I just read the book No Plot, No Problem by Chris Baty. The man who founded NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It inspired me to write. So I sat down at the computer and I wrote for about an hour. And I ended up with the start of a story that I'd like to continue. For now I'm going to take a shower and then I have the odd desire to clean my room (don't tell my parents). Here's what I wrote in the last hour.
Melodie Winters. The cliched popular girl. Cheerleading, Pep Squad, dating the quarterback of the football team and all-around bitch. She was girl all the other popular kids loved and everyone else hated. Except she was smart too. Most of the popular girls were easy to get away from. Just take an advanced class. But not Melodie. Next to her cheerleading trophies she lined up her spelling bee trophies and Science Olympiad awards. It seems that you don't need a winning personality if you're the head cheerleader and have one of the top ten class rankings. Fourth actually. But she'd find a way to move up. She didn't cheat, but she wasn't opposed to blackmailing or threatening other members of the top ten. But all good things come to an end, even for Melodie Winters. And before we knew it, or had any hand in making it happen, Melodie's days at the high class New York high school came to an end.
“We're WHAT?!” Melodie's scream resonated through our house and I could almost see the smoke pouring out of her ears. I had to keep from laughing when she got mad. Her eyebrows skyrocketed up her forehead and then settled into a crease, and her hair looked like it was about to turn red.
“We're moving, Melodie.” Mrs. Heather Winters, always kind and well-groomed. Her voice was calm as if trying to explain the situation to a five year old. “To Maine.”
“WHY?” The Winters' fine china rattled in the china cupboard, small tea cups threatening to take the fatal leap off of their shelf.
“Melodie Anastasia Winters! You will NOT speak to your mother like that! Calm down this moment.” This was the powerful voice of Mr. Cale Winters. His comments meant to put Melodie in her place worked in the opposite way and enraged Melodie even more.
“Why Maine?” Melodie still fumed, but yelling further would not get her the answers she needed to sort out this error in her perfect life.
“New York is not the place to be raising children.” Melodie's face contorted.
“I'm seventeen.” She glared at her parents. “I only have one year of high school left.” She made the sentences short; every word staccato. “How much more raising do you have to do?”
“You sister is just going into high school. She has four more years left. And we want her in a place free of social pressures.” Melodie looked away from my father to me.
Didn't I tell you? Melodie might be moving, but I'll never get away from her. She's my big sister.
“This is your fault!” The screaming bitch was back, and now she was aimed directly at me. Thanks Dad.
“I didn't ask them to move us to Maine.” I defend. “You think I want to move away from all my friends?” I'm not thrilled about this either, I just know when to scream and when to stay quiet. Our parents have their minds made up and throwing a tantrum isn't going to change it.
“Melodie this was not your sister's decision. She --”
“I have friends here. I have a boyfriend! And I'm practically the first in class rankings. I can't move it'll screw up everything.” Step one: point out reasons why here is good. “Who will lead the cheer leaders? Or head the Pep Squad? They can't get by without me.” Step two: ask questions that would make you stay, but that our parents don't care about. “Please Daddy.” She pushed her bottom lip out and threw in the lost puppy eyes. “Mom. I can leave. I just can't.” Step three: the begging.
“Melodie you said all these things when we moved from California. Now, you managed to find a place here and meet new friends. You'll be able to do it again in Maine” My Dad tries so hard, but logic doesn't work on traumatized teen girls. And for a drama queen like my sister, moving is almost as bad as being murdered. She doesn't want logic, she wants them to change their minds.
“This is non-negotiable Mel.” My Mom starts. The use of the nickname Melodie hates probably wasn't a good move. “I found a great job in Maine, and so has your father. They are both close to the house we found. Which is just gorgeous.” My Mom's voice switches to an airy, dream-like voice over. Like she picturing the new house and her new job in her mind. “The high school we found is very highly recommended and they have an excellent athletics department, so I'm sure you'll be able to do cheer leading and dance there.”
“I really wish you wouldn't call me Mel, mother.” My sister's plan to stop Mom from calling her Mel is to call her mother every time she uses the despised nickname. So far it's working because every time Melodie calls Mom mother there's usually a month or more before Mom slips up again and calls her Mel accidentally.
Nobody speaks, my parents and I focused on Melodie, waiting for a reaction. Wait for it...almost. There. Melodie stands and walks to her room.
“Where are you going honey?” My Mom asks. Like she doesn't know. Melodie always does this emo, moping thing. Every time she gets dumped, or grounded, or gets an A- on a test. This is not a new thing.
“I'm just going to go call my friends.” Melodie turns to face us, tears in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. “When are we leaving?”
“Next week. Your mother and I wanted to give you two enough time to say goodbye and pack up properly.”
“Okay.” Melodie wipes at her cheeks. It's like a soap opera. Any second we're going to realize that a dead relative left us millions and then an ex-boyfriend is going to come apologize to Melodie for cheating on her with another man.
“Lisa, how are you handling this?” My mother interrupts my thoughts. I probably could have written that up and become a Hollywood script writer.
“It's Li, and I'm good. I'm going to start packing.” Enter well-adjusted daughter. “Do you mind if I go out with some friends tonight? See a movie, get some pizza.”
“No, that's fine. As long as you're back by eleven.” The eleven o'clock curfew still stands apparently. Even though school is out and we're moving out of state. It's usually pushed back to midnight or one during the summer.
“Thanks Mom. I'll be home by eleven.” Exit well-adjusted daughter to her bedroom.
More to come. Got Nothin' is going to be my back-up in case I lose the version saved to the computer.
