Young Writers Society

In this narrative centered on first love, a chronically lonely and autistic teenage girl falls deep in love with a gentle-natured yet troubled young girl she meets at a group therapy session. The girls, having finally found something real to grasp in their inveterately melancholic lives, completely immerse themselves in each other, only to see everything potentially slip away.

EDIT: this prologue is irrelevant now as ive decided to remove it from the story but feel free to still leave reviews :)

PROLOGUE

Let's start at the very beginning. I'll be as quick as possible.

It all began when my mother chose to uproot us from our cozy three-bedroom home in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where we had lived for seven years. She decided to move us into her husband's cramped one-bedroom apartment in Jersey City, which he had bought without her knowledge. He was always bouncing between living with us and disappearing altogether.

We begged Mom to reconsider the move, knowing for sure it would turn out as poorly as her quick marriage to a man twenty-five years older than her. But she always believed she knew best. Our input never mattered unless it was asked for. My sister, Nadia, firmly refused to be involved in the move. She knew how to stand her ground. She didn't help us pack, and Mom didn't insist.

I, on the other hand, never had a choice. Mom knew I was too timid to stand up for myself, so she made it clear that arguing was pointless. Ray stood by, holding a fifty-milliliter bottle of Jim Beam, like an unwelcome spectator, as Mom and I packed away our past seven years (and more) into large cardboard boxes. He knew he had won. How could he claim to be "the man of the house" while living in a woman's apartment?

He was a tall man with a rugged handsomeness, falling somewhere between ordinary and striking. His voice, raspy from years of smoking, hinted at his chronic habit. Ray had a tumultuous past, having battled crack addiction and living with bipolar disorder. Despite these struggles, he presented himself with a quiet confidence, often observing from the sidelines with a cigarette in hand.

I never believed Mom when she talked about wanting to leave Elizabeth, even before she married Ray. It reminded me of fifth grade all over again, when she'd been drinking for a week straight and started talking about moving us to West Virginia to live with her mother. I had to sneak onto her computer and delete all the posts she'd made trying to sell our things on Facebook.

Ever since I began middle school, I found myself spending most of my free time holed up in my murky bedroom listening to metal music and obsessively immersed myself in provocative films that I knew I shouldn't have been watching. Then, after Mom married Ray, my already solitary world grew even quieter. I told myself I preferred it that way.

When summer break arrived, Nadia packed her bags and left to stay with her dad in Newark. From early June to late August of 2010, it was just Mom, Ray, and me. Soon enough, it became clear that Mom regretted not heeding the advice of those who warned against her decision. But by then, it was too late. Ray had already secured a job as a truck driver, while she worked as a server. We needed his money.

I despised my new school. The atmosphere at Jefferson Middle School was unlike anything I'd experienced in Elizabeth. The students seemed colder, nastier, and harsher, even at such a young age. Growing up, I'd often heard "jokes" about big city dwellers being as tough as New Yorkers. Sadly, I quickly learned that those "jokes" weren't jokes at all.

Being autistic, Tori Kennedy was the only true friend I'd ever had. Unfortunately for me, her parents split, and she moved away in fifth grade. After that, I gradually began to understand that I was not well-liked. Nobody wanted to play or partner with me. I sat alone at lunch because I was "too annoying." My voice, mannerisms, and even my laugh were all irritating. Everyone, including my teachers, made sure I knew it. That was when I started masking, which both complicated and simplified things for me.

At my new school in Jersey City, people treated me like a delicate, enigmatic artifact under study for a history project. They asked condescending questions and constantly bothered me when I just wanted to be left alone.

As if things couldn't get any worse, I no longer had my own bedroom. The only bedroom belonged to Mom and Ray. Every night, I would lie on the thin mattress Nadia and I shared in the corner of the living room, surrounded by piles of Ray's clothes and other belongings he took with him on the road.

Their fights became more frequent, and I could no longer ignore them as I once did. My grades started to plummet, and neither of them was understanding about it. School was already challenging, but now that I hated my life, nothing seemed to matter. Everything felt temporary and meaningless.

