1st 5 Pages November Workshop- Robertson

Name: Kate Robertson
Genre: Upper Middle Grade, Magical Realism
Title: The Thief of Buttercup Lane

It wasn’t the first time a zipper got me into trouble. Everything until that point had gone according to plan.

6:23 - Mr. Verhoeven arrives home from work. Yells at neighbor’s Chihuahua for pooping on lawn. Face is alarmingly red.

6:45 - Red sports car drops-off Mrs. Verhoeven. Wearing yoga wear. Doesn't look sweaty or Zen.

7:00 - Delivery driver arrives. Indian food.

9:00 - Retire to their separate bedrooms. Possibly due to Indian food.

 9:15 - Fast asleep.

I wait the standard two hours before I even think of making a move from my lookout in the tree across the street, plus an extra fifteen minutes because I’m cautious like that. 

When I am sure they are asleep, I scurry up the drainpipe and scoot across the stone ledge that connects to the second floor yoga room. I use my powers to freeze the window and my charmed dagger to cut a hole large enough for my skinny butt to shimmy through (now before you get any smart ideas here and ransack your neighbors homes, let me caveat I’m an experienced thief. Way more experienced than I want to be. This ain't my first rodeo. Plus, I have a few more advantages than your average twelve-year-old. But I’ll get to that in a second). 

As I said, everything is going according to plan. I have done my research.

I cut the glass, and I am holding on to it for dear life, it is double pained and much heavier than I expect. Everything is running smoothly until I catch that darn zipper.

See, I had my eyes on these jeans for months. They were black, skinny, and distressed just the perfect amount with the cutest zippered pockets on the front. Plus I actually look like I have a butt when I wear them. Jeans like that don’t come along every day. Somehow I manage to get one of the adorable zippers jammed in the hinge of the window. Dumb, I know but I am stuck, really stuck. 

My arms are aching. Gymnastics tryouts started up for the year and Coach Hooper had us walking on our hands for what seemed like hours after school, back and forth, back and forth. Anyway, arms tired, glass cut, jeans stuck, you get the gist of my dilemma here. I figure I have two options: throw the glass to the ground below and pray that no one wakes from the crash or tug hard and risk ruining my jeans. Now before you go ahead and judge me, these arereally nice jeans. It took three months and commission from four other jobs to save up to buy them. 

Obviously, I go with Option A, or is it Option One? The point is, I throw the glass. The good news is the Verhoevens don’t make a peep. The bad news is that their next-door neighbor Mrs. Weston (newly divorced, lots of time on her hands) starts shouting at the street below “who made that noise? Daryl is that you?” for the next eighteen minutes rendering me unable to move without being seen. That’s what gets me: eighteen freaking minutes.

Eighteen minutes is all it takes for him to get in and out with the necklace. I can do it in sixteen but eighteen as still pretty impressive. The only silver lining in this whole story and the only thing that could possibly save my butt from an all-night tongue thrashing from my Uncle Larry is that I saw his face this time and now I can find him.

He did a very stupid thing. If they wrote a manual on how to be a successful thief, the very first bullet point would read, “never ever under any circumstances remove your mask.” It’s a rookie mistake, but really what can you expect from someone who takes eighteen full minutes to get in and out? So, I saw him, clear as day. Now all I have to do is find him, then it's payback for all the other jobs he messed up for me: the Eastons, The Van Burens and now the Verhoevens. 

There is no point in hanging around the Verhoeven’s any longer. The jewels are gone and I’m not a fan of Indian leftovers. It’s dark, and the street is quiet again, after Mrs. Weston’s rant. I figure it’s safe to jump and use my powers, no one will see me and my poor jeans have suffered enough tonight, they don’t need to be scuffed up any further as I try to climb down. I step from the ledge and float slowly to the ground, landing lightly on me feet. Unfortunately, I also land in a pile of Chihuahua poop. I now understand Mr. Verhoeven’s rage.

I figure the odds of Uncle Larry yelling at me all night are pretty good, even with the new information I have on our competition, so I decide to make a little pit-stop before I head home. Something to keep me distracted while Uncle L tells me what a worthless, good-for-nothing thief I am and if I keep screwing up like this, he’ll send me back to Aaronvale to be a beet farmer like my cousin Dole.

The distraction’s name is Andrew P. Jordan. The P stands for Positively Perfect, either that or Paul. We’re completely, undeniably, totally in love, he just hasn’t realized it yet. His house isn’t far, he also lives in the good neighborhood, like the Eastons and the Verhoevens and every other house Uncle Larry plots to hit. The Jordan’s have a large maple in front of their house. The lowest branch is easily ten feet from the ground but I can clear twelve if I am channeling. I love to sit on that branch and watch him. His face is perfect. I think he likes admiring it as much as I do but I am cool with that. If I were that good-looking, I’d spend hours gazing in the mirror too.

I really want to see him so I have to scoot. His light turns off at twelve sharp and after that, the show is over, at least the show I can see from my spot in the maple tree.

I am about to spring up into my branch when I spot him walking down the sidewalk, the thief who undercut our job. There is no doubt in my mind it’s him. Same jet black hair that waves to just below his ears, same papery pale skin and green eyes. Plus the dingbat didn’t have the brains to ditch his mask, he carries it in his hand as if it were his paper-bag lunch. Amateur. Rookie. Idiot.

I bid a silent farewell to Andrew P Jordan and his perfect cheekbones before I follow the thief down the street. He cuts through memorial park, turns down the main street and follows it all the way to the end before ducking down a small side street with a sign that says “Buttercup Lane”.