So when the lovely Elana Johnson asked me to do something similar to what I did with QueryTracker, I decided to jump on the band wagon and help out. After all, the lovely organizers behind Write On Con did such a fabulous job of setting everything up, I was willing to help out in any way I could.

Plus, if you haven’t already heard, I kind of love slush.

What am I doing, exactly? Well Elana put out a call for volunteers to submit their opening pages. Fifty people entered their YA or MG opening pages, and she asked me to narrow it down.

I asked her to take out all the vampires, witches, angels and werewolves.

That left us with 17 remaining entries.

Now, before you go and blog or Tweet or get mad at me for this, please understand something: This is a really good example of how saturated the market is right now. This explains why agents are salivating over the opportunity to see something new. Because most of our slush consists of several of the same creatures and concepts.

Does it mean I’ll never sign one of these books? No. If the right twist came along with stellar writing to back it up, I’d be all over it. I have a client with a paranormal manuscript, but it’s definitely way different from what I’ve seen in YA. I just want you to understand that it is absolutely essential you stand out as much as possible from query / pitch to the manuscript / voice itself because of the current ratios of paranormal to…well…everything else…that’s currently popping up in my inbox.

I then looked at the 17 entries and decided to take out the ones which I’ve either already rejected in the past or currently have in my ‘requested submissions to read’ folder. I did this for various reasons, and this left me with 12.

So, back to the point of what this post is all about: I agreed to read the 12 (instead of narrowing it down to five as originally suggested – I like a challenge) and these awesome volunteers are cool with my not only marking where I stopped reading, but also explaining to the Interwebz why I stopped reading.

My comments will be a 110% honest. If I simply say “I didn’t connect with the voice,” then that’s what it means. If I say “It’s not for me,” then it’s just simply not something I typically gravitate to and the writing / plot wasn’t enough to suck me in and change my mind. Please understand that this is such a subjective business. My thoughts may be completely the opposite of my fellow industry professionals or they may mirror other agents’ thoughts. Totally depends.

I hope you get something out of the following examples, and a huge thank you to Write On Con organizers for being so organized with this new venture!

~K

www.KathleenOrtiz.com

www.LowensteinAssociates.com

@KOrtizzle

9. BREATHE: 16 y.o. Virginia Jackson, a dr’s daughter, defies age, class & gender barriers in 1918 when Spanish flu strikes Philly.

July 8, 1918

Philadelphia, PA

Today, I came back from the dead.

“C’mon, Cotton Top, open your eyes.” A familiar voice lured me to the surface.

I reached toward the light. My lungs ached, like I was being dragged from the bottom of the Schuylkill River. Again. I opened my mouth to let the murky water rush out. I waited for them to push on my chest until the water was gone and the life-giving air filled my lungs. This time, the water that flooded from my mouth tasted like blood, not fish.

“Oh, God in Heaven. Help me roll her, Cecelia.” The panicked voice filled my ears, and strong hands grabbed my body.

Where was the dank river smell? Where was the sound of leaves and sticks crunching as my body turned? No, this time there was no sound. Instead, my cheek felt like it was on a cloud.

Was I in heaven?

My body convulsed, desperate to push out the last of the dirty water from my mouth. In rushed the life-affirming air, burning every fiber of my body.

“That’s my girl. I won’t let it take you.” A muscular hand wrapped around mine.

I willed my eyes open a crack. I saw him, his head bathed in a golden light. It was my father. Or maybe it was my Heavenly Father. I felt His love surround me, and then I drifted back into a golden sleep.

———

When I woke again, the sun was high.

Was it the same day? The next day? Several days?

“Doctor!” Cecelia’s voice punctured the silence of my room.

Cane-foot-foot. Cane-foot-foot. My door burst open. Daddy made it to my bedside in three long strides. His cane clattered on the floor as he wrapped his strong arms around me. His heart pounded like an anvil inside his chest.

“Thank you, sweet Jesus.” Daddy rocked me gently. “Thank you for giving me my little girl back.”

Daddy wiped his slate-blue eyes with the back of his hand before tucking me back into bed.

“Go rest, Cecelia. I’ll sit with her for a while.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Cecelia unpinned her crisp white nursing hat. A strand of gray hair fell out of her bun. “Shall I send a telegraph to your wife, Charles?”

“Please. Let her know that it is safe to return home. Also, please telegraph Katherine. Tell her I expect her home on Thursday’s train, no excuses. Have Marco meet her at the station.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

I wanted to stay awake. I wanted to ask where Mama was. And what my sister, Kit, had done now. But my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. Instead they felt like lead weights, pulling me back under. A vision of Marco’s handsome face gave me peace. Thankfully, Daddy couldn’t read my mind.

Daddy’s smooth hand brushed my cheek. “You’re still feverish, but I’m out of aspirin. Go back to sleep for a while, Cotton Top. I’ll see if the pharmacy will deliver to us now that I can lift the quarantine.” (Slight nerd moment on my part – I believe that aspirin is believed to have helped accelerate deaths during this time period because of its side effects from its chemical makeup at the time…not sure if you researched this or if it plays into the plot later on….)

Quar . . . . I had so many questions, but none of them were answered.

———

The sun was still up—or maybe it had gone down and come back up again, I didn’t know—when I broke through the surface again. I squinted around my sun-filled room. Kit’s bed next to mine was still empty. In the corner, Mama dozed in our favorite reading chair, her reading glasses perched crookedly on her nose.

Mama. The word started in my brain, but I couldn’t get it to come out of my mouth. I tried again and again. My tongue was so dry and furry. My throat felt like a desert. I tried again. A mew-like sound escaped from my cracked lips. Mama snapped to attention. She lurched out of the chair, all her important papers fluttering to the floor like snow.

“Oh, Ginny, my darling, I was so worried about you.” Mama had one hand on my forehead and the other grabbed my hand. “I wanted to come back, truly I did, but your father wouldn’t let me.”

“Wah,” I said, not being able to squeeze out the “ter”.

“What, darling?”

I winced. My throat felt full of razor blades. “Wah…ter.”

Mama jumped up like her corset was on fire. She raced to the table next to the reading chair and poured a glass of water out of the crystal decanter.  Soon the glass was propped up to my lips. Luke-warm water washed into my desert-parched mouth. Like a summer storm after a long drought, the water created a flash flood. I choked, as it rushed into my lungs instead of my stomach. My lungs ignited as I coughed it back up. Mama let me wheeze and sputter away.

“There, there.” Mama patted my hand. She looked around my room in a panic.

Thankfully, Cecelia heard my coughing fit. She bustled into my room a moment later with a little silver tray.

“Mrs. Jackson.” Cecelia placed the silver tray down on the table beside my bed.

“Yes, Miss Edwards?”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jackson. Dr. Jackson left orders that I give Virginia a tincture of laudanum when she awoke. That racking cough is damaging to her injured lungs.”

I nodded. My lungs felt as raw as uncased sausage.

Mama flicked out the invisible wrinkles in her cotton skirt and then stood up. She moved a few steps to the right, leaving barely enough room for Cecelia, and her ample bottom, to squeeze in next to my bed.

Cecelia’s elbow bumped Mama’s bosom as she poured a colorless liquid out of a smoked glass bottle. The medicine burned a whole new kind of fire as it made its way down my throat. Soon a warm burn spread in my stomach. Cecelia brushed a few matted ringlets out of my face and then placed her fingers at my wrist.

I’m on the fence. I read through the pages waiting for something to jump out and grab me, but nothing did. I’d probably skim the next few pages, but if something didn’t jump out after a few pages, it would be a pass.

10. In this comic MG adventure 12 yo Halogen Watts’ new invention Computer Cat will make him rich and famous if he can stop evil Tesla from sabotaging it.

What was left of my homework sagged from Bond’s mouth, the ragged ends of the pages dripping with saliva. I held out my hand half-pleading, half-hopeless, “Bond, give it back.”

He darted behind the lounge chair, and peered out at me, shaking his shaggy head.

“Bond!” I tried to sound fierce like Mum when she’s yelling at someone for dropping rubbish in the school playground. “Bond, put it down.”

He smiled at me, his uneven teeth were green and yellow with the kind of leftovers that dogs love, but that totally gross people out. From the grin on his face and the way his jaws were still fastened tightly around my homework, his response was clear. “Are you serious? I’m not dropping this. I’m having too much fun.”

“BOND! GIVE IT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

He ran off and did a circuit of the lounge room, just about taking out Mum’s favourite coffee table on his way through. Bond was about to escape into the kitchen when I leapt at him and wrapped my arms around his neck like a collar. He admitted defeat and dropped the soggy object on the floor.

I picked it up carefully and tried not to think about the microbes doing back flips and somersaults in the layers of dog slime. Some of them could even be crawling over my skin at this very moment, looking for a way to infiltrate my defences. Waiting to climb into my mouth and launch an attack.

Hoping to salvage at least part of my homework, I got a tissue and carefully wiped away as much dog slime as I could. I tried to peel off the outer layer of sodden paper but it ripped away in my hand. What had once been words and numbers were now wet smudges on the page. I was doomed!

“Bond!” I was practically crying by now, not a good look for a twelve year-old boy genius.

“Thanks for nothing!” I slam-dunked the slimy paper ball into the rubbish bin. This was bad!  My maths assignment was due TODAY, and how clichéd was that… ‘the dog ate my homework’? Mrs Blaxland was never going to believe it! And I was never going to have time to redo the assignment. I slumped onto the couch with Bond curled up on the floor nearby, peering at me over crossed paws.

Stopped reading and skimmed.

My mind went into overdrive. No homework meant no school excursion to the computer expo, the most exciting thing to hit town in the last decade. And that meant no spare parts for my latest work in progress (WIP),the automatic bed maker (ABM).

I was filled with panic. I was on a deadline. I had to get the ABM finished for the New Inventor’s Convention in three month’s time. This was my big chance to become a household name. My ABM would free kids from bed making all over the country, and they’d all be thanking me big time. The worst part of the whole situation was, I had done my homework. The only thing I hadn’t done was remember to feed Bond his breakfast.

The lounge room door opened. I squinted at the light filtering in from the kitchen. “You don’t look happy.” My sister, Electra grinned at me.

I scowled. “Bond ate my maths assignment.”

Electra giggled. “Bummer! That homework’s due today isn’t it Hal?”

“Tell me