In October of that same year, Ray inherited his grandfather's seventy-year-old, three-bedroom house in Newark, and we moved there.

The house, once painted white, was now a dull gray, with paint peeling in several places. The windows were old and cracked, and the roof appeared as though it might collapse at any moment. Its exterior matched the dreariness, with overgrown grass and cracked windows. Our first few weeks in the new house were spent cleaning and organizing, trying to bring some life into the eerie space. Mom even joked that it was "perfectly suited" for Halloween.

Empty soda bottles and paper plates spilled out of the trash can, while laundry patiently waited to be folded in its designated room. Unopened mail blanketed the coffee table. Ray, like the rest of us, was disgruntled by the state of the house. The tangible evidence of his grandfather's existence left behind after his passing made the house feel hauntingly incomplete, like a story cut short, despite his old age.

On our fourth week in Newark, Nadia and I started at our new schools. Mine was ninety percent black; hers was forty-six. I can still feel that sharp twinge in my chest as I walked into my first-period classroom, every eye turning to me questionably, as if I had interrupted some exclusive gathering. I felt like an outsider, even in the places where I should've belonged the most, like I was somehow a stranger in my own skin.

It was my second time being "the new girl" in less than eight months, and it only took three days for me to reclaim my title as "the weird one." Always zoned out. Always there but never truly present, like some sort of phantom.

Every day at lunch, I sat alone with a book and my CD player, which contained a disc I had burned with my favorite songs. Among them were Black Dog by Led Zeppelin, Happy Nation by Ace of Base, She's Dangerous by Tom Tom Club, Candidate by Joy Division, Walking Zero by Sneaker Pimps, and Adrian by Jewel. Six of twenty.

For those thirty minutes, no one else existed. Not Ray, not my mother, and not anyone else. Oddly enough, I was okay with that. It made things easier. I wasn't naive; I knew people only befriended me because they felt sorry that I didn't have any friends, and that wasn't what I wanted. I preferred having no friends to having pity friends.

During our year in that house, Ray kicked us out three times, each instance due to issues related to money or alcohol.

The first time it happened, it was over my mother's tax return check. Ray insisted that she use it to repair the two decrepit cars in our garage. Mom, however, had different ideas; she wanted to use the money to buy a new couch and some basic furnishings for our bedrooms. Ray wasn't willing to compromise, so he dropped us off at the nearest hotel.

A week later, we moved to a local domestic violence shelter. Mom was depressed, but I was relieved to be away from Ray. Unfortunately, our stay was short-lived; we were asked to leave two weeks later after Mom violated the shelter's "no drinking" policy.

The next morning, Ray grinned with smug satisfaction as he loaded our meager belongings into the trunk. It felt more like a kidnapping than a rescue mission, with two captives reluctantly returning to the very house they had just escaped. Nadia and I sat contemplative in the backseat, both of us leaning our heads on the cold, smudged windows. The sound of Mom's laughter mingling with Ray's felt like rubbing salt on an already raw wound. On the bright side, the two of us were exempt from all schoolwork, and things were back to normal for a while.

Shortly after that, Nadia decided to live with her father permanently. I didn't blame her; in fact, I considered her lucky. She was absent from my life for four long years, and Ray didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, he forbade any idea of her ever returning home due to her supposed "behavioral issues."

In May, he kicked us out for the second time. Luckily, my mom's friend—a raspy-voiced white woman with three kids—offered her garage as a temporary shelter for us. Despite the summer heat that seemed to seep through the concrete walls, it was the cleanest and most comfortable part of the house. The faint scent of gasoline and old tools lingered in the air, but it was a small price to pay for a roof over our heads.

Ray showed up at her doorstep the following weekend to pick us up. I couldn't believe it. My mother had been secretly talking to him all along, fully aware of how I felt about him. Once again, we returned to that house, where the illusion of a happy family crumbled with the slightest provocation. They continued to argue over the same three things: money, alcohol, and Nadia. Every time voices escalated and harsh words flew, my hands would automatically start packing my belongings.

