El: Exteme measures for extreme circumstancesMature

"Hey, Ollie, can I borrow your car?" I ask, hopefully. It's the only way I'm going to get out of here without five hundred photo's. He smirks at me.

"El, you can't drive, you're not even old enough to take a driving test legally," he says, staring at the flatscreen.

"Thanks for the help," I say sarcastically. Can't walk out of here, can't drive, it'll have to be the old way. Run.

I change into my least flashy stuff- a white vest top, loose grey trackys and black zip hoodie. I zip it up to my neck. Time to run.

I exit through the side door of the garage, putting my hood up to hide my highly recogniseable hair. I walk calmly round the corner, avoiding the press hammering at the door. I'm so busy looking at them I walk into someone.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry!" I say, trying to step round them. They've got a camera. The reporters turn and see me. Time to run.

I sprint away, heading for the nearest Boots. I quickly buy some black hair dye and sprint back to the house, pushing through the waves of reporter-stalkers and slamming the door. I then go to the bathroom, lock the door and proceed to redye my hair black, then using the remains of the previouss tuff to give myself a blue and a pink stripe, like the guitar.

The End

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