The Daily Woes and Joys of a Girl Named Serbia

QueenSusanofNarnia

QueenSusanofNarnia

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The Daily Woes and Joes of a Girl Named Serbia, and How That All Changed When She Met Fraz,
or Serbia​
Following my encounter with a boy named Fraz, I realized something. Was ‘Serbia’ such a strange name after all? The poor boy named Fraz was much worse off. I mean, honestly, Fraz. It’s like, frazzled. Or frizzle. Or even – God forbid – that wretched, preposterous word that sparked the appallingly childish book I detested with almost every fiber in my being: frindle. But I’ll get back to Fraz later. At least Serbia is a place. A cool place. I mean, there were tigers there, and do you know what it’s internet extension is? I do: .rs. And how do I know that, you might ask? Probably because I spend abnormally excessive amounts of time on CIA.gov’s World Fact Book, and, when you spend abnormally excessive amounts of CIA.gov’s World Fact Book, you learn things, like the fact the country for which I was named is slightly smaller than South Carolina, USA.
I don’t live in South Carolina, however. I live at these coordinates: 38° 53′ 24″ N, 77° 1′ 48″ W. If you can figure out where that is, props to you. If you can’t…no props to you. In 2007, I was one of 588,292 people living in that city. The Reginald family: Damian, my father, and his six wonderful children (my elder brothers Dylan, 17, and Jack, 16; my older twin brother, Mark, and I, both 15; and my younger brothers, Harry, 10, and Robbie, 5). And their wonderful pets, all named par moi, after book characters: the dogs – Padfoot, Fang, and Total; the cats, Crookshanks, McGonagall, and Aslan; and the snake (which belonged to Harry), named Basilisk. Appropriate much? I think so.
My mother is dead. Honestly, I don’t know how else to express that. It’s simple, really. Well, I take that back. It’s really not simple at all, to tell the truth. I think it was my mother who named me Serbia, and on purpose, too. Somehow, I like to imagine, she knew I would be her only daughter, and wanted something…different. She and my father had made an agreement, I knew: he’d get to name the boys, if she got to name the girls. She got her wish, too. I miss her – we all do. I often discuss this with my older brothers later at night, after we’re sure Harry and Robbie have gone to bed. For example, tonight.
We were sitting in Jack’s room. His room was, like Dylan’s and the one the younger boys’ shared, very messy. The boys were flung across the chairs, but I myself was curled up on the window seat, gazing out into the dark black night, the only light a prick of a lamppost’s dying glow.
I glanced up when the door creaked open. Harry stuck his little brown haired head in. “Why aren’t you guys in bed?”
The boys looked at me. Maternal role time. I rolled off the window seat, landing on my feet, and went over to Harry, saying, “We’re just talking, Har. Go back to bed, okay? It’s late.”
Harry didn’t move, but quickly said, “I’m not tired.”
“But it’s late. You should get to bed.”
Harry shook his head. “No.”
I exchanged a glance with Mark, who came over as well and said, “Harry, you heard Serb, go to bed.” Harry shook his head harder, eyes wide with fear.
“Harry, what’s wrong?” I whispered urgently, bending down so I was face-to-face with him. “What’s wrong?”
He bit his lip and whispered very, very quietly, “There’s someone outside our window.”
 
Outside the window? Could it be Serbia's evil cousin Croatia? But seriously, this did a good job of setting up characters who are just eccentric enough to lure the reader in.
 
Copperfox said:
Outside the window? Could it be Serbia's evil cousin Croatia? But seriously, this did a good job of setting up characters who are just eccentric enough to lure the reader in.
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Thank you, CF!! :) And no, it isn't Serbia's evil cousin Croatia. She has no cousins, sadly. Both her parents were sibling-less; ergo, lots of children of their own. :)
 
xBella.MyEdwardx said:
This is actually a really good start! I envy your writing style! Definitely want to hear more. :D
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Aw, thanks Lila!! :) I'm currently working on chapter one - the first post was the prologue. Chapter one gives a lot more descriptions about the characters, like physical descriptions and such. I hope to have it done and posted tonight, and if not sometime soon.
 
QueenSusanofNarnia said:
Aw, thanks Lila!! :) I'm currently working on chapter one - the first post was the prologue. Chapter one gives a lot more descriptions about the characters, like physical descriptions and such. I hope to have it done and posted tonight, and if not sometime soon.
Click to expand...

