A/N: Hi everyone! This is a story I finsihed a whle ago but decided to re-write in a different style. I hope it goes down well... I know this is only a very short chapter but I'd really appreciate any feedback from anyone. I'll probably update often but not on a regular day so just keep an eye out. Thanks so much and sorry if I miss out any letter 'i's in my writing - my keyboard is dodgy. I hope you enjoy my story x


Sunday 19th July 1992

I went to the post office today. I go in there a lot to buy postcards or Fudge bars or magazines unlike my brother who's always playing with his friends in the park or on the beach. He makes friends easily, my brother. I'm not shy or cowardly, really, I'm not; I'm just not good with strangers so I keep to myself. I've never had any close friends. I've been invited to birthday parties and sleepovers and all the girls are nice to me but I've never had any best friends. I've spent many play and lunch times sitting alone, reading. I love to read and I love to write and that's why when I saw you, pretty little book I just couldn't wait to take you to my favourite oak tree in Water's Edge and write anything and everything I could think of.

It was very sunny this afternoon. I'd been here by the oak tree writing in you since lunchtime and still I sit. Before I started I just admired your stitched covering. I love the butterflies. They're all over your front and a couple on your back. You are lilac and small (A5 to be precise) and have French writing in a swirly and almost illegible scrawl. I decided to try to decipher it later; then was for writing. I stroked your cover one last time ('hand-made, wee lass, of cotton finely spun!') before opening you up to reveal thick, lined paper. I unclicked my favourite pen and began to write: Property of Victoria Jackson and circled it with a heart.

'Perfect." I whisper.

'What's perfect?' asked a boy. I look up to see my brother looking back at me.

'Oh, nothing.' I reply.

'Tori? Do you have any money? I fancy an ice-cream and well-'

'-you spent your pocket money already?' I suggest and he replies with a nod and a grin. 'Whatever.' I hand him some cash and tell him to get me one while he's there. 'Don't bother me again! I'm busy.' I call after him as he runs back to join his friends.

Only fifteen minutes pass when I realise that Mum wanted us home in ten minutes. We're going to be late.

When I arrive back at my Great Aunt's house (seven minutes later than planned) dinner is ready and Great Aunt Eileen and Mum want to know what we've been up to. Zac explains his whole day: all the games he's played, all the little girls he's frightened, all the kids he's played football with etc... Aunt Eileen comments and laughs at all the appropriate moments while my mum listens half-heartedly and continues her work in silence. One of the reasons we come to Devon is so me and my brother can enjoy the parks and beaches and my Uncle's farm while she works. It's a friendly coast-line neighbourhood so we're perfectly safe and everything is close by so she doesn't drive us anywhere like she does home in London and there's Aunt Eileen to cook and clean which is a nice change for Mum. Mum works from home but she works a lot. She's always there at the school gates, smiling as we tell her all about our day in the car on the way home but there are times when she has so much work that even in the holidays her mind is somewhere else. Somewhere with computers and graphics and confusing stuff I don't understand.

'What about you, Tori?' I snap back to reality at the mention of my name. 'What did you do today?'

'Oh, well...' I begin sheepishly. Embarrassing, it is, that my eight-year-old brother's daily social life is by far more exciting than mine. 'Y'know, I just hung out really. By myself.'

'Darlin', don't you have any friends to play with?' my aunt asks in a thick Devonshire accent. Zac sniggers and I shoot him an envious look.

'I like being alone!' I huff, 'and I'd quite like to be alone at the moment too.' I pick my little book off of the table and run quickly up to the room I'm sharing with my Mum. Locking the door behind me I dive onto the king-sized bed and lie on the soft, baby blue duvet cover. After a few wasted minutes of staring at the ceiling I open my book and continue my writing.

Why am I so terrible at making friends? I'm a nice person, aren't I? Or maybe I'm not. Socially Awkward, that's what I am.

Dinner today was a disaster but it is true. I don't have any friends.

I promise myself that tomorrow I will find a real friend...