Bella's (Me) writing piece

Here is a begining of story i wrote last night called My secret life I'm ten years old:

I used to wear lipstick. I used to wear fishnet leggings. I used to wear high heels and get my nails done every Thursday. I used to love to ride motorcycles. And I still do. My obsession started one       Monday when I was just finishing  my “At home finishing school” lesson. Out of the tiny slit between the door and it’s hinges I saw two rough-looking boys zooming down the street. They pulled their handles and jumped and landed back on the ground. They made a big “WHOOSH!” noise whenever they jumped. They went super fast…and…suddenly…they…flipped upside down in midair! It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen!

            Instinctively, I punched my fist into the air and yelled: “Whoo-hoo! We won!”

            The door fell open to reveal the two boys laughing at the manicured, make-uped, high heeled girl cheering for some gangsters on motorcycles. They zoomed away, laughing so hard they cried. I couldn’t help myself; I’d never seen anything like it before.

            The next day I asked my mom if I could have a motorcycle and, of course, she said no. Or more like: “Angelica Rosaline, you are a lady! Stop thinking about stupid things that only boys do!” And she spanked me. That was the first time she’d ever hurt me.

            Crying my black, mascara tears I ran up into my room and ripped down all of the motorcycle posters I had bought at Robby’s convenience store.

            Mom never came back up to knock on my door, to say sorry for murdering my only dream.

            That was the day I met Grumpy. The day I met Grumpy I was skipping rope on the perfectly paved driveway behind Mom’s shiny pink Porsche. My jump rope was pink, too, since Mom always said pink was for girls and blue was for boys. I once asked her if black was a “girl color” since that was my secret favorite color. She spanked me.

            “Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish, how many pieces do you wish? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…” I went on and on, counting my jumps until I got to two-hundred and fifty-nine.

            I ran to the back door of my huge, white, clean and pillared house, that was more of a mansion, to check through Mom’s office window. She was there, working on her wireless apple computer, never looking up.   

            “Phew,” I said. Mom never let me play basketball, but I secretly stole our neighbor’s ball and secretly glued together a piece of wood and a net without a handle and bottom to make a hoop.

            I dribbled up to the hoop and shot and…got a hoop! And another! And another! I finally stopped when I had gotten forty-seven hoops.

            “You’ve sure got a nag fer sports.” A deep voice said behind me. I turned around quickly to see a rough face with a few scars. Scars are just like tattoos with better stories.

            The face belonged to a tall, skinny man who was standing behind me, his hands on his hips.

            I beamed; I’d never gotten a compliment before ever since Daddy died. Daddy was a tall, skinny man with a scraggly moustache and a deep, jolly voice. Daddy had slick hair and smelled like rotten salami, but I loved him. Back when Daddy was alive, Mom used to joke and let me choose what I would wear. That was nine years ago, and now I’m twelve, and now Mom makes me wear prima donna clothes.

            “Well?” The man said.

            “What?”

            “You might as well quit holdin’ yer breath and pant now.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, you jus’ did two-hundred an’ fifty-nine jumps an’ forty-seven hoops. Aren’t ya tired?”

            “You were counting?” I beamed again,

            “Yeah, but ya didn’t answer my question.”

            “I’m not tired. Why, you think I did a lot?”

            “Sure, but only fer yer age.” The tall man said in a rough voice, but I knew he was just trying to disguise a compliment. So I beamed again.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Grumpy.”

            “Don’t joke with me. What’s your real name?”

            “Grumpy’s what everyone calls me, you got a problem with that? And I don’t do back stories.”

            “I’m Angelica, and although that’s a stupid name, it’s not fake.”

            “Eh, it’s okay. I’ll call ya Angel.” Grumpy said, trying to say a compliment again.

            I beamed again.

            But all of the sudden, Grumpy started to mumble my name over and over with a strange look in his eyes, like he was looking back into his brain, even though he was looking straight ahead.

            “Angelica…Angelica…” He mumbled.

            “Hey, uh…you wanna shoot?” I asked him, holding out the ball.

            Grumpy snapped out of his trance and stared at the ball.

            “Can’t.”

            “Sure you can! All you have to do is run up to that hoop over there, take the ball and hold it over your head, and throw it into the little circle. Just try!”

            “Can’t.”

            “Why?”

            Grumpy lifted up his arm. Or what was left of it. He arm went down to his elbow and then stopped, leaving a dried-blood stain and a scar.

            “Oh. I’m…I’m really sorry.”

            “Nah, it doesn’t hurt too much. Well, anyways, I can’t play sports but you can. And yer pretty amazi-I mean, yer okay…well…”

            I beamed.

            “My point is, take this and consider it. Yer pretty goo-okay for a kid.” Grumpy said, handing me a piece of paper.

            I looked at it.

            In big, neon orange, block letters it read: California Professional Motorcyclist Club-Every Wednesday, 5 pm. Be there!

      I stared at Grumpy in disbelief.

            “How did you know?! I-I…” I stared at Grumpy right in his sea-blue eyes, finding the goodness buried deep inside him. Even if he smelled stinky, wore ripped clothes, yelled a lot and didn’t have two arms, I loved Grumpy and I knew, deep down inside his warm, soft body he had good inside him.

You can do this too1