In the weeks after my fifteenth birthday, it happened for the last time. With nowhere else to go, Mom and I found ourselves at a dead end. Our friends and family had seen everything that had happened between my mother and Ray since the beginning of their marriage. Unsurprisingly, they were hesitant to intervene.

Mom and Ray had been arguing since five in the morning, and it took a physical turn when Ray tried to retrieve a liquor bottle from Mom's purse to prove she wasn't staying sober. Despite still being tipsy, she lunged at him, as if propelled by a spring, desperately trying to pry the nearly empty bottle of Crown Royal from his grasp. All I could do was scream for them to stop. He had licensed guns, and I didn't want the situation to escalate into a Dateline episode.

The neighbor, disturbed by the commotion, called the authorities, who arrived at our doorstep. Mom realized they were there for us, not some other domestic disturbance down the block, and begged Ray to "let it slide this one time." Miraculously, he agreed, despite having pressed charges against her before in retaliation for her doing the same against him. The officers insisted that they "keep their distance from each other for the night" before leaving.

An hour later, Ray's van came to a halt in front of St. Lucy's Emergency Shelter, and my heart sank. I had been dreading it, but I knew it was inevitable. Months earlier, Ray had taken me there to "teach me a lesson about responsibility and saving for the future." All I had with me was my faded navy blue school bag and my beloved stuffed bear, worn down to a faded brown with patches of missing fur, a lost eye, and threadbare seams. Inside the bag, there was a small change of clothes, a sparse assortment of feminine necessities, a toothbrush, my phone charger, my CD player, a small collection of CDs, and my writing supplies.

I knew it wouldn't be "just for the night." After three years, I knew exactly how things would unfold. Each morning would bring a new excuse: no gas money, too tired from work, feeling sick. Days would stretch into weeks, weeks into months, and my mother would keep waiting. If he did come for us, it would be on his terms, not out of necessity. It had been that way from the beginning. Everything was up to him. After all, he was "the man of the house," right?

Listening to my mother beg made me cringe with embarrassment. She smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume, with a hint of sweat and fear underneath. It hadn't always been like this. I used to say that my mother had a certain elegance about her, even in her simplest actions.

"Natasha, you're embarrassing us," Ray said over my mother's hysterical (and honestly pathetic) sobbing. "Get out of the car."

I sat in the backseat of his 2004 Honda Pilot, my arms wrapped tightly around my journal as if it held the key to my survival. The red sweatshirt I wore clashed with my blue flare jeans, but I didn't care. All that mattered was getting away from him. He always tried to portray us as a unit, two people victimized and mistreated by my mother's alcoholism. But I knew the truth—he was no victim.

When Mom offered to quit her new office job to become a housewife, as Ray had been pushing her to do since we moved in, I put in my other earbud and turned up the volume on my portable CD player. I could no longer tolerate her weakness, her readiness to bend and break for a man who didn't deserve her love, especially after she spent years telling me to know my worth. I didn't want to hear any of it.

Seeing the homeless, their weary faces and empty eyes haunting the entrance like ghosts, only confirmed that this was no ordinary setback. It was rock bottom, and I knew it was time to leave, even if it meant hurting my mother.

It's been fifteen years. I still don't regret it. Why would I? How else would I have met Groupie?

Part One

The car hummed with the soulful twang of steel guitars and country crooners as I sat in the passenger seat of my case manager's 2007 Toyota Camry. Two days before I met Her. I'd already blocked Ray's number on my phone; I knew he'd try to play Dad and worm his way back into my life, with or without my mother. But that wasn't going to happen, no way, no how.

Ray never understood why I went to therapy. He scoffed at the idea of paying someone to listen to my "silly little girl problems." In his mind, Lorelei was just doing her job, and I was wasting her time. I didn't really need therapy; I was just being an over-the-top, angsty teenager.

As the car meandered along the road, I let my aching head sink into the soft leather of the headrest and shut my eyes. I couldn't tell if it was the usual nausea from motion or the persistent unease in my gut, but my head was killing me.

