Welcome to Camp Alan-Bridge, for the emotionally vulnerable and unassertive teenagers of North-West California. Building characters since 1975 *** Mercy Reid is being forced to attend a camp after her mother realises how socially awkward her college-aged daughter has become. She has no friends and has no desire to have friends. At Camp Alan-Bridge, she's forced into social situations on a daily basis, meeting people she'd never have looked twice at before. Sometimes it takes more than breaking out of your shell.


1. Introduction

*QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE* - Thanks for taking an interest in this Movella. So far out of everything I've written, I'm most proud of this. I'm trying out different voices in my movellas to find the one that fits me best, and while I find the voice I've written this Movella in to be tedious to write (but fast to read), it's a challenge but it's also been received a lot better than some of my other voices. Happy reading, and I'm open to CC/Comment trades! Oh, this Movella will probably deal with family issues as well as mental health. I'd be aware of that in case it might hurt some :) Thank you!

On completion, this Movella will be my third novel in it's first draft! Check out my others once you're done with this -

1 - Wolves of Mateo (also on Amazon under my real name Chloe McCormick)

2 - The Prodigy Project (for younger audiences that enjoy sci-fi. I wrote it when I was very young, though. Beware of errors that I can't be bothered fixing. It's only still on Movellas to show progression of my writing)



                I was never rebellious. Let me just get that straight, right off the bat. I never got any grade lower than a B-, I never went to high school parties, and I never got drunk or done drugs. I was that girl in the middle row of the class – the ones that no one pays attention to in the books or the movies, because the interesting characters always sit at the back or in the front. Overlooked, forgotten, insignificant, and dare I say boring?

                I was fine with that, believe me. I had my life, everyone else had theirs. Believe me once more when I say even I was surprised when my mom forced that bottle of expensive wine in my hand (straight from the cabinet in our front room under lock and key) and told me to go to that end-of-year party with the parting words of ‘have fun’. Hang out with some of your friends with the other kids at the back of the class in the middle of the ‘bad part of town’ for a party likely to run all night and all morning.

                I may have been an overlooked insignificant part of our small high school community, small town, California, but that by no means meant I was shy… Just slightly socially awkward and naïve… Which is probably a large part of why the night ended like it had:

                In a cop car. Wearing clothes my mother hadn’t let me leave the house in. A mysterious purple liquid staining my shirt. My make-up half way down my face. Red lipstick – not my own – all over me.

                Probably the worst part about standing before my mom at 4am, swaying and unable to filter the thoughts correctly was how calm she appeared to be.

                Her pink sweater was creased. It was never creased. Her perfect manicure, chipped. Although she looked prim enough for a summer fete with all the other cookie cutter families in our suburb, I knew if she didn’t look perfect, something was wrong.

                Looking down at her white tennis shoes, I noticed a lace longer than the other and realised this clearly was the calm before the storm. I gulped.

                “What did you do with the wine?” She asked quietly, a slight husk to her usually smooth high voice.

                I smiled, although deep down I knew this wasn’t a time to be smiling. “Drank it.”

                She exploded. “Clearly!” Mom shrilled.

                I pouted slightly and blinked. “Well, you did ask.”

                After a few second of unbearable silence, my mother’s expression broke down. “Mercy, what are you doing to yourself?”

                I snorted obnoxiously at the question. She was the one who had forced me out the house. “Mom, if you hadn’t shoved the bottle of wine in my hands and shown me the door, none of this would have happened.” I crossed my arms over my front, creating a barrier between the both of us.

                “Exactly! That’s exactly it! I tried to push you into the real world, outside your books to hang out with your peers from school. You went from one extreme to another.” A light flicked on by the stairs beside the front door. She’d woken up my father.

                “You pushed me into a drug den. No one goes to high school parties anymore. Besides, this is the first time – and it’s technically your fault.”

                My brother appeared on the landing beside us, rather than my father. “Jesus,” the teenager muttered, “what the hell happened to you?”

                My mom turned to my brother with the expression of an enraged bull, my brother holding the red cape. “You – this has nothing to do with you, and watch your language or I’m sending you to bible camp.” I didn’t need to see her expression to know she was deadly serious - because she’d done that to my brother for the past 3 summers in a row.

                That’s all my brother had to be told before he turned around and sprinted back to bed, the light switch flicked behind him. I knew he’d still be listening, snickering under the covers as if he’d never been the subject of my mom’s wrath before.

                She closed her eyes. I closed mines too. I was obviously beginning to sober up, reality kicking my ass.

                “You know, Mrs Yates next door will never let me hear the end of this. I saw her face through her curtain across the road when the police car pulled up. Smug. She looked smug.” I laughed, realising my mom was trying to make a bit of a joke. Their neighbour rivalry was everything. “Mercy, I think I know what we can do with you,” I heard my mom say, but as I began to get disoriented, taking in what she said wasn’t a priority.

                “What was that?” I asked through a barely moving mouth and gradually drooping eyes.

                “There’s a camp. They’ll fix you right up – build that confidence, people skills – you’ll be reformed. You’d like that, yes?”

                I stumbled forward, but my mom caught my shoulder. I didn’t take in a single word she said, only able to focus on my head that felt like it had just been flushed. I suddenly felt the need to wretch and empty my stomach, although I knew my mother wouldn’t appreciate the fluorescent shade of alcoholic puke on her baby pink cashmere.

                Just as my mom laid me back on the floor, I faintly remembered her figure above me shaking her head. “I’ve already signed you up. I know you’ll have a great time.”

                Not that I’d have had a say anyways.




Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...