1st 5 Pages February Workshop- Walsh Rev 2

Name: Michelle C. Walsh

Title: DREAMS OF FLYING

Genre: Middle Grade - Realistic Fiction

Pitch:

When her parents’ car gets stolen on their block, twelve-year-old Raquel knows that it’s up to her to find it. How else can she help her only brother, Billy, come home on the weekends from his special school for autism? Summer vacation has just begun, and Raquel sets out to search for the stolen car with the help of her friend, Maritza.

Raquel and Maritza have a lot in common: they’re the same age, their moms are from Cuba, and they love to sing. At home, they endure family problems that they barely talk about with one another, but they find joy in singing karaoke together. While each girl is used to dealing with tough situations, they are tested in new ways this summer as they search for the stolen car.

My manuscript can be compared to RULES by Cynthia Lord, which features a twelve-year-old girl who tries to help her autistic brother. In style, my manuscript is similar to LUCKY BROKEN GIRL by Ruth Behar. It can also be compared to RAYMIE NIGHTINGALE by Katie DiCamillo with its focus on the value of friendship when facing family difficulties.

Revision:

CHAPTER 1—THE CAR THIEF

The bus lurches forward as I get up from my seat. I stumble to the front, nearly slamming into the other standing passenger.

“Cuidado!” Mama says behind me, warning me to be careful. She hardly talks to me in Spanish except for the few words that slip out when she’s excited or nervous.  

I groan, clutching onto the metal pole. It’s been years since I’ve taken the bus and I had forgotten how bumpy it is. Already, I miss our car. 

When Mama told me that it was stolen this morning, I didn’t believe her. I ran to the window and stared at the empty space on the corner, where our car should have been. It was there last night and now it was gone. Mama called the police and they came right away, but they didn’t make any promises. Of all the cars on our block, why did the car thief have to take ours?

“Now, remember the plan,” Mama says, stepping closer to me. “Belkis should be outside waiting for you, but in case she’s not there….”

“Yes, Mama, I know how to get to Belkis’ house from Wilson Avenue,” I remind her. 

She smiles at me with her lips pressed together, but she can’t hide the worry in her eyes. “I know you do, mi’jita.”

Belkis Velasquez is my mom’s best friend. I go to her house in the summer so that I can hang out with her daughter, Maritza, who’s 12 years old like me. 

The bus driver pumps on the breaks and I brace myself as we come to another stop. This time it’s mine. Mama pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll call you from work.”

I look outside the window for Belkis’ familiar face, but as the doors swing open, I see Maritza waving at me with her big smile. I smile back and hurry off the bus. On the curb, I turn around to wave at my mom, just as the bus pulls away. 

“Oh my God, Raquel!” Maritza says. “I’m so sorry about your car! I couldn’t believe it when my mom told me.”

Maritza looks prettier than the last time I had seen her, some months ago. Her brown eyes are bright and her beautiful dark curls practically touch her waist. Unlike my hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail because it’s so straight I can’t do anything else with it. Maritza knows how to dress well, too, with her white shorts, yellow top, and big yellow hoop earrings to match. 

“You must feel so terrible,” she says. “What do you wanna do?”

“Actually, right now, I’m really hungry. Can we stop at the bakery?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I didn’t have breakfast, either.”

We walk down Wilson Avenue to the Portuguese bakery. Maritza’s neighborhood looks a lot like mine, with two and three-floor family houses built closely together. But instead of living in an apartment like me, Maritza’s family has their own house—a red-bricked two-story home with a backyard and basement that makes it three floors.   

Inside the bakery, we each order a buttered Portuguese roll to go.

“Mmm, this is delicious!” Maritza says, ripping off a piece of her bread, while keeping the rest inside the brown paper bag.

“Um-hum,” I agree, in between mouthfuls. I eat in bite-sized portions, too, breaking off the bread as we walk.

“So what’s your mom gonna do without the car?” Maritza asks.

“For now, she’s going to take the bus to work.”

“And what about Billy? Don’t you pick him up on Fridays?”

I stop chewing for a moment and hold myself still. Billy’s been on my mind this morning, but I hardly ever talk about my brother. He’s older than me by two years and goes away to a special school for autism. Besides Maritza, only my two closest friends in school know about my brother. I would talk about Billy more, except that most people have no idea about autism and it’s so hard to explain.

“We used to pick up Billy on Friday nights,” I say. “But my mom arranged for a social worker to bring him home on Friday after school, to help split the driving. So it’s really on Sundays when we need the car.”

“What if you get the social worker to drive Billy on Sundays, too?”

I know Maritza is trying to help, but she doesn’t understand. None of my friends know what it’s like to have a teenage brother who can’t talk, who goes to a special school that’s two hours away because there’s no other program for him nearby. They don’t know what it’s like to be an only child during the week and a sister only on the weekends. It’s as if my world were split in two and I’m stuck in the middle, not quite fitting in with the other kids in my class, yet not in sync with my brother, either, even though I wish we were close. 

“The social worker can’t drive Billy on Sundays because that’s her day off,” I explain. “She’s actually doing us a favor by driving him on Fridays.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose….” Maritza begins. 

“What?” I ask.

“Well, do you think your parents can buy another car?”

I feel my cheeks flush. I don’t think my parents can afford another car right now, especially since my dad’s not working again.

“Never mind,” Maritza says softly, as if reading my thoughts.

We sit on the front steps of her porch to finish our rolls. A car turns at the corner coming our way. From the front, it looks exactly like my parents’ white Chevrolet. My heart races as I stand up to get a better look. 

“What is it?” Maritza asks, but I don’t answer. My eyes are all over the car.

First, I look for the dent on the passenger’s door, but I don’t see it. Then, I check the license plate in the back, just to be sure.

The beginning of our Chevy’s license plate is easy for me to remember because it starts with my initials, RC, for Raquel Cameron. It was a coincidence that Mama pointed out to me when we first got the car. But as this Chevy drives away, there’s no ‘R’ or ‘C’ anywhere on the license plate. 

“What happened? Was that your car?” Maritza asks.

“No, I thought it was. But it’s not.” I sit back down, disappointed.  

“Too bad. That would have been somethin’! Imagine that—finding your car right here on my block.”

I sigh, staring at the street. “That would be like a miracle.”

But what if our Chevy isn’t that far away, after all? What if the car thief hasn’t left Newark? Then, maybe we can still get our car back this week before Billy comes home. The only time my brother skips a weekend is when there’s a snowstorm or bad weather, but other than that, he comes home every Friday and we drive him back every Sunday like clockwork. It’s important for Billy to keep the same routine since change can be so confusing to him. I like sticking to the same schedule, too.

Who is this car thief who knows nothing about my parents, Billy, or me? He can’t get away with this! Our Chevy belongs with us and there has to be some way to get it back. I just have to figure out how.