I had never been as afraid, as much of a nervous wreck, as I was that Saturday night.

They all stared at me like an alien. The pretty girl from 3D, the punk rocker in 2B that played his guitar loud enough at night that I could hear him through the floor, the building manager who had gone red in the face when he saw what I did to my writing room. I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat at the far end of the table, away from where they were all gathered, wishing I could run away.

But Elizabeth had already found me another apartment, at the top of a high rise full of a hundred other people who would want to talk to me and touch me and…I shivered with disgust at the thought of it. At least the three story building I lived in now was more than half empty. And of that half, most of them worked at night. It meant there was only eight people at the table, including myself.

I focused my gaze on the table, trying to hide my red face by staring at one of the candles. They’d really gone all out for their bi-weekly dinner; the white tablecloth was pretty, and they’d taken out good china, heavy silver candlesticks placed in between dishes loaded with food that smelled heavenly. Any other day, I would have been delighted- but I was too terrified to be able to eat.

The boy next to me shifted in his seat, and I flinched away. He gave me an odd look that only made my face heat more, and all I wanted to do was run out of the room. I couldn’t do that. I was stuck in my seat, because the building manager had made it clear I was expected to stay at least an hour into the dinner.

I was pleasantly surprised that nobody really tried to talk to me. They let me sit at my end of the table, quiet as a mouse- and eventually I settled down enough that I was able to eat. A few times, I was even able to produce a smile when somebody looked my way. It was such an impossible thing for me that I spent most of the night grinning at my plate, happy that I was able to manage as much as I did.

Finally, the hour was up, and people started to drift away from the table. As soon as the building manager left, I was on my feet, ready to leave. I was stopped before I got even two steps away from the table, jerking to a stop so I didn’t hit the body that was suddenly in front of me. I stared at their shoes, ratty black sneakers, and couldn’t help but regret that the peaceful time was over.

“So, what’s your name, then?”

I looked up and quailed at the reminder of who had been sitting across from me all night. That dark-haired thing from 3C, the one that lived across from me and kept me from getting my package. He looked puzzled by the glare I gave him, but tried to reassure me with an encouraging smile that made me cringe.

“Uhm… er… it’s Joe. J-Joe Taylor.” I barely managed to get it out without biting my tongue, but I was very proud of myself for doing so.

3C smiled, looking just as proud. “Nice to meet you, Joe Taylor. I’m Kisten Jones.”

For a moment, the author inside of me came out. “Your name is gorgeous!” I gasped, excited. I reached in my back pocket for the journal I always kept with me. The leather cover was firmly creased from being opened so many times, so the book fell open in my hands. Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I quickly scribbled his name down- just the first, his last name was cardstock boring.

I was distracted from my scribbling by laughter; looking up, I found Kisten looking down at me with a grin. “Stealing my name, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Then I at least get to see what you’re stealing it for.”

I knew he was reaching for the journal. But seeing his hand getting inexorably closer to me, knowing his fingers could accidentally brush mine- knowing he could do it on purpose if he wanted to- I immediately jerked back, hitting the table hard.

“Shit!” The punk rocker yelped, his chair falling over. I spun around, eyes wide, and realized that in bumping the table, I’d knocked over three of the candles. The pretty white tablecloth was good kindling, and soon the fire rose to an impressive size. I backed away from the table, and felt a hand on my shoulder. I jerked at the contact, a small whimper rising in my throat before I whirled away from the hand, running for the door.

“Stop, you idiot, you’re just fanning the flames!” That was the pretty girl, I knew, and I turned with my hand on the doorknob.

The punk rocker was trying to put out the fire by using his leather jacket as a fan, but it was only helping the fire grow larger. The pretty girl snatched it from his hands and used it to beat at the flames; he fought to take it back from her, yelling about how expensive it was.

“Both of you shut up!” They were drenched, as was the table, as Kisten hurled the pitcher full of soda they’d been using for dinner over the fire. It was a huge pitcher, several gallons, and was more than enough to make the fire fizzle to a stop and soak both 3D and 2B.

Once the fire was out, the panic died- and every eye turned to me, the one that had caused it. I felt the heat rise quickly back to my face. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. Kisten took a step toward me, a hand raised like he was going to reach out to me- so I turned tail and fled, scampering up the stairs, running full tilt until I could slam my door behind me.