For our final First Impression in this anniversary month, I bring you another FIRST. A return visit!
PK Hrezo shared her first page with us in February. She took the feedback everyone gave her and revised. Then she submitted the first 500 words to Cupid’s Literary Connection and received 4 agent requests — 3 full and 1 partial!
Yeah, we’re that good! PK’s writing talent may have also played a part. *grin*
If you want to see PK’s original first page and all the feedback she received, look here. Otherwise, continue on to read the new beginning to her YA Thriller, THE 49th PARALLEL:
Mom says I’m my father’s daughter.
She doesn’t mean it in a good way. It’s why I’m stuck here in the most boring town in upstate New York for the summer, working in the public library. It was this or change bedpans for old people in a retirement home, and I’m not about to work around human defecation all day.
One more book to return and I’m done for the night. I roll the book cart onward, just as my MP3 dies, right in the middle of a filthy jazz riff too. Hate it when that happens. I flick the buds out of my ears and reel toward the American History section. The faded parquet floor creaks like it’s in pain. Except for that, it’s totally quiet right now—too quiet on my first night closing alone. At least the head librarian doesn’t hover over my shoulder. She lets me handle the lockdown on my own, and sad to say, right now she may be the only one who trusts me.
This big old building is kind of creepy. It’s three levels, with the third floor skirting a transparent railing around the center staircase. From up here, you can see all the way down to the atrium floor, where moonlight from the glass ceiling spills in like silvery rain. Distorted shadows dance across the floor there, provoked by a breeze through the tree limbs that hug the outside windows.
This job is supposed to keep me out of trouble, and I have to admit, even though it’s torture being away from my friends in Manhattan, it’s way better than forever being labeled a youth offender for something I didn’t do. Mom doesn’t get it—why I put myself on the line for my friends. That’s what she means when she says I’m my father’s daughter. Dad was a firefighter and made a career of getting people out of trouble. There’s even a memorial for him, along with the other firefighters who lost their lives on September 11. They dubbed him a hero, like the name was somehow supposed to make up for his death.