some eating disorder, but the two-inch fray at the hems of her worn jeans should have told me otherwise. Water was cheap.

I noticed Amy and Sienna were deep in their hushed tones again, so I placed my elbows on the table--watching them. I often tried to convince myself that if I showed just a little more interest in the mechanics of gossip, I would be welcomed a bit more. I lied, though. The observer can't worm in among the participators. Somehow, even Ella lived in the moment more than I.

I glanced back around in time to see the boy at the Mustang being hustled away by a paunchy retiree. He had his oversized hands held up in defense of his theatrically gangly body; I could hear his laughing over the distance as he tried to explain the harmlessness of his charade.

I let my fingers, formerly occupied in drawing discontented stick figures, fall on the table's gritty surface. I was tired of being the audience--something had to be done.