I turned my head slightly to gaze out the car window. As a kid, I loved this part of car rides - seeing all the different houses and imagining the unique tales behind each one. Every home had its own story, just like every person inside did too. It was like taking a quick peek into someone else's world for a moment before moving on to the next snapshot.

"Are you planning on finding another writing club down here?" Lorelei asked. "I just want to say, it's so unfortunate that you finally managed to find one and then this happens. God, the chances." The faint scent of vanilla lingered on her skin, mingled with a hint of lavender from her perfume.

I attempted to infuse my voice with a sparkling effervescence, like champagne bubbles bursting against the roof of my mouth. But beneath the facade, I felt as dull and flat as a deflated balloon.

"Maybe. Now that Ray's gone."

The previous year, Ray was relentless in his nagging for me to "join a club" or find a hobby outside of the house. My biggest fear was exactly what ended up happening; I'd find something perfect for me and then we'd have to pack up and leave again. Mom told me I had "the perfect excuse" since I could just find another club wherever we ended up. I held my ground for as long as possible. And wouldn't you know it, right after I found a local writing club, we became homeless again.

"There might be something at my new school."

Living with autism in a world built for neurotypicals had been anything but an inconvenient nightmare. I always thought it'd be nice if all the autistic people were moved to their own planet, where we all understood each other.

"I'd check the local library. This is Jersey, you know. There's something for everyone." Lorelei's accent became more pronounced on the word 'know' and she flicked on her turn signal as we neared a red light. "And it doesn't have to be a writing club. You could always join a reading club, too. You love reading, right?" There is a faint scent of mint on Lorelei's breath as she speaks, the result of chewing gum.

"I write more than I read, though." I allowed a glimmer of hope to seep into my voice. "Ironically."

Lorelei briefly looked over with her chestnut brown eyes. "We'll find something, hon."

My hoodie strings were smooth between my cold fingers and soft to the touch, like worn cotton.

I couldn't understand why I felt the way I felt. Leaving behind the my mother and her seemingly never-ending marriage should have been a relief, but for some reason, it wasn't. Why? Why did I still feel like I was there?

𖥔

The sleek, beige car cut through the wind as it raced down the highway, bringing back memories of my childhood. Cars whizzed by in a blur, leaving behind a faint trail of exhaust and the distant wail of sirens.

I could almost hear Aunt Tracy's voice chattering away as she drove us to visit my mom at her rundown apartment in Asbury Park. That was ages ago, when I was just a small child and my aunt still had legal custody over me. Despite the rough neighborhood, Mom always made our visits special with her warm hugs and homemade treats. On the first night, she did, at least. The rest of the weekend would be spent in an alcohol-induced stupor, while I kept Nadia fed with cold Chef Boyardee and occupied with the DVD box set of classic Disney films playing for hours.

The drive used to take exactly fifty minutes, and I'd stare out the window at the trees speeding by, letting my imagination run wild with all sorts of adventures. But those memories are a bit fuzzy now. And even though I really want to remember everything perfectly, I know I'm not the most trustworthy narrator.

Lorelei kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Conversation had been sparse during our drive, as she could always sense when I was feeling chatty or not and adjusted accordingly.

I opened my notebook and pulled my sparkly gel pin from its spiral binding. The gentle crinkle of the pages took the place of the protruding silence as I flipped through the notebook, a soft scratching sound accompanying my writing.

November 7th, 2011

I'm on my way to my aunt's house. I don't feel any better than I did when I left. I hate that.

My therapist at the time, the only one who'd actually been helpful, advised me to take note of every moment that caused me unease in my notebook. She had noticed that I had trouble remembering the details of certain things that I wanted to talk about, and journaling was her suggested solution. And it was working seamlessly, like a well-oiled machine. Every uneasy incident, small or large, was carefully documented and ready for discussion at my next session.

"I remember this highway."

The sun was obscured by a thick blanket of gray clouds, casting a subdued and somber tone over the day.

