Author's Note: My headcanon attacked last night at about one in the morning and I ended up plotting out each of the Poets' futures. And thus this was spawned, although I also started another fic in which it follows the adults and not the kids, and is also from a third person POV. But I digress.

Disclaimer: DPS does not belong to me :(

I don't even know where to begin. All I know is that by the end of the term I'm required to have this book filled with my thoughts and words I will fail my mandatory English course despite the fact that I'll still slave over essays and reports that have nothing to do with this journal. In fact, all we have to do is flip the pages in front of Ms. Schooner to prove that there is handwriting on them. And since nobody wants to lend their journal out, we young Henley women are all stuck with this pointless, time-wasting assignment.

I'm currently scrawling at the small kitchen table. There're only four seats, and since it's circular there isn't really a head position. My chair sits opposite Murphy, my insane older brother, and my dad sits with his back to the window, facing mom. If she was still around, that is. She left about three years ago, when I was thirteen and probably needed her the most. Dad did the best he could, although I feel that Maxi-pad is still his arch-nemesis, but for what it's worth, Murphy used his dashing good looks (gag) and charm (ha!) to snare some of his female friends into helping me. Which, although horribly embarrassing, was kind of sweet of him.

My best friend, Gertie Meeks, was a late bloomer, so she couldn't exactly help me in that department, but she definitely stood by me through those first few months when our family was a bit of a wreck. Our house was a mess (since I'm pretty sure dad was using the maids to help him cope in more ways than just cleanliness), Murphy began to blaze a trail through his sexual experiences (I think he was just taking after dad, considering Murphy didn't know how else to handle the situation and he had always copied the old man), and my cramps started the morning after mom left (but I sure as hell wasn't contacting her after she had just deserted us). And maybe it wasn't fair of me to judge her so harshly; she must have had her reasons, but just because something is hard doesn't mean you just bail. I was just a kid.

I'm still just a kid.

Needless to say, no one is allowed to sit in mom's chair.