The Kind of Friends We Used to Be by Frances O'Roark Dowell

brownies and pumpkin pie and snickerdoodles.”
    “They ought to call it the ‘Let’s Get Fat’Club,” Marcie sneered. Marcie was always bragging about what a naturally thin person she was, but as Kate watched her scarf down five Oreo cookies, she had to wonder how long that would last.
    “Let me see that paper,” Kate said to Marcie, reaching her hand across the table. She scanned the list, mentally checking off the clubs she would never join, such as Madrigal Singers—she was an okay singer, but she hated wearing long dresses, which the Madrigal Singers had to do at their concerts—and Hobby Club, which she had heard was filled with boys who collected stamps and built replicas of Hogwarts out of toothpicks. Really, there were only two clubs Kate could imagine joining, Drama Club and the Creative Writing Club. Only she knew Drama Club was out of the question, because you did a lot of stuff on nights and weekends, and Kate’s parents were totally against that.
    Besides, Kate thought if she joined the Creative Writing Club, she might get feedback on her lyrics. Lyrics were a kind of poetry, right? Maybe there would be other songwritersin Creative Writing. Maybe they could start a singer/songwriter/guitar player club. At the high school where Kate’s sister Tracie was a sophomore, they had a Friday night coffeehouse, where people came and read poems and sang songs they’d written and played guitar. Acoustic guitar, Tracie had pointed out, not electric, but that was okay. Maybe Kate would switch over to acoustic guitar. Maybe the kids in the Creative Writing Club could start a Friday night coffeehouse at Brenner P. Dunn Middle School.
    The girl who made the Creative Writing Club presentation after school at Club Day didn’t strike Kate as the singer/songwriter/guitar player type, but Kate thought she shouldn’t judge people by appearances. This girl, who was wearing a denim jumper over a black turtleneck shirt and a pair of scuffed brown clogs, might be making a statement. She might be saying, You don’t have to be glamorous to be a writer, you just have to have a deep soul and a few black items in your wardrobe. She could possibly have a guitar, Katetold herself as she signed up for the Creative Writing Club after the meeting, and shelves full of poetry books. Poets wore black all the time.
    I bet she’s got a pair of black boots in her closet almost exactly like mine, Kate thought as she walked toward the front of the school to catch the activities bus, but she’s too shy to wear them. Kate told herself she could be a good influence on the denim jumper girl. Don’t be afraid to wear big boots, she’d tell her after she’d gotten to know the girl a little bit. Don’t be afraid to be different. Different is better. Different is much more interesting.
    Different, Kate thought as she climbed on the bus, is everything.

    Different, it turned out, could also be sort of irritating. “My name is Madison LaCarte,” the denim jumper girl said at the first meeting of the Creative Writing Club, which took place on Thursday. “I’m related to Phyllis Petrie LaCarte, the famous author of historical novels, who is my great-aunt.” Madison took a moment to lookproud before adding, “I am following in her footsteps, of course. I have four hundred and twenty-nine pages of a novel set in medieval France. I would be happy to make copies for anyone who’s interested, for the price of ten dollars, which covers all copying costs.”
    No one was interested, which did not surprise Kate one bit. You could tell just by looking at Madison LaCarte, who was once again wearing a jumper, this one made from tan corduroy material covered with red and yellow autumn leaves, that she was the kind of person who did tons of research and would include every fact she found in her book. You could also tell that her book would be incredibly boring, even if the writing was okay. Sadly, Kate was pretty sure now that Madison LaCarte did not have