In our small apartment in Elizabeth, I had taken to hanging a large throw blanket over the window and blocking out all traces of sunlight. My mother claimed it was causing me depression, but it just wasn't true. I was extremely sensitive to sunlight, and that's all it was.

"We used to come this way when my aunt would drop me off to visit my mom. I used to get so excited, and talk the whole time about everything we were gonna do." I talked about Mom like she was dead; like I would never see her again. "I must've been about six or seven. I used to sit in the backseat and just be in my own little world."

I heard the click of the turn signal.

A slight hint of awe tinged Lorelei's voice as she asked, "You mean when you were a kid? That's the cutest damn thing I've ever heard."

I still remember the contrast between the tone of our voices. Hers was sweet, almost coated in honey. Mine was pure salt water, harsh and bitter, burning like bile in the back of my throat. And it was too bad. Things would never be the same again. It never even had to come to this. If Mom would've just listened, we'd still have our apartment.

Anyway, I never responded to Lorelei. In fact, I didn't say another word the rest of the car ride. I just sighed longingly, leaning my head against the window. My notebook still remained open in my lap.

Now, don't get me wrong. My life was far from perfect before Ray came into it. My mother had been struggling with alcoholism for years. Way before I was born. Aunt Tracy had legal custody of Nadia and I until I turned seven. Sixty five percent of my childhood after that was spent raising Nadia and keeping my mother from accidentally killing herself.

Regardless, though, I wanted it back. I know it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it was all I'd ever known. I wanted my old life back as bad as my mother wanted to start a new one.

𖥔

My favorite aunt's warm smile lit up her face as she opened the door, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her hair was styled in loose curls and framed her face perfectly. I still remember, she was wearing a soft red sweater. The color complemented her hickory brown complexion.

Her gentle hands reached out to welcome us inside, and I noticed how her North Jersey accent had become more pronounced since the last time I saw her.

"Mi favorita!" She gushed like a child unwrapping the present they wanted the most on Christmas morning. "Come on in!"

Aunt Tracy's warm arms wrapped around me in a loving embrace, and I buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with the comforting aroma of freshly baked cookies. I could swear that time slowed down, as if she were my incarcerated biological father that I (supposedly) hadn't seen since my second birthday party. Her presence alone was enough to ease some of the tension that had been bubbling inside me since the morning prior.

Her smile stretched wide as she caught sight of the book and journal in my hand. She was always encouraging me to read and write more. She thought I was gifted.

"You're finally reading again?" She gasped. "Tell me about this. What is this?"

I let her take the newly bought novel from my hands, and her lengthy, slender fingers gently began caressing the hardcover.

"It's White Oleander by Janet Fitch," I said matter-of-factly. "It's about this girl, you see. Her mother gets arrested for murder so she ends up tossed around the foster care system. There's also a movie adaptation that I really, really want to see. But it's like, a decade old."

She responded with a curious "hm" before handing the book back to me.

I could hear Lorelei's keys quietly rustling (as though to say, Get on with it, Kid, you're not the only client I've got) as her perfectly manicured fingernails traced the warm cream-colored walls of Aunt Tracy's living room.

"That makes me proud. You've always been a reader."

My bag remained slung around my shoulder.

"This shade is gorgeous, Miss..." It was Lorelei. Always complimenting a woman.

"Hunter. But call me Tracy. And thank you. It was one of the most expensive things I ever did. I'm just glad I still like it. God knows I don't make the money I used to."

They made their way over to the plush, forest green couch, the color contrasting beautifully with the walls. Lorelei sat down on the matching armchair. Aunt Tracy's coffee table was scattered with opened mail and glass drinking cups. She'd never been the cleanest person in the world, but she always tried.

The hardwood floor felt cool and smooth under my bare feet as I wandered around, feeling nostalgic like I hadn't seen her house since that day we left to go with my mother. To be fair, it had been a while. Over a year. Mom didn't want Aunt Tracy and I talking.

The walls were adorned with Aunt Tracy's collection of vibrant paintings, some new, some old. I paused in front of a particularly captivating piece that must've been a new one—a swirling mix of blues and purples that seemed to depict a stormy sea. The artist's name, Sarah Hartley, was signed at the bottom in elegant cursive.

