Young Writers Society

By the time we finally returned to the house (around four PM after a few hours of extra errands), a throbbing migraine had settled in. It had been a while since my last one. Usually, they followed prolonged bouts of crying, but sometimes they just appeared out of nowhere.

I wasted no time and headed straight for a long, soothing shower. Afterwards, I crawled under the cozy blankets, craving nothing but stillness and the blissful absence of thought.

"Are you okay?" Aunt Tracy asked from the doorway. "Do you want me to call the doctor?"

With a gentle push, she coaxed the door open a little further. Its quiet squeak reminded me of a whisper from an old friend; hesitant yet comforting.

"I just need some rest," I finally managed to say, my voice muffled by the pillow. "I have a migraine."

"Did you take medicine?"

"Yes."

"You have to eat something. Do you want to have some cereal?"

Do you want me to throw up all over the place?

"I want to sleep."

The mere thought of eating anything turned my stomach sour.

"Your dinner will be in the microwave. You can heat it up when you feel better."

Okay.

As the old wooden door closed, I instinctively pulled the blue duvet cover over my head. I lay flat on the firm mattress, trying to relax every muscle in my face.

Please don't throw up.

𖥔

When I opened my eyes again, it was nine in the morning—the day I would meet Her. My mouth tasted like stale cotton, but thankfully, the pain in my skull had subsided.

Aside from the ridiculous amount of sleep buildup in my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the rising heat in my bedroom since I had fallen asleep. Aunt Tracy was one of those people who either needed it super cold or super hot—no in-between.

My back was also notably sore from how I had slept. I was never one of those people who could stay in one position all night. I would start off on my back and then wake up curled into a fetal position like a restless caterpillar.

I rubbed my weary eyes and yawned, then stood up from bed and stretched as hard as I could. Annoyingly, my phone was dead since I hadn't put it on the charger before I went to sleep.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, hastily grabbing my charger and plugging it into my phone.

"Donna?" The sound of footsteps reverberated through the frayed shag carpet as Aunt Tracy neared my bedroom door. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," I replied, sinking back onto the bed. "I'm awake."

"I hope you've chosen your outfit," she said with a familiar hint of both impatience and cynicism in her morning voice. "Jesus, it's already nine-thirty. Come fix yourself something to eat."

Without a word, I simply listened to the obnoxious screeching of the floor beneath our feet as Aunt Tracy presumably made her way to her bedroom, directly across from mine.

I reached for one of the pillows I'd slept with and casually flung it across the room, aiming for the rusted brown vent to block out the humid air.

My phone lit up and revealed three missed calls from Mom, all made at eight in the evening. I was sleeping by then. Carelessly, I swiped away the notifications. Conversation wasn't on my agenda at that moment; I craved food and just wanted to get through the support group meeting.

𖥔

Ten minutes later, I was spooning hot oats into my mouth at the kitchen table. My hair was gathered up into a thick afro puff, with my edges neatly slicked down. It wasn't anything extraordinary, but it was the best I'd looked in weeks.

"Have you spoken to your mother?" Aunt Tracy inquired, smoothing out her black button-down shirt.

I gently blew on my spoonful of steaming blueberries and cream oatmeal. "She's been texting me," I say, "but I haven't been responding."

Aunt Tracy didn't ask me why? or tell me to make sure you call her. She understood that if she were in the same situation, she wouldn't want to speak to her mother either.

The stunning gold watch delicately snapped around her wrist."You look nice."

I felt nice, to say the least, clad in my new white sweater and blue flare jeans.

"Thank you," shoving one of the last spoonfuls of oatmeal into my mouth, "so do you."

"Do you like everything I bought?" Aunt Tracy began to adjust her collar.

I nodded, scooping up the last bit of oatmeal with my spoon, when suddenly....

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Officially one hour until I would meet Her.

"It's ten o'clock. Shit, I forgot about these dishes," Aunt Tracy said, hurriedly stacking the numerous glass cups, plates, and bowls onto the counter before plunging them into the scorching, foamy dishwater. "We have to be out of here in thirty minutes. Did you brush your teeth? Wash your face?"

Adding my bowl into the pile of dirty dishes, I shook my head and said, "Yep, everything's done."

She grabbed the green sponge and began to scrub vigorously at the oatmeal bowl. "Your room's clean? Bed made up?"

"Mhm," I confirmed, "everything's done."

I glanced over at the clock, its long hand ticking away at the passing seconds.

Tick, tick, tick. Like a fucking metronome.

