Title: MIDDLE SCHOOL MOBSTERS
Genre: MG contemporary humor
Word Count: 38,000
Being placed into Witness Protection in a town run by the U.S. Marshal Service brings a new name, new friends, and a whole new set of problems for thirteen-year old Deech Rosselli as the middle school is filled with mini mobsters, all imitating what they've seen their parents do over the years.
Deech makes friends quickly and thrives among kids forming families of their own during recess. A typical day finds forgers writing notes from parents and signing report cards, hackers changing class schedules and grades, and even the random arsonist juggling fireballs in the hall.
Then the disenchanted principal, a former Marshal, cuts a deal with the mob. He snitches on the Rossellis, forcing Deech and his friends to devise a plan to trap the principal, outsmart the bad guys, and survive seventh grade. If they fail, Deech’s dad's a goner and the principal gets his town back. But on the plus side, they've all seen Home Alone like a thousand times.
A book to be enjoyed by those that loved The Fourth Stall and Goonies, MIDDLE SCHOOL MOBSTERS is 38,000 words of The Fratellis meet Home Alone. It’s a family comedy where the term family has a whole new meaning.
First 250 words:
I wasn’t really sure what it meant to be in the Witness Protection Program, but after two solid days on the road I figured I was about to find out when Dad finally pulled off the highway and crept along in the middle of butt-crack nowhere.
Looking out the window, I scanned the well-kept houses and neatly trimmed lawns, quickly realizing there wasn't a satellite dish in sight.
My stomach bottomed out. I can see it now, I thought as we swung wide around another corner. Deech Rosselli, aged thirteen, found dead after being placed in Witness Protection. Death by boredom the autopsy confirmed. Seriously, they’d probably find my skeleton plunked down on the couch, staring at the TV, remote in hand, waiting for my new little podunk town to get DirecTV.
“Hold on!” my dad yelled as our Jeep came to a screeching halt less than three feet from the moving truck parked in front of what I hoped was our new house.
“Dad!” my sister, Angie shrieked, jamming her feet into the back of his seat, bracing for impact seconds after the Jeep had already stopped.
I laughed. “What are you putting your feet up for, knucklehead? If we hit that truck the only thing you can do is hope the hospital you’re being rushed to has Wi-Fi.”
“I’ve only been hoping for one thing for the last thirteen years,” she hissed, putting her feet back down. “But you’re still here.”