The Write Stuff

MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY SHARON HASTON

Young Maisie has submitted a short story to a writing competition, but how will her family feel when they find out they’re in it?

“What are you writing?”

Sighing, I slammed my notebook shut. My sister Bethany is always poking her nose into my business.

At fifteen, she’s only two years older than me, but you wouldn’t think it from the way she tries to boss me around.

“Nothing,” I replied.

I didn’t tell her I was entering a writing competition in case I didn’t win.

Bethany’s always winning at her dancing competitions, Mum has lots of bowling trophies, and Dad is the top player at his golf club.

I started ballet lessons when I was younger, but I was always facing the wrong way and bumping into everyone. I’m even worse at sport.

I’ll never live down the embarrassment of having to be rescued from the top of the pommel horse by my best friend Sophie.

But I do love English at school, especially writing stories. Miss Mackinnon’s my favourite teacher and she suggested I enter this competition.

I felt a warm glow when she said she thought my stories were excellent.

“Is it your secret diary?” Bethany tried to grab my notebook, but I batted her hand away. “I bet there’s someone you fancy at school and you’re writing about him. What’s his name?”

I rolled my eyes. If I didn’t tell her something, she’d keep going on about it and try to sneak a peek.

“If you must know, it’s my writer’s notebook,” I said loftily.

She looked nonplussed.

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Mackinnon said I should start writing for my own pleasure, and writers always carry a notebook with them in case an idea comes up.”

Bethany yawned, opening the fridge.

“How boring. I can’t imagine doing schoolwork at home if I didn’t have to. A secret diary would have been more exciting.”

Mum arrived, loaded with shopping bags.

“Who’s keeping a secret diary?”

“Nobody. I’m keeping a notebook as I want to be a writer,” I said, exasperated.

Bethany snorted.

“Now she thinks she’s going to be the next Agatha Christie.”

“Our Maisie maybe will be a famous writer. All her teachers praise her compositions.” Mum gallantly leapt to my defence.

“Miss Mackinnon says I should write about what I know, so you better watch out,” I told Bethany darkly, thinking Mum would be very interested in knowing she put on more make-up on the school bus.

Bethany took a yoghurt from the fridge and bounded upstairs.

“I don’t want to be in your stupid story!” she yelled.

“Ignore her,” Mum said. “Keep going with your story. But I’m not sure about writing about what you know. Wouldn’t it be better if you wrote about something exciting? Maybe a fantasy with dragons or princesses?”

I forced a smile. “Game Of Thrones” is Mum’s favourite programme.

I’m too young to watch it, but I don’t care because I don’t fancy it at all. I like a mystery story where I can guess the ending.

“Be careful what you write in it, Maisie, in case it falls into the wrong hands,” Sophie warned me the next day when I told her about entering the competition and my notebook.

“I’d be mortified if Oliver Jones found out I fancy him, and I never want Mr Forsyth to find out it was me who scorched the desk with the Bunsen burner,” she added. “It was an accident.”

I looked out the bus window. My friends and family seemed to think I’d be writing about them.

As if! School science lessons were far too dull to write about.

And Oliver Jones, with his constant sneery expression, wasn’t my idea of handsome.

I wasn’t afraid of telling Gran about the competition.

I could trust her not to tell the rest of my family. She never gave away any of my secrets.

“You go for it, Maisie. Remember the stories we used to make up when you stayed over? You always had a great imagination.”

I smiled, remembering how we’d turned Gran’s garden into a jungle full of tigers and elephants; her sofa became a ship where we met pirates, and her stairs the portal into a world of fairies and elves.

“Have you heard Maisie’s keeping a notebook, Gran?” Bethany said when she arrived after school. “She’s going to put us all in her stories.”

She glared at me.

“Maisie won’t put us in her story, will you, love?” Gran poured our tea. “We’re all too boring and ordinary. Nobody wants to read about me making jam and hoeing the garden.”

Gran’s rhubarb jam, which I spread on my scone, tasted great, and her garden was gorgeous, but I wasn’t going to write about them.

The theme of the competition was magic, so I couldn’t write about everyday stuff.

When I told Sophie that, she put her hand to her mouth.

“Don’t write about the time we gathered dandelions and daisies to make a spell for rain on our school sports day.”

