The Curious Exploits and Adventures of Emerson Nevers

Chapter One

Emmy snapped her laptop shut with a deep sigh of contentment. Her latest article was a work of art: brilliant, original; and best of all, even a few hours early. Emmy hummed victoriously as she slipped her laptop into her bag and meandered out of the coffeehouse. Her bag thumped reassuringly against her back with each step, a solid reminder of who she was and what she did. 

"I am a strong, independent, capable, and creative woman," Emmy said, glancing about her. "Who talks to herself like a lunatic." 

Emmy's key stuck in the lock, again. Eventually, she persuaded it open, and dumped her bag on the window seat on the way to the fridge. "Oh look. Completely empty. Again. Guess it's peanut butter again." 

"No," Quinn opened the door that divided Emmy's apartment off from the main house. "No peanut butter. No. Get in here and let me make you real food." 

Emmy followed Quinn into a crowded, steamy kitchen, where several pots were steaming, a tangle of children and dogs of various sizes tussled on the floor, and a small army of mismatched, comfortable chairs around an ancient heavily worn and deeply scarred wooden table. 

Emmy pulled the door to her apartment firmly shut and latched it, then slouched into a well-padded chair and surrendered to the bustling chaos. 

Emmy scowled down at the frustratingly blank screen, tapping a pen against the top of her head,  growling lightly. 

Pushing her chair back, Emmy thunked her head down on the desk, enjoying the resounding thud that ensued. Sighing deeply, Emmy powered down, threw her pen across the room, and rummaged about for some passably clean pj's. Emmy climbed into bed, knowing that the next day would be as unpredictable and flustered as only Quinn could make it. 

Emmy couldn't WAIT. 

Sitting in the very formal and dignified leather chair at the huge imposing desk, Emmy felt like a kindergartener who has been naughty and sent to a principle who is less than friendly or forgiving. Emmy tapped her feet lightly against a leg of her chair, then glanced over at Quinn, whose hands were clenched so hard they looked as though they would break off in pieces. 

Emmy reached over and touched her shoulder. "It's going to be just FINE," Emmy muttered. 

"I know, I know that," Quinn hissed back. 

"Then why do you get all, all twitterpated? EVERY time?" 

Just then, a very rotund man in a terribly unflattering suit wobbled into the room, nearly dragging a rather sullen, rather reluctant tiny human by one arm. 

"Sign here, and the little sunbeam's all yours," the man's gruff voice said, reminding Emmy of nothing so much as a particularly old engine revving up. Emmy and Quinn both grabbed pens, scribbling their names on appropriate lines, while Emmy grew steadily more impatient with the mountain of forms. Finally they were finished, and Quinn grabbed the child's hand and smiled encouragingly as she led the way out of the room. "Here we go again," Emmy muttered, rolling her eyes. 

"Stupid sheets." 

Emmy was fumbling with a rocketship-printed sheet that refused to lie properly on the mattress. A few more moments of wrestling, and it submitted and lay flat on the bed. A soft green comforter and a pillow, and the bed was ready. 

Quinn popped her head through the door. "Ready?" 

"No," Emerson threw over her shoulder as she clumped down the hall and unlatched the door. "Gimme a minute."