An Agent's Inbox #9

Dear Agent,

I am delighted at this opportunity to be part of Krista Van Dolzer's "An Agent's Inbox" contest and look forward to your input on my novel.

Cole’s Fear List won’t stop growing. Soon it could trap him inside a box smaller than the linen closet where he hides to skip school. But Cole can’t tell Mom and Dad about his phobias, because he’s sure they already think he’s a freak. Worried they’re right, Cole runs. A 79-mile road trip on his tricked-out riding mower is a leap for any twelve-year-old. But for a boy who hates leaving his own house, it’s terrifying.

But not as scary as losing Lace, the long-distance friend who promises she can cure fear. If Cole can get Lace to safety before her stepdad sends her away, maybe then he can outrun his anxieties. But even if he outwits search helicopters, thieves, and the highway patrol, once his fears catch up with him, Cole will need all of his creative genius to reinvent what it means to be brave and normal.

Lawnmower, Leaving, complete at 56,000 words, is a contemporary middle grade. It combines an adventure along red rock trails with Autism Spectrum Disorder elements reminiscent of a higher-functioning Mockingbird, The London Eye, and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. 

I am trained as a lawyer, but prefer fiction to legal briefs. I have published magazine articles, and my novels have won writing awards. I work with the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers Conference, including two years as head conference assistant, and am a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
R.R.B.

LAWNMOWER, LEAVING

Leaving Reason, One. Mom thinks I’m stupid enough to run over my best friend.

One, my wheels hit the pressure switch I hid in the grass. Two, the rope tied to the chassis pulls Brock to the right spot in the lawn. Three, one sprinkler spurts up, spraying Brock.

He runs off the lawn. “You planned that.”

“Perfect timing.” I check the camera replay and smile. 

“What’s with the weird grin? Does it look like I peed my pants?”

“Maybe.” My invention worked. At least I’m good at something.

“Delete it, okay?” 

“Fine. But only if you drive.” I reach for the foot sled I made by welding cookie sheets.

But first Mom’s on the porch. Then all the sprinklers go off, soaking the front steps and Mom. The smell of wet cement reminds me I’m not just weird, but stupid. I didn’t unplug the timer. I turn off the water, then she points her pen at me. It’s the one Mom chews when she pays bills. “Mowers have blades, Cole. What if you ran over Brock’s foot?” 

The riding mower’s off, but Mom’s words buzz louder than engine noise. Going barefoot always felt good. Safe. Until now.

Mom taps her pen, probably adding to her “Fix Cole" Plan. Maybe I can make her smile. “We’re recording a video.” I hold up the camera. “It’s called, ‘Don’t Try this at Home.’

Brock laughs.

Mom doesn’t. “You can’t try it at our home either. Sorry.”