A/N: Hey guys! :D I know it's been a while since my last unfinished story (sorry about that) but I'm back now - better than ever!

Since the readers felt like this was a dry chapter and is only introducing the plotline, I just turned it into a Prologue.

Give this one a shot :)

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Three months ago

I was just about to blow out the candle that barely stood erect on the tiny cupcake that he had brought when —

"It's not working out, Mel" he hesitated.

Really? We all know that's code for 'I'm breaking up with you'. I grunted; Been here before.

'It's not you, it's me?' Heard that one before too.

Dan, or was it Dave, my seventh boyfriend this year was miserably trying to ease into the much imminent break-up. By this point, I should have guessed that I, Melissa Connery was just not meant for dating. On the last day of Junior Year at SWH, my boyfriend for that last month was dumping me. We were alone at my place and he had spent a gala amount of time exploiting my lady business so it was understandable that I saw anything but a break-up coming. I mean, come on, it was my seventeenth birthday, for crying out loud!

Any last tidbits of my repeatedly punctured dignity have been shred.

Strangely enough, I didn't feel upset this time around. I casually swung out from underneath the covers of my bed, slipped on my boots and walked over to the door. Holding it open, I stared at the half-naked guy like it was the most obvious thing in the world. This was my room so -

Get out!

He hurriedly grabbed all his stuff and made his way out. He looked back with a masked solemn expression to watch me slam the door in his face. While I was at it, I decided to might as well slip him the bitter smile. He could die of guilt for all I cared.

I blew out the only candle that was giving any light to the room.

Happy Birthday, Mel!


I should just give up on boys for good.


Now

"Now, what does baby Jamie want for breakfast today?" I cooed.

Not that I could cook to save my life.

We were at a nearby 24/7 diner, 122 Conch Street. No kidding. It really was named after Squidward's address. Their biggest competition was the diner two blocks away, 124 Conch Street. Guess whose address that was? The diner did look like a pumpkin.

Jamie and I came here all the time and our usual waitress, Miranda was ready to take our order. My nine-year old sister, all of 4'1, scrunched her face and looked at me in disapproval.

She was right. 'Baby' was getting a bit too babyish for her. Little Jamie? Yup, much better.

"Paaancakes", she squealed with too much enthusiasm for such an early hour in the morning. I smiled at the lady in her late-forties waiting on us and placed our order.

"Comin' right up!" she announced, sporting a toothy grin.


Let's hit the rewind button for a minute.

After my seventh ever-so horrible break-up, by which I was getting disturbingly used to the entire ordeal (and was beyond overdue to check with the Guinness World Records to see if I broke any), I have avoided boys like the plague and spent my summer rather uneventfully. I lay low, took care of my kid sister and helped my mom run the house. I had an absentee father. I barely even knew him; he usually never came home and after mom had Jamie, he never came back. But late last year, a yellow folder did — with divorce papers.

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