I laughed at the memory. Sophie hates sport as much as me.

Our spell didn’t work. It was a sunny day, so we had to endure coming last in all the races. I was hardly going to write about that.

I stared at my phone, reading the e-mail 20 times before finally believing it.

“I won!” I jumped up from the sofa and danced around the living-room.

“Won what? Is it a holiday to Florida?” Bethany looked up from her own phone.

“No, it’s the writing competition. I’ve actually won it.”

Mum and Bethany stared at me.

“What competition?” Mum asked.

I’d forgotten I hadn’t told them.

“That’s amazing. Well done!” Mum hugged me when I explained.

“Well done, sis.” Bethany nudged me. “What is the prize, though? Is it a holiday?”

“A book token.” I smiled.

Bethany looked bewildered.

“You wrote stuff in your own time, when you didn’t have to, for a book token!”

I laughed. I’d never seen her read a book outside of school.

When she wasn’t winning dance competitions, she went cycling, or swimming in ponds.

She was what Mum called “outdoorsy”.

The thought of swimming amongst frogs and fish filled me with horror.

“That’s a great prize for you, Maisie.” Mum frowned at Bethany.

“Can we read your story?” Bethany asked, to my amazement.

I didn’t think she’d be interested. Maybe she was still worried I’d revealed all her secrets.

I held my breath as she read, worried about her response. I couldn’t bear it if she made fun of it.

“I’m in it. Eleanor is me!” she said once she’d finished.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s obvious. Eleanor is the older, wiser sister. I’m glad you appreciate me.”

She gave me a rare hug before running off, presumably to tell all her friends she was in my story.

“It’s a wonderful story, Maisie. I feel honoured to be in it.” Gran wiped away a tear and squeezed my hand.

I was confused.

“Which character is you?”

“Zelena, of course. The wise woman who’s secretly a witch, stirring up potions to make the world a better place.”

My eyes were as wide as the saucer that was holding Gran’s best china teacup.

She must be joking. My thoroughly modern gran with her blonde bobbed hair, jeans and huge smile couldn’t look less like a witch if she tried.

I thought of the TV show “Sabrina” and shrugged.

Witches did come in all shapes and sizes, I supposed.

The one in my story wasn’t exactly like the green one with the pointy hat in “The Wizard Of Oz”.

“Congratulations, Maisie, I knew you’d win,” Sophie said as we waited for the bus. “I also knew you’d put me in it.”

Not another one!

“Which character is you?” I asked wearily.

“The wise-cracking best friend who comes up with all the fab, wacky suggestions, of course. Who else could it be?”

I put on my sunglasses to try to hide my expression.

What was Sophie talking about? I was the one who was funny and came up with all the great ideas!

At home, I wrote in my secret diary.

I did actually have one, but it was well hidden and had a lock. Bethany would never find it.

I couldn’t believe they thought they were in my story. They’d been so adamant I wasn’t to write about them, but now they thought they were in it they were all chuffed to bits. It was really weird.

I gnawed my pen, thinking about my story.

From my window, I saw Bethany stroll into the garden, licking a lolly.

Maybe she had a point about being the older wiser sister, even though I would never admit it to her.

She did take me to the cinema to cheer me up after I found out my school trip to Paris was cancelled.

She also taught me how to do my eyeliner so I didn’t look like one of the pandas we saw at Edinburgh Zoo.

Sophie was a great best friend who did make me giggle, even in boring Maths classes.

And she had suggested roller-skating, which was great fun.

But Gran as a witch?

I thought about my lovely, caring gran.

Well, she did make a lot of unusual recipes that always turned out to taste amazing. Dad called them her “concoctions”, as he said the ingredients shouldn’t really belong together.

She did make the world a better place by helping out at the food bank and volunteering in our local charity shop.

Miss Mackinnon did say “write about what you know”, and maybe I did without realising it.

I slipped my writer’s notebook into my shorts before heading out into the sunshine.

At last, I didn’t feel as if I was the only one around here who never won anything. I could hold my head up high.

Yesterday, Miss Mackinnon, who was delighted for me, pointed out another writing competition I could enter.

It’s called “My Family”. I don’t think I’ll tell them just yet!

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