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Hello!
My name is Henry Reade. I'm a high school student in western Massachusetts, and I'm on a mission to make reading more fun for people between the ages of 9 and 14.
When I was younger I couldn't find many books that were funny or fun to read, so I wrote my own. Together with my father, I have now written four books about three brothers who decide to become outlaws and end up saving the country. They call themselves The Pencil Bandits. (Imagine Oliver Twist meets The Marx Brothers, who meet the Simpsons.) These books are funny and full of adventure, and take on big themes, like income inequality and budget cuts, in a fun way. We tested it on kids through an anonymous survey, and they really love it—87 percent said they'd recommend it to a friend, and 3 out of 5 said it was either the best book they'd read all year, or the best book ever. This goes to show that young people are desperate for good books, and that nobody knows what they like better than someone their age.
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The First Book!
We are now releasing the first book in hardcover. We will gradually release three more.
But more important, we want to bring the pleasure of reading (and laughing) to more young people through the publishing company I'm starting, called Henry Charles Press. Kids who enjoy these stories will be more excited about reading, and as a character in my first book says, "reading is like having a conversation with the greatest minds that have ever lived." We particularly want to get these books to young people who can't afford them.
And to do that, we need your help.
The Plan
Here's what we're hoping to do:
Ticonderoga’s “office” was actually a pit he’d dug under the rear of the bus, with walls made from scraps of wood and cardboard. To get to it they opened the door of the bus, walked down the stairs into the cold night air, and crawled through an opening behind the right fender. Dixon, who was huge and muscled, always banged his head.
Ti sat behind his “desk,” which he’d made from a cardboard box. He had already lit the “lamp,” a piece of string in a can of fat. He was wearing his “suit,” a t-shirt on which he’d drawn lapels, pockets, buttons, and a tie.
He used the gavel he’d made from a stick and a rock to bang on his desk, which buckled under the weight and barely made a sound. He didn’t care. He liked being an executive. “This meeting is now called to order,” he said. “Are all members of the committee present?”
Eagle hated this corporate stuff. He wanted to be a rap star. Annoyed, he said, “Present.”
Dixon, who was easily distracted, said, “What?”
Ti ignored him. “Good enough.” He stood up and paced back and forth. He was the only one short enough to stand in the office.
“Brothers,” he said, “it’s almost winter. And as you know, that’s the hardest time of year for us to find food.”
“Yeah,” said Dixon, rubbing the belly of his too-tight Spiderman t-shirt. “The animals all go somewhere.”
“To Florida,” Eagle said. “Which is where I’d like to be chillin’ right now.”
“On top of that,” Ti said, “It’s when we need even more fuel for the stove. And Father appears to be sicker than ever, so there will probably be fewer wood scraps coming from the factory.”
“What’s left in the bank account?” Eagle said.
“Let’s see.” Ti pulled something from under the box desk and held it up by the lamp. It was a clear, zip-lock bag on which he had written in black marker, “Bank Account.” He studied it for a bit, then told them, “One dollar and 17 cents.”
“That won’t get uth through the winter,” Dixon said.
Ti said, “We are in big trouble.”
“Yeah. We be screwed.”
Dixon’s lower lip started to quiver.
Eagle gave him a pat on the back. “Don’t cry, Brah.”
Ti stopped pacing and looked at his older brothers. “Do either of you have any ideas?”
“How ‘bout we go to the thtore!” said Dixon, cheering up.
“That’s a great idea,” said Ti, waving the back account at him, “except for one problem. We are completely lacking in funds.”
“Fun?” Said Dixon. “We have fun. We’re like the Swith Family Robinthon!”
“Funds,” said Eagle. “You know, Brah. Like, scratch. Cheese. Greenbacks. Benjamins. Money.”
“Oh.”
“Eagle,” Ti asked him. “Any ideas?”
“Yeah,” Eagle said. “We make a rap video!” He jumped up, tried to do a hip-hop dance move, and bumped his head on the muffler. “Ow!” He sat back down on the dirt.
“Eagle, we have discussed this before,” Ti said. “It takes money to make a rap video. Our problem here isn’t how to spend money. It’s how to get some.”
“Fine,” said Eagle, rubbing his head. “If you so smart, Mister Man, let’s hear your plan.” He paused, then said, “Hey, that rhymes. I’m gonna use that in a rap.”
“I do have a plan, as a matter of fact,” Ti said. “I’ve been working on it ever since I was forced to stop taking Latin classes at the library because they sold the library to Bronco Burgers.”
Ti paced back and forth, tapping into his palm one of the Faber #2s his father made by hand in his spare time for the pure love of pencils. He said, “For years now I have watched our father. He, like our mother, followed the rules. He did the right thing. He is honest, hard-working, and decent as the day is long. His entire life he has gotten up at dawn, gone to work, and done his job, 12 hours a day. And what did he get for it? Nothing but abuse from those hellish managers, Mr. Dietrich and Mrs. Youngs, with their insults and their time-out chairs.”
“Right on, Brah!”
Ti kept pacing. “At school they tell us about the American Dream. They say anyone can rise up and become a millionaire if they’re willing to work hard and follow the rules. But there has been no American Dream for our father. He is descended from some of the greatest pencil manufacturers in the history of this country. But look at him! He’s sick, he’s miserable, and he hasn’t had a vacation in 16 years.”
Ti stopped pacing and pointed his finger at them. “Brothers, this has forced me to face an uncomfortable truth. Honesty is not the best policy. Hard work doesn’t pay. The early bird doesn’t catch the worm, and a penny saved can’t be a penny earned if you haven’t got a penny in the first place. As Napoleon Bonaparte once said, ‘The surest way to remain poor is to be honest.’”
His brothers nodded their heads. Their little brother sure was smart.
“We all know that once I’m able to graduate from college,” Ti said, “I’ll get my MBA, run a hedge fund, and we will swim in money. But until then, how do we survive? How do I pay for college? I don’t see any alternative. It is the only way.”
“What ith?” said Dixon.
“Yeah, Boo. What’s the way?”
Ticonderoga got a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said. “We must resort to a life of crime.”
Copyright © 2016 by Henry Reade and Nathaniel Reade
