Hello.

My name’s Lemmie.

Do you want to know a secret?

The secret is, I’ve got lots of secrets.

Some of my secrets are so old I’ve kind of half-forgotten them.

Some are around me all the time, every day.

Some are so weird I can’t tell anyone about them, ’cause they’d laugh at me or think I was a freak. (Well, drawing circles around the freckles on your arms when you’re sleepwalking is pretty freaky, I guess.)

Some of my secrets are so spangly and special that I hold them inside of me, like a sparkler in the dark.

My secrets come in all shapes and sizes: some are weeny and floaty-light; some are heart-shaped, and some are, er . . . mouse-shaped.

One secret in particular’s so humungously big, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, never mind write it down. . .

But then some of my secrets can be amazingly, dazzlingly ordinary too. Like with Dad, I could never tell him that his hip Liam Gallagher haircut looks less hip and more like a deranged farmer’s attacked him with a pair of sheep shears. That chunklet of truth would be way too cruel.

And with Mum, I can’t exactly let her know that the “cute” knock-knock thing we do when she comes to my bedroom door is just something I invented to give me time to hide any stray marshmallow magic under the bed.

Speaking of Mum and Dad, they know a couple of my secrets, but not all of them.

My best friends Morven and Jade, they know some of the marshmallow magic, but that’s about it.

There’s only one person who knows everything about everything, and that’s Rose Rouge (of course).

Oh, and before I forget, here’s another secret: Lemmie’s not my real name.

Confused yet?

Hey, welcome to the club— I manage to confuse myself all the time...