Title: That Was Me

Rating: PG

Pairings: none

Note: Written for the Jenny challenge on NFA (see profile for link). While sorting through a box of things from her childhood, Jen comes across a diary that she wrote. Flashback is in italics, the diary entry is not.


Jenny Shepard picked up an old red leather book. Her father had given it to her for her 7th birthday, but she hadn't really started writing in it until she was eight. She read the first entry. It said:

Bobby teased me again today. He said I'd never amount to nothing, but I told him I would. I'll show him. I'm gonna be his boss someday. 'Cept he'll probably end up working in some yucky factory or something. I don't wanna be his boss if he's working somewhere like that.

All of a sudden memories from her second grade year came back, as fresh as though they were yesterday.

"I'm going to be President one day," a freckled young Jen Shepard stated, as if it were obvious. She stuck her tongue out at Bobby Freeman. "Silly boys," she thought.

"No you're not," he said, reaching out to pull one of her braids. "Stupid, women can't be President." He stood up proudly, posing in what he assumed was a very manly way. "That's a man's job," he asserted.

"Oh yeah?" she countered. "Well if you're such a man, race you to the top of this tree!" With that she was off, scampering up the old playground tree like a monkey.

"Cheater!" Bobby yelled, racing to catch up.

Jen brushed small branches aside, eagerly ascending the tree. She reached the highest point, settled herself on a large branch, and declared, "See! I won!"

"You got a head start!" Bobby complained from further below.

"I would've won anyways," she said. "I always do."

Bobby protested, saying, "I'll win next time. You're just a silly girl."

"I gotta go," Jen declared, starting to climb down the tree. "I don't wanna get yelled at for being late again." She scrambled down, passing Bobby's perch, and dropped to the ground.

Jen smiled, recalling the antics she got up to when she was a child. The tiny scars she still carried from her attempts to prove she was just as good as any boy in the neighborhood. She traced the spot on her leg where she knew an inch long white line remained from her birthday later that year. The doorbell rang, breaking her from her thoughts. "President I may not be," she said quietly, dropping the diary back into the box she found it in, and making her way to the door, she continued with a smile, "But I think I've done pretty well for myself."