Thirty-One
You’re my . . . cheerleader
Standing on the side
Pep talks for miles
I couldn’t do it without you
‘Cheerleader’ from
The Brink of Teenage Freedom
I am shaken by Ms Harkness knowing my secret. The next day, I keep looking around, as if the news will suddenly break and everyone will know.
‘Why are you so concerned, anyway?’ asks Kira, at lunch. ‘I thought you stood by what you wrote.’
It’s a pointed comment, and one I am going to ignore.
‘It’s part of the mystique of the Secret Sender,’ I say. ‘It’s literally in the name, “Secret”. Nobody is going to care if it’s me.’
Kira rolls her eyes. ‘They might care if it’s you when they find out they’re your opinions.’
‘Let’s not fight,’ says Faye, holding out her arms. ‘I have some news.’
‘What?’ we say.
‘The Chelsea seamstress has taken me on for next year! I had to go there and beg, but I’ve got it.’
‘Designer Faye, here we go,’ says Kira, snapping her fingers. ‘Hey, you can design all my power suits for when I’m running this place.’
‘Why, Madam Prime Minister, I would love to be your fashion designer of choice,’ says Faye, mock curtseying. I shake my head in bemusement.
‘Now I’ve got into LSE, I feel much better about things,’ says Kira.
‘Wait – what—?’ I say.
‘I wanted to tell you guys in person,’ Kira grins wickedly at us, ‘and now seems like a good enough time.’ She spreads her arms out. ‘This girl is on her way out of here.’
I feel pure delight for Kira. Faye and I pull her into a group hug.
‘This isn’t gloating, is it?’ says Kira.
I know she’s mocking my article, but I’m too happy for her. ‘No jokes. This is celebrating,’ I say, holding her. ‘I’m really happy for you.’
‘See, Selena,’ says Kira, grabbing my arms. ‘Improbable things can happen. I can get into LSE, Faye can get her placement, and you can get this newspaper work experience.’
‘You’ve been working hard for this your whole life! I don’t think LSE was ever improbable.’
‘Everything is improbable when it feels like the odds are stacked against you. Look at me – if I didn’t try for any opportunity that didn’t have people like me there, I wouldn’t do anything.
Just because you think the world is full of people like Tori, who have been prepping their whole lives, with contacts, doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough. You’ve got to try.’
‘Yeah, now we’ve worked out what we’re doing next year, it’s only you left,’ says Faye. ‘And we’ve got your back.’
I nod, but inside I know, even though they’ve got my back, I’m the one who’s got to do the work.
***
I don’t know what to put on my application for the Croydon Post. Kira and Ms Harkness are right, I should apply and see what happens next.
But now the question is: what do I say? I’m in a writing rut.
And I need to submit this soon: it’s now Saturday afternoon, the deadline is tomorrow and I’ve been working on it all day . . .
The application is a statement on why I want to do the experience, written as a column article.
But I’m blank.
Well, not blank, it’s more that what I’ve written so far doesn’t sound good.
I’ve written about how much I like writing and English.
I’ve alluded to the school newspaper, without calling out any specifics.
All together the whole thing sounds vague and boring.
I wouldn’t give me a place with this! I’ve put Rose Conrad on full blast for inspiration, and still nothing.
It’s not just my work experience application that I’m lacking ideas for. I look at my latest draft for the Secret Sender next week. It’s not good.
Today’s Take: It’s time to take a break
Feeling burnt out? Like there’s too much going on? You are not alone. Winter makes the days feel endless, and the constant pressure of school and deadlines doesn’t help. So indulge yourself, take a break—
I stop reading. It’s pretty garbage, and I know it. This isn’t a unique point of view.
A point of view. That is what I need. Something that is mine, and mine alone.
I sigh and text Ty.
A few minutes later, Ty knocks on our front door.
I run downstairs to open it.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I say, stepping aside.
‘Well, I have walked all the way here.’
‘A long and treacherous way.’ I laugh.
It’s the first time he’s been inside our house, rather than meeting in our gardens. November is truly here, the clocks have changed and it’s perpetually dark and cold.
He takes off his shoes and looks around.
‘Looks a bit different from your home,’ I say, crossing my arms. I’ve not been next door since Ollie left, but last time I was there it had a chandelier in the hallway, not an IKEA lampshade.
‘Yeah,’ he says, following me to the living room. ‘It looks like a real home.’
We sit on the sofa, and I hug a cushion to myself.
‘So why the mystery invitation?’ he says.
I shrug. ‘I wanted to talk to you, and it’s getting too cold to randomly keep bumping into each other outdoors.’
‘What do you want to talk about?’ he says, leaning back into the sofa. ‘I can’t stay long, I have to help Daze with his homework before dinner. Dad wants to see it done by then and long division isn’t Daze’s strong point.’
‘I’m applying for work experience at the local newspaper,’ I say.
‘That’s great, Writer,’ he says, a slow grin spreading over his face. ‘I’m proud of you.’
I sigh. ‘The trouble is, I need to do the application. Like, in a day.’
‘So write it out, that’s what you’re good at.’
‘I need to say why I want to do the experience. And everything I write about it sounds rubbish.’
Ty leans back into the sofa.
‘Let’s talk it through. Why do you want to do the experience?’
