Sample bits of my unpublished middle grade novel. If you're an agent or editor and would like to read the full manuscript, please contact me!

Nichelangelo of the Junk Lot Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm clock by my bed blares and I erupt from a nightmare in which I am falling, falling, falling. I feel my heart galloping like a bunch of wild horses as I smack the clock from habit and dive back under my covers, my fingers shaking. Blinking against the darkness, I press my face into my lumpy pillow. I can’t tell you how relieved I am it’s not bone-crushing pavement. Let me explain. In my dream, see, I was sitting on the roof of a 50-story building. Don’t ask me why; I’m terrified of heights. Anyway, I was talking to some pigeons. They weren’t talking back, of course…just cooing and pooping in small circles around me...making, like, a poopy bulls-eye. Suddenly I got this weird feeling that I was being watched. So I did what you’d do. I looked up, straight into the sky. Here’s where the really weird part happened. Two giant clouds, like wooly old-man eyebrows, drifted apart like they were being pulled by something. And then something in the sky between them started twinkling at me big time. I thought maybe it was the sun hitting a plane wing. But it didn’t move. So I stood up to get a better look, the tips of my sneaks barely peeking over the edge of the building. Dumb, I know, ‘cuz that’s when somebody pushed me! ... * * * * BAM! I nearly jump on the ceiling when the front door to the trailer whips open. It smacks hard against the side of the trailer and my dad stomps in, the dirty, untied laces of his heavy work books trailing behind him like worms. Okay, it's a bit freaky, his showing up, cuz I NEVER see my dad in the morning... especially on school days. Biting my lip, I watch the door sway in the warm September breeze like a seasick sailor. “Goood Morrrrniiiinng, Nicky!” As my dad greets me, loudly, on account of the fact that he's a bit hard of hearing, a steering wheel, from a Ford truck by the looks of it, drops from the jumble of items in his arms. It rolls across the living room’s faded pink carpeting. Then it wobbles under the coffee table and ricochets off the leg of our saggy brown couch before slamming into the wall. Hard. This reminds me of the other car parts my dad has brought into the trailer. My blood starts to boil—until my brain gets sidetracked by my dad’s wacky outfit. He seriously looks like a bag of Skittles! I'm not talking about the old black baseball cap that perches on his bald head 24/7. It’s the rest of him that’s way too much color: the cherry-red golf pants, the checked yellow shirt, and the green fisherman’s vest. That green, not to be too gross, is close to the snot I blew out of my head repeatedly during my last bad cold. I feel myself start to gag and look away—right at that darn steering wheel! Suddenly I'm reminded of my spill in the hallway, and I'm much ruder than I mean to be. “Dad, I’m e-lev-en today, remember?" I draw big circles in the air as I say this, to make sure I've got his attention. "You promised to start calling me Nicholas. Not Nick. Not Nicky. Nich-o-las. Three simple syllables. Say it with me, Dad. Nich-o-las.” “Nich-o-las,” my dad repeats, a weird smile covering his face. “The birthday boy! I bet you thought I forgot!” * * * * “Careful, Junk Boy,” calls The Wall over my shoulder. “We’d hate to see ya break yer skinny little legs.” The Wall's real name is Clye Robinson. But here at Abe Lincoln Elementary all the kids call him The Wall because of his massive, square body. And he's only thirteen! Clye follows his comment with a hard thrust against my backpack—a move I can't say I wasn't expecting. My tray sails through the air in a perfect arc. The corn dog plops into a large tray of chocolate pudding, sinking like the creature from the Black Lagoon. Then my gooey cheddar cheese fries smack the Belfry twins right in the kisser. They shriek, of course. As only fourth grade girls can. But then I let out an embarrassing shriek of my own as The Wall's push slams me to the floor. The sticky chill of the floor tiles grabs my cheek and I spy a poor orange wedged under the cooler. Actually, the orange is now a wierd shade of green, thanks to the attack of hairy mold. I’m thinking just how much we have in common when I hear another voice bellow across the room. “Mi-iii-s-ssss-tt-eeerrrr Robinson! Your behavior is UNacceptable.” * * * * After school, Jimmy jumps off the school bus, just two stops before mine. He holds up his pinkie to signal that he’ll ride his bike over to the junk lot in an hour—AFTER finishing his homework. “Homework First!” is just one of his mom’s dumb rules. It’s especially dumb on Friday afternoons. At my stop, I step off the bus and get swallowed up by the shoppers buzzing from store to store. Seriously, they remind me of a hive of worker bees making honey! But when I finally cut through the crowd, I do a bit of window shopping of my own. Old Bubba must have had a run-in with a hula girl, I think, as I spy the new ukulele on display in his pawn shop. And there’s a new attraction in the All God’s Creatures pet shop window. But the four-foot-long snake, advertised as the “Cool Buy of the Week,” doesn’t even blink when I tap on the glass. Boring! Still...I’m wondering just how much Taco would hate me bringing the reptile home, when I finally reach the eight-foot-tall fence that hugs the junk lot. All five acres of it. Yeah, it's kinda like the Great Wall of China. Only our wall is made from chain link fence—from Home Depot—not really, really old Chinese rocks. * * * * Finally me and Jimmy come up with a design we think will work. We decide to build a model of our best sketch, just to make sure we like it. We use chicken wire. And bottle caps. And Popsicle sticks. Of course we had to eat the Popsicles first, so this part held us up a bit. But once we wire the sticks in place, we decide to wrap our three-foot-tall model in aluminum foil. It twinkles in the sizzling Texas sun. “Wow!” says Jimmy, whistling. “Our Ms. Liberty is gonna be beeeeutiiiiful!” I grin and slap his palm. “Darn tootin’!” That was my grandfather’s favorite expression. He’s dead now, but he used to accompany it with a loud fart that lasted oh, a good ten seconds. I'm still working on that part. We call our birdhouse Ms. Liberty for a couple a reasons. One, she has spikes on her head—but they’re not part of a crown. Jimmy calls them “happy braids,” because they stick straight up in the air. Jimmy would probably add braids to his dog—if his mother would ever let him have one. Trust me: the odds of that happening are about the same as my spoting Big Foot. Two, we call her Ms. Liberty because I hope she becomes a sanctuary for birds. That's a big fancy adult word that means safe place. "Safety for every bird in Houston!” I cry out, as I pump the air with my fists. Jimmy gives me his "Yeah, right!" look. Then he asks, “What if Shasta kills some of the new house guests?” “Two words,” I say, waggling my fingers. “The. Pound.” Jimmy snorts, ‘cuz he knows as well as I do that my dad would never let that happen to that darn cat. “Well,” he says, “if our bird motel is gonna get full, we better make Ms. Liberty some shades. Bird poop in the eye is NOT cool, dude.”

COPYRIGHT SHERI BELL-REHWOLDT, 2007