I heard the two women prepare to dive into a conversation full of playful banter regarding none other than myself, like how things had been and what exactly Lorelei's job title was.

Now that I think of it, maybe Lorelei didn't have any other clients to see that day. On the other hand, Aunt Tracy could always get on with anyone. She said it was a blessing and a curse, because it could both speed things up and slow things down. In the case of a curse, I'd take that curse right off her hands.

𖥔

An hour passed.

Aunt Tracy set down a mug of bubbling hot cocoa on the table in front of me, steam rising and dancing in the air above it. The rich, brown liquid swirled around the edges of the mug, tempting me with its warmth and sweetness.

The relentless pitter-patter of rain against the window only grew stronger, accompanied by a haunting whistle of wind. The gray sky loomed overhead, which I enjoyed. It was the kind of weather that seeps into your bones and makes you yearn for warmth and comfort. And that's exactly what I found myself in - curled up in a thick wool throw blanket at my aunt's kitchen table in her cozy house, like a cocoon of protection. Less than twenty-four hours prior, I was shivering on a hard cot in a frigid shelter. Now, I felt like I'd hit the cosmic jackpot.

"I saw an ad for this 'unhappy teenagers' support group in the newspaper at the grocery store yesterday. I meant to call and see if you wanted to start going." Aunt Tracy's mid-size figure sunk into the chair, the dark wood creaking slightly under her weight. "I guess now that you're here, I should just sign you up."

The marshmallows danced and dissolved into the hot cocoa, creating a creamy, sweet concoction. "It's for teenagers?" I asked, stirring with a tall, thin straw.

"Just teenagers. You know, the building it's in is actually where the Board of Education used to be? Dumb decision, in my humblest opinion. The new one is smaller and farther away."

Aunt Tracy's suggestion to join a support group for unhappy teenagers didn't offend me. After all, I was exactly that—an unhappy teenager. Moreover, the idea of joining a support group seemed strangely appealing. I'd never been good at socializing; in every group, I was the outsider, someone others kept at arm's length. Even those I considered friends eventually drifted away. The only person who had ever truly stuck by my side was Tori, but she was long gone.

Soon enough, the conversation shifted to enrolling me in school, a topic that had been on my mind for a while. Even before Ray came into the picture, I hadn't found much joy in school, especially after Tori moved away. It felt like a monotonous cycle I could never quite keep up with.

"You might see some of your friends from elementary school," she mentioned. "Like Tori? Remember her?"

How could I forget her?

"She's not in Jersey anymore," I mumbled gravely. "I didn't have any other friends in elementary school."

She took another sip from her hot cocoa. "Okay, then you'll make new friends. Donna, please, don't be so negative. Mindset has more of an impact on you than you think. Speak good things on yourself."

That word again. Negative. Always negative, always complaining, always unhappy.

When we first came to Jersey City, there was tension between Mom and me. She avoided spending time with me because she claimed I was "too negative." I didn't mean to be negative. It's a common belief that you can only show anger or frustration to your parents for so long before it's seen as disrespect, or in their words, "having an attitude." As a result, I bottled everything up and became one bitter pre-teen.

Aunt Tracy noticed my expression of annoyance and attempted to reword her statement.

"Donna," she sighed, placing her mug back down. "You're stronger than you think. Try to make some new friends this year. Try to get out more. Be on your computer less. I don't think all that dark media you consume is doing you any favors. What you need to be doing is reading the Bible and going back to church. When you were with me, you went to church every Sunday."

So classic. The old "just do this one thing and everything will magically change" advice. As if making friends and being more social was as simple as flipping a switch. I wish it was.

I'll be fair here. Aunt Tracy had good intentions, but she didn't truly understand. In that way. she was just like everyone else.

"You don't get it," I said, sounding a little more unconcerned than I actually was. "People don't want to be my friend."

A/N: Lorelei is the case manager, not the therapist, and it won't me unbold Part One :,)