‘Because I like writing for the school newspaper and it’ll be cool to see what it’s like to write for a real one.’
‘So just say that.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not that simple. No one knows I’m the Secret Sender. Apart from you, Faye and Kira. And Ms Harkness now, I guess.’
‘Who’s Ms Harkness?’
‘My English teacher. She found out I’m the Secret Sender and said I should apply for the work experience.’
‘Sounds like she’s a good teacher,’ he says.
‘The point is, being the Secret Sender, is, well . . . a secret. I can’t go and put it in an application form.’
Ty shakes his head. ‘I don’t think they’re going to tell anyone. You need to put it in, because it’s the truth and anything you write will sound fake without it.’
‘I know,’ I say and close my eyes. There’s another weight on my chest, pressing down on me. ‘What if I’m not good enough?’ I say, quietly.
Ty leans forwards. ‘Selena, I call you Writer because that’s what you are. Didn’t you say you liked writing for the newspaper?’
‘Yeah, but . . . ’ I look away from him, towards the window.
‘But what?’
‘But no one knows it’s me. And it’s more freeing that way. This application, they’ll know it’s me, they’ll judge me. And I’m no Tori.’
‘Wait, who’s Tori?’
‘Tori is the editor for the newspaper. She’s wanted to be a journalist her whole life. And it sounds like she has one of these three places in the bag already.’
‘So what, there’s still two other places.’
‘Ty, I took this up a month ago. Because Kira submitted me without telling me! And I write five-line articles. It’s not exactly investigative journalism!’
‘But that’s not what journalism has to look like. Most people are consuming a few lines of social media posts at a time. The fact you can capture people with a few lines, that’s an impressive skill. Probably more than whatever Tori is doing.’
‘People do talk about the Secret Sender the most,’ I say thoughtfully.
‘Writer, you’ve got to try.’ He leans forwards, his eyes dark. ‘Otherwise you’ll never know. And the only way is to tell your story. The real reason why you write. The real reason you should be the person to get the opportunity to learn more about telling stories.’
‘You’ve got all that from a couple of Secret Sender articles?’
‘No, it’s because . . . you’re a natural storyteller,’ he says, touching my hand. ‘And I want to keep listening to you. You’ve got this.’
I nod, unable to rip my eyes from him. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You’re right. I can do this.’
He winks at me. ‘I normally am right.’
I throw the cushion at him. ‘You know, sometimes I forget how annoying you are.’
‘But incredibly charming, right?’ He grins.
‘I wish I had another cushion to throw at you.’ I go to pick up the cushion by him. ‘Do you really think I can do it?’
He grabs me by the wrist, electricity sparking down my veins at his touch. ‘I really do.’
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ I say, looking down to where his hand is clasped around my wrist.
‘What?’
‘Grabbing my wrist.’
He stands up, his eyes even darker, lets go of my wrist. ‘It feels like the safest place to touch you.’
I feel there’s layers of meaning to the statement, but I don’t want to probe any deeper. If I’m honest, I’m afraid of what I might find.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
‘Good. I now need to get to homework duty,’ he says, smiling at me, before heading for the door.
‘Oh, before you go, you’re invited to my birthday party in a few weeks – it’s on Friday first of December,’ I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. ‘I assumed I was invited, as you came up with the idea in front of me. And I live next door.’
‘Take this as a formal invitation,’ I say, unable to stop myself smiling.
‘I’ll be there.’ He laughs. He turns around briefly, pauses. ‘Is Ollie coming to your birthday?’
I look out the window. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘he texted that he was really excited to come.’
‘Good for you, Writer,’ says Ty, waving a hand and leaving.
Good for me indeed.
Selena Pia: Your future journalist
I’ve always been a storyteller. It’s been a part of me as far as I can remember.
From being sentimental over the change of seasons, and trying to understand people’s motives and reasons, to giving overt meaning to ice cream flavour stamps (a story for another time).
I’ve found stories, both real and fictional, a way to escape and a way to convey how I really feel.
I never realised that could be journalism . . . until this year.
For the past few years, I’ve been sending my friends these texts called ‘Selena Says’.
They were observations of what I thought and the daily news from around the school and our community.
It became a discussion point for the three of us.
A source of debate and laughter. Of keeping up with what was happening.
It was a microcosm of news, but only the news that mattered to us.
When my friend suggested I should send them in to the school newspaper, I initially was resistant. Who would care about my mundane thoughts? Well, to cut a long story short, they ended up in the newspaper. And it turned out . . . a lot of people cared about my thoughts.
I write as the ‘Secret Sender’ in my student newspaper, a columnist who has a lot to say on what’s going on in the school.
Every week, my short, five-line column is the most-talked about piece in the school.
It might not be breaking news, but it’s a pulse on what everyone is feeling at the time.
A document of the current status of our corner of the world. And if that isn’t news, what is?
I don’t know if I want to be a hard-hitting investigative journalist – that’s the truth. I don’t have any connections, and I haven’t been doing this for years. But I want to tell stories, and I want people to read them, and I want to get better at it.
So please take a chance on a writer like me.
I submit the application to the sound of Rose Conrad’s ‘Let’s Get Going’ echoing around my bedroom. Another big moment marked by another song. Let’s hope it brings me luck.