Bored and drowsy, I had an urge to pick at my skin or chew my nails or do something. Instead, I simply stared, fixated on the ticking clock, until its hypnotic rhythm soothed the butterflies in my stomach.

"Do you know what I like to do sometimes?" Aunt Tracy spoke up, breaking the silence.

I didn't even realize she had finished washing the dishes.

"When I'm anxious," she clarified, "I count my blessings. Sometimes, when I'm feeling down, it's important to remember the good things in life." She wiped away the suds from around the sink with the washcloth. "When we're feeling sad or angry or frustrated, sometimes we forget all the great things that have happened in our lives. But no matter how bad the situation is, there's always something to be grateful for."

She was right, but I wasn't sure how much the concept of gratitude could help me. I was having second thoughts. All I knew was that in less than an hour, I would have to sit and talk about one of the most traumatic experiences of my life with a group of strangers. 

How many blessings would it take to distract me from that?

𖥔

At eleven, Aunt Tracy dropped me off at support group. I wore a spare wool jacket she had sitting in the downstairs closet. The brick building was still in fairly decent shape. Only a few cars were parked nearby, presumably belonging to staff or visitors of the neighboring buildings.

Trying my best not to seem like a creepy, unaware person, I subtly glanced into the building's only open window. Not a long enough glance to see exactly how many people were in there, but just long enough to see that it was practically empty.

Fucking terrific, I remember thinking, this is the wrong building.

I’ll admit, I was slightly relieved at this and reached into my back pocket to grab my phone, still facing the window but now a few steps back. Poor Aunt Tracy would have to turn around and pick me up again.

Right then, one of the building's generic glass entry doors swung open, and out stepped Her.

I turned to meet her gaze.

“Hey,” she greeted, with the ripe flair typical of New Jersey residents. “You’re here for the support group.” It wasn’t a question.

Whether or not it was the beauty of Her or the fact that she had likely caught me stealing a glance through the window that made my cheeks practically glow a bright red color was something I didn’t exactly know.

A bunglesome “I’m Donna” was all I could manage as I, saturated with great discomfort, placed my hands in the jacket’s snuggly pockets.

“I know.” She allowed herself one step forward. “I’m Groupie. You’re thirty minutes early.” Even with those subtle freckles on her face, she still managed to intimidate me.

“Oh,” I half-chuckled, because I had nothing better. “That makes sense.”

Groupie had on a pair of denim shorts with a black belt buckle, a white tie front top, and shabby black Converses. She had an innocent and classic sort of beauty to her; like the early nineties meets modern teenage girlhood. Her hair was long, auburn, and styled into two pigtails to show off both of the silver hooped earrings she was wearing. A personified version of Eyes Without A Face; but not Billy Idol’s version. Marsheaux’s version.

“Come inside. Lena wants to meet you before everyone else gets here,” she informed me, giving me the full green brunt of her eyes. “Also,” before heading back in, “sit next to me.”

𖥔

Inside, the premises felt warm, cozy, and surprisingly spacious. Six chairs were arranged in a circle on the carpet. Groupie's chair was distinct, with a jean jacket draped over it and an open bottle of Coke resting on the seat. The other chairs each had a small bag of potato chips and a water bottle.

“Adrian told me she saw you out there. I asked her to go and make sure it was you,” said Lena, spacing the chairs out by a few more inches. “You can go ahead and take your jacket off. We still have a bit of time before the others will be here. Usually, they’re a few minutes late.”

“Or don’t show up at all,” Groupie added, grabbing her things from her seat. “Also, I don’t go by Adrian anymore,” sitting down, “so I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me that.”

“All the names in the world and you choose the one with the most trouble attached to it,” Lena replied, seemingly underwhelmed. “But what more should I expect from a Santorio?” She teased.

There’s more of them?

Lena had a friendly, motherly look to her. Her dark brown hair was pinned up into a bun, and she wore a simple green blouse and a pair of jeans.

I placed my jacket on the chair to the right of Groupie’s, who was preoccupied with the conspicuous flower adorning her silver finger ring. The wall analog clock’s big hand was now a few marks down from the four. Eleven twenty three.

“So why Groupie?” I wondered, taking my seat next to her. “Adrian is a nice name. And a little more appropriate.”

“Easy for you to say,” she said with totality, her nostrils flaring as if to suppress what I hoped was a smile. “Your name is beautiful.”

A/N: don’t worry, this is not all we find out about Groupie. we will delve into her more when we finish up the support group scene in Part 4! also, in case anyone wants to know, i’ve gone back and replaced the previous parts with their revised versions.