1st 5 Pages November Workshop- Robertson Rev 2

Name: Kate Robertson

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

Pitch:

Most twelve-year-olds dream about having magical powers and a secret portal to another world in their basement, but not Betta Vulgaris. If it were up to her, she’d close that portal forever and throw away the key.

Maybe then, her Uncle Larry would stop sneaking through it to gamble with Big Lou and the seedy characters of the otherworld. He could never again threaten to send Betta back, even if she refused to steal jewels from the houses in the nice part of town, to pay off his debts.

She’d finally get to do normal kid things, like getting Andrew P. Jordan to notice her and focus on a respectable career, like becoming an Olympic gymnast.

When the Thief of Buttercup Lane asks Betta to train a team of wannabe thieves, to steal a wish-granting hammer from the museum, Betta sees an opportunity to use her magical powers for good. But when Uncle Larry wants the hammer for his own, Betta must choose between her new friends, her guardian Uncle and the middle-school life she always wanted.

The Thief of Buttercup Lane is a Middle Grade fiction book, in the magical realism genre, complete at 30,000 words.

Pages:

Everything is going according to plan.

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

6:45 - Red sports car drops off Mrs.Verhoeven. She is dressed, head-to-toe, in yoga wear but looks neither sweaty nor Zen.

7:04 - Delivery driver arrives. Indian food.

9:00 - They retire to their separate bedrooms. Possibly due to the Indian food.

9:15 -They are fast asleep.

I sit in the old oak tree in front of the Verhoeven’s house and wait my standard two hours and fifteen minutes before I even think of making a move. Two hours, to make sure the Verhoevens are asleep. Fifteen minutes, because I’m extra cautious. I take this thieving business very seriously.

When it’s time, I creep across the grass to the far corner of the house. There is a drain pipe I can use to get up to the second floor. Mrs. Verhoeven keeps her jewels in the guestroom, laying in a box on an armoire. No safe. No locks. They’re practically begging to be stolen.

It takes a few deep breaths before I can access my powers. I hold the air in my lungs and imagine myself as light as a feather. The magic starts in my toes, then ripples up my body. It feels like that tingling sensation you get after you sneeze.

Now that I’m practically floating, scooting up that drain pipe is a cinch.

I scout out the narrow ledge that runs from the drainpipe to the guestroom window. It’s going to take excellent balance and guts to make it across. Luckily, I have both, not to mention a little magic. Inch-by-inch I move along the ledge, until I reach the window. I take another deep breath. This time, when I exhale, I think about making the air in my lungs as cold as ice. The window freezes.

A quick trick with my dagger and I’ve etched a hole, just big enough for my skinny butt to shimmy through. One tug and the glass is free, but it’s double paned and way heavier than I expected. I try to set it down on the ledge beside me, but I can’t move a single inch. I’m stuck, really stuck.

Looking down, my problem is obvious. I’ve snagged the zipper on the pocket of my jeans on one of the window hinges. Betta Vulgaris, thief extraordinaire, gets brought down by a zipper.

I figure I have two options: drop the window to the ground below and pray that no one wakes from the crash or tug my leg free and risk ruining my jeans. Now before you judge me, these are really nice jeans: black, skinny, distressed the perfect amount. Plus, it took three months and commission from four other jobs to buy them.

Obviously, I throw the window. Now, my hands are free to unhook that darn zipper. The good news is, the Verhoevens don’t make a peep. The bad news is, 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 eight minutes rendering me unable to move without being seen. That’s what gets me: eight freaking minutes.

Eight minutes is all it takes for the other thief to get in and out with the necklace. I can do it in six but eight as still pretty impressive. It’s been happening lately more than I care to admit. This mystery thief, showing up and stealing my jobs, making off with my hard earned loot. I’m sure he broke-in through the back door. I swore I heard him while I was on the ledge. The only silver lining in this whole story and the only thing that could possibly save me from getting yelled at by my Uncle Larry when I get home tonight, is that I saw my mystery thief’s face this time and now I can find him.

He did a 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 eight full minutes to get in and out?

He peeled off his black mask to scratch his head, of all things. I got a good look at him through the window: jet black hair that waves to just below his ears, papery pale skin and green eyes. 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 Verhoevens any longer. That other thief has the jewels and I’m not a fan of Indian leftovers. It’s dark, and the street is quiet now. I figure it’s safe to use my powers again. No one will see me and my poor jeans have suffered enough. I step from the ledge and float slowly to the ground, landing lightly on my 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. He is also twelve and goes to Fairfield Heights Middle School. 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 Jordans have a large maple in front of their house. There’s a branch with an excellent view and a little dip that fits my butt perfectly. 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 float up into my tree, when I spot the other thief, waking down the sidewalk. There is no doubt in my mind it’s him. Same jet black hair. Same 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”.