Secrets and Squeezy Jam

Chapter 1                                                                                                      

As if starting a new school isn’t embarrassing enough they have to go and make us

 

write all about ourselves. Knowing my luck I'll be the chosen one who has to get up in front

 

of the class and read it aloud. First day of term and the homework is already getting on my

 

nerves.  I lay my pen on the desk and scan my bedroom for some inspiration. Somehow I don’t

 

think the English teacher wants to hear about the pile of dirty clothes on the floor or the fact

 

that I’ve almost managed to cover up all of the kiddy pink wallpaper with my posters. Suppose I

 

could write about all of them, the singers and actors that watch over me. I catch Roofus’s eye as

 

he stretches out on my bed, leaving hundreds more of his prickly little white Jack Russell hairs

 

on my purple throw. Maybe if I write a really awful story, painfully boring with no funny events

 

or quirky character traits, just a plain old run of the mill, day to day suburban life of

 

the average 13 year old, they’ll leave me alone. Yeah right, as if I could do that. Up until now my

 

life has been many things, unpredictable, happy, heartbreaking, but never ordinary.

 

 

For a start it's pretty impossible to have a normal life when you don't even have

 

a normal name. My parents, being the new age, artistic, open minded type they were,

 

saddled, no cursed me with the craziest of all crazy names. For some reason I'll never

 

quite understand they took one look at my cute, ten minute old baby face and decided,

 

'Yes, she looks like a Serendipity, doesn't she.'
 

I kid you not, that really is my name. Now of course you'd be forgiven for thinking just

 

how does this poor girl go through life with such a curse? 'Serendipity do your

 

homework, Serendipity come in for your tea, no Serendipity I've told you before you

 

can't change your name to Holly or Molly (I'd settle for Dolly or Polly at this stage). So

 

despite their best intentions my parents were forced by sheer convenience to shorten my

 

name and from the time I could talk I have been Reny. Reny Miller, delighted to make

 

your acquaintance.


Okay well I've managed to write my name and class number on the page, that's a start. It's

 

odd because I usually can't stop myself when I start writing or talking for that matter, but

 

this is different. I wonder how those celebrities write whole books about themselves, just                                                                                                     

 

how do they remember everything that's ever happened to them? Perhaps that's why they

 

all need ghost writers to transport them back to their past, you know like that old guy

 

Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. I'd like that, the chance to go back, before it happened, but

 

not if it meant having to go through the times after it too.


'Reny....dinners on the table.’ My Dad hollers up the stairs.

 

His voice raises Roofus from his comfortable slumber and his ears perk up at the sound of

 

mealtime. Don’t know why he’s no excited.

 

‘Oh I wonder what it is Roofus?’ I ask him as he lowers his head to one side. ‘I’ll give you one

 

guess.’
 

'Coming.’ I mumble as I gladly postpone my assignment.

It’s Shephard’s Pie again for dinner tonight. Dad always makes a big dish of the stuff

 

on a Sunday and serves it up until at least Tuesday. God love him for trying to provide

 

me with a well balanced, nutritious, good old Irish meal, but it’s so boring. What I 

 

wouldn't give to come down those stairs just one Monday night and see, oh I don't know,

 

something mildly exotic like fajitas or even a spicy sausage. I'm really not fussy, just

 

anything other than Shephard's Pie.

 

'Thanks Dad.’ I say as he places a larger than usual portion in front of me.
 

'Gave you a bit extra tonight, you're probably starved after your first day in secondary school. So

 

how was it, worse or better than you imagined?'
 

'It was ok I guess, school is school isn't it. It’s just as poxy as primary school but with lots more

 

homework and more cool kids not to make friends with.’ I manage to sound even more

 

pessimistic than I’d intended.
 

Dad sits up and adopts his fatherly speech face.
 

'You know, it's not the most important thing in the world to be popular Reny. You have

 

good friends, Sam, Dee and what's that girl's name, the one who was sleepwalking in the

 

kitchen the last time she stayed over?'
 

'Olivia.’ I answer.
 

'That's the one, yeah so don't be worried about making new friends, that will

 

come in time. Just give yourself a chance to settle in.'
 

'Yea whatever Dad.’ What I really wanted to say was what the hell would you know

 

about it, when were you last at school, 100 years ago? They probably still wrote on stone

 

slabs with chisels.
 

Instead I change the subject.
 

'So how was work, did you hear any more about the budget cuts?'
 

Dad had mentioned last week that his firm was having a bit of bother. I'd expected as

 

much, I mean it was impossible to ignore the recession happening around me, no matter

 

how hard I tried to avoid the 9 o'clock news. And with my Dad being an architect, his job
 

seems to be no longer required. The country has more houses and office blocks than it

 

knows what to do with.
 

After swallowing his forkful, Dad spoke. 'You just let me worry about that love, that's

 

grown up stuff.'

I hate when he does that. I've just turned 13; surely I'm old enough to know what's going on? I

 

mean if he's going to lose his job and we have to leave the house, emigrate to some hot

 

foreign country, like Australia or America, where there are sandy beaches, 24 hour diners

 

and all the cute boys a girl could ever want, I'll have to know about it sometime right?
 

It does worry me though, that he doesn't really have anyone to talk to. I have Mum, we

 

talk every night. I tell her all about my day, ask her advice, what would she have done

 

when she was my age. I keep a photo of her under my pillow, she’s beautiful in it, just like a

 

movie star. It’s the best part of my day though, those few moments between reality and sleep.

 

She never really says much, my mother, but I know she's listening, always.