How Movellas Changed My Life

*To Niall, the bestest, kindest, most patient friend I have ever had. As long as I live, I shall never forget you.* When Clover, shy and quiet fourteen-year-old hears of Movellas, she finds out she actually has a talent for writing. Movellas becomes her life. But how will her ex-popular friend Helen cope with this sudden surge in popularity for Clover? Will she be pleased or will she do her best to sabotage her reputation on Movellas?

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7. Writing All Day

I couldn't stop thinking about Danté. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside of me since Danté had told me he liked me. So I did what I normally did when I was feeling insecure. I wrote.

 

This time I wrote some fan fiction. I liked writing in this catogory, because it was like putting my fantasies to paper. This time I wrote about Harry Styles coming to whisk me away from my ordinary life, into a life of fame and fortune.

 

By the time I had written the full story, published it on movellas, and added a few more chapters to Complete 360, it was close to two in the morning. With a start I realised I was starving. I paused my iPod touch, which was on shuffle playing to the max, and headed downstairs for a late night feast. My stomach complained at the lack of food loudly and violently.

 

In the kitchen on the table I found a note:

 

Clover,

Knocked on your door and checked in on you, but you were so engrossed in your writing and music, I thought it was best not to disturb you. There's food in the fridge that you can heat up. Remember pet, if you need to talk, your Dad and I are here for you.

Lots of love,

Mum xxx

 

I felt a twinge of guilt. I had probably worried my parents. In the fridge I found a plate of potatoes, vegetables and vegetarian lasange. (In case you hadn't guessed already, I was a vegetarian.)

 

As I was heating it up, Dad walked walked in to the kitchen, bleary eyed, and holding an empty glass. Without a word, he filled it with water and plopped down on the seat at the kitchen table. The microwave bleaped and I sat at the table opposite Dad, food steaming. As I started eating, I studied him, watching him watching me.

 

A kindly man in his early forties, the only physical trait I shared with him were his almond eyes, inherited from his mother. His hair, thick brown-black, was greying slightly. He looked like a giant towered in his chair. He was wearing his faded blue dressing gown and Homer Simpson slippers. He looked worried.

 

"Princess, are you alright?" He asked, no beating around the bush. His accent was London, with a hint of Northern Irish. We had moved to Co. Louth when I was seven, and remained ever since.

"Fine, Dad." I said tiredly.

"It's just, you've not stayed in your room, blasting loud rock music in your ears, and writing non-stop, since Grandma died."

"How did you hear that?" I wondered.

His lips twitched. "Pet, it was full blast the times we checked on you." His frown returned, deepened. "You didn't even notice us there."

 

How was I supposed to tell Dad about Danté and Helen?, I wondered woefully.

I sighed. "It's just my friends. They've both been acting weirdly lately."

"How so?" He probed.

"It doesn't matter, Dad. I'm just being sensitive. It's coming to 'that time of the month'" I said, knowing he hated me mentioning stuff like that.

"Oh God. This might be one for your Mother, I'm afraid, Chicken."

I laughed. "It might indeed, Dad. I'll be fine."

 

He walked to my side of the table and gave me a hug.

"OK, Chicken. I'm going to bed. Talk to your Mother in the morning. Or I dare say it'll be early afternoon, looking at the time." He grinned. "Night, Pet."

"Goodnight, Dad."

 

When I finished my food, I got my phone (A Samsung Galaxy Y) and texted Danté. He'd left me alone all day, probably so I could think.

Me: I'm worried about Helen.We need to talk.

 

Danté: Is now OK? The reply was almost instant.

 

Me: Yep. Be in d kitchen.

 

Danté: C u then

 

I pocketed the phone and sat up waiting for Danté.

 

 

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