Cool! I really can't wait. =]
 
Chapter One: The Man Outside the Window (The Appropriatly Titled Chapter)

Now, you might be going, Oh my God, why is there a man outside the window? Well, I was thinking…er, the same thing, actually. Because who doesn’t go, Oh my God, why is there a man outside the window? The logical answer is, Those who have no men outside their window. Which, hopefully, is the general majority of the population.
Dad wasn’t home – of course. Damian Reginald was hardly ever home, even this late at night. Before, right after Mom died and when Robbie was a baby, he wouldn’t even come home for more than a few hours at a time – he’d found sanctuary at his office, the massive multi-million dollar company he owned and founded, Reginald Technologies, which not only funded hundreds of massive technology companies, but also made their own tech stuff, such as the laptops and computers and MP3 players and televisions and other tech-y things we had at home.
Dylan was being a jerky sexist prig, and made me stay with Robbie and Harry in my room whilst he, Jack, and Mark examined le situation from the younger boys’ room.
Harry glanced at me. “You don’t think he’s going to rob us, do you, Serb?”
I shook my head. “No.” Truth was, I didn’t know. I was kind of scared myself.
“’Cause, like, when I was watching this one movie – with Jack, you know – there was this guy, and he just stood outside this lady’s house for, like, two days, but she didn’t call the cops, or anythin’, and then, he broke into her house and killed her and took all her stuff.”
Making a mental note to discuss his habits of showing our 10-year-old brother despicable films with Jack later, I shook my head again. “No, Harry, we’re fine, we’re safe.” Harry nodded and turned away, shoving his nose into a video game magazine. As he read, I studied his physique, and that of Robbie, who was eagerly staring the magazine over Harry’s shoulder, unable to comprehend the vast majority of the words that glared up at him, outside the scope of a 5-year-old’s vocabulary.
I don’t look too much like my brothers, though I considered now that I looked more like Mark, Dylan, and Jack than I did the younger two. I did have the same bronze-brown colored hair that we all had (though Harry’s was more brown) shared with our mother – Dad’s was a peppery-gray; but my eyes were blue, like the older boys and Dad, whilst Harry and Robbie had Mom’s brown eyes. Harry and Robbie still had their round faces, but Mark, Dylan, and Jack had all grown into their tall, lean, muscular frames. I often caught my friends ogling at Mark while he helped me make dinner when they were over, or at Dylan and Jack as they were bent over homework or playing video games, shouting at each other in unnecessarily loud voices. It really wasn’t quite fair that they, the pure incarnations of Evil Sister Annoyers, could possibly be considered that attractive by so many people, whilst I – little old I – am not even glanced at twice by boys. It was horribly unfair.
As Robbie pointed to a photo in the magazine and asked Harry a question about a game, Mark slipped into the room, beckoning me over to the corner where my laptop sat on my desk.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked, shoving a history paper over to sit on the desk.
Mark shrugged. “He’s just standing there. He’s not look up at the house; in fact, he’s got his back to it and is talking on a cell phone. All in all, not exactly un drôle de type.”
“Despite the fact it’s midnight,” I pointed out. Mark glared at me; well, excuse moi for pointing out the obvious, jeez. I sighed. “Is Dad coming home?”
Mark nodded. “Dylan called him. Needless to say, Dad was pretty mad that Dylan interrupted his work. But he’s coming home. In fact, he should be home soon…” His voice trailed off as he flipped open his cell phone and checked the time. Mark glanced at Harry and Robbie, whose voices began to escalade as they debated over some game. He looked back at me and, obviously reading my doubtful expression said, “Come on, Serb. You know Dad. ‘Never late, never – ’”
“‘ – never unhappy.’” Our father’s very choppy motto, if you were wondering. Just as I spoke, there were footsteps and Dylan popped his head in the doorway.
“Dad’s home.”

“A friend of yours?” Dylan said skeptically, perched on the arm of the couch, on which I sat with Jack and Mark; the younger boys had been told to stay in bed. Dad stood, facing us, his arms crossed across his chest.
“Yes.” Dad nodded, glancing over at the man, who stood near the doorway, hovering creepily. His long black coat was fringed and covered in pockets, old with wear. His thick, matted black hair hung in greasy, wet strands around his face, casting dark shadows around his black eyes. He wore gloves that, also black, cut off at the knuckles, revealing dirty, cut fingers and short nails.
Dad called him Deathwinder.
Hm. Bring on the creepy music, eh? Sort of. The man did creep me out a bit, but I’d read enough books to begin imagining he was a character right out of them – Dustfinger, from Inkheart, was my top hope; but I recalled as quickly as the thought had come into my mind that Dustfinger’s hair was gingery, and he had those awful scars, and I sighed internally when that hope was extinguished as quickly as one of the character’s fires. The man didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. Now that was kind of more than a “bit” creepy.
Then Jack said, “Well, then why was he standing outside the house?”
Dad glanced at this Deathwinder guy for a moment before replying. “We were supposed to meet, but I forgot.”
I didn’t blame Mark for barely stifling his snort: Dad was never late, and Dad never forgot. He was a very punctual, George Clooney-looking man. Unfortunately, yes, people have often told me he looks exactly like Mr. Clooney, which, actually, is quite a drag after a while, considering I didn’t think he looked too much like him at all, and the really depressing thing about that? My mother had loved George Clooney. Hm.
Suddenly Dad made a funny noise and a motion towards Deathwinder, who made a jerky motion with his hands, mumbling something I first took to be inaudible. Then, I realized they were speaking another language. I wouldn’t have been all Oh my God, as much as I was – but it wasn’t French or Spanish or Italian or even Norwegian, for Goodness’ sake. It was a weird murmuring, hissing kind of thing. I exchanged a glance with my brothers; they heard it too.
From that moment on, from the moment my father opened his mouth and that strange sound fell out, I knew something was horribly wrong.

Sorry this is so late, guys! :) I've been busy with homework and writing this, along with other things, such as play rehersal every afternoon. But it's here! Chapter two should be coming soon.
 
Yess!! :D Finally! I loved that new part, Katie... you're so creative. The characters are really interesting.
 
Chapter Two: The Thorn

And, if things couldn’t be more stupidly bad-movie-ish, we went to school the next morning. It was pretty awful.
I woke up about four times before I rolled out of bed. I quickly brushed my hair and scanned through my closet before wrenching out a pair of khaki cords and a plain white T-shirt. I threw my school books and my laptop, cell, and iPod (that seemed to be the one thing my dad’s company didn’t make) into my backpack – a tan, vintage old thing – and slung it over my shoulder as I left the room.
Downstairs, my brothers were already eating. Harry was dressed in his uniform – a navy blue polo, khaki dress pants, navy socks, and brown lace-ups; the uniform was mandatory for kids in our school in fourth through eighth grades, which meant that last year was mine and Mark’s last year of uniforms. Robbie, who was in kindergarten, wore a pair of cargo shorts that looked insanely massive and a black t-shirt. He was on the floor, trying to tie his sneakers.
Mark, Dylan, Jack, and I had a dress code – no jeans, no writing, no rips or tears, no pictures. No spaghetti straps, no short-shorts or short-short skirts, nothing too tight, nothing too loose. No sweatpants, no sweatshirts. No flip-flops. Simple, doesn’t it seem? Well, it isn’t. In fact, only last year did they allow rivets on pants.
We went to private school, the Briary School of Washington – we, the students, called it the Thorn. K-12, the rules were to be abided by, teacher’s word was law – back-talking and sassing not appropriate. Always about “community” and the “well-being” of the students. All about “diversity” – though it may be noted that the vast majority of the student body was not diverse, religiously, racially, or otherwise: we were a school dedicated to making the unlearned learned, the un-athletic athletic, and to let the artists…be artists? No, I think not. The arts weren’t a major part of our school, no matter what they may say and try and convince you otherwise.
However, our school did produce various famous faces – politicians and athletes, mostly, though one or two – three, at the most – decent actors, painters, musicians, or writers (they never really stuck to just one, because they found that they weren't really good at any of them at all). . But like anyone cared about those. Just the politicians who got defaced for making a slightly incorrect statement, or the athletes who were fired for using steroids.
But of course, my school taught those future athletes not to do the steroids in the first place.
Shows just how far education goes.
Dylan drove to school – Jack was too lazy to drive in the morning. As I had handed Robbie and Harry their lunches, there was a slight scuffle as Jack and Mark fought over who would get the front. Though Jack’s older, Mark won – his hours in the weight room versus Jack’s hours of running track helped him through this one.
“Would you stop fighting?” I muttered to them as I slid in beside Jack in the middle seat of Dylan’s Hummer – I despised the car and its un-environmentally friendly ways, but Dylan loved it, and loved it even more knowing I hated it.
Mark turned and flashed a mocking grin at me. I kicked his seat.
“Stop killing my car!” Dylan hissed at me.
“You can’t kill a car,” I told him. He ignored me.
The drive to school was a long one, quite needless to say.
The Thorn is massive. A well-hidden drive, lined by thick trees, leads the way up to the entrance of the Front building. On the right of the Front building was the lower school, grades K-3. To the right of that was the middle school, grades 4-6. To the left of the Front building was the upper school, grades 7 and 8. The high school was next to the upper school.
The Thorn is entirely glass, metal, and wood. It does look pretty schnazzy and modern and stuff, and looks simply stunning at night with all the outdoor lights up. But it doesn’t fit. With 90 acres of private woods and creeks, you’d think it’d be a nice, older-styled place, wouldn’t you? But no. Because the Thorn was about change, too.
And a whole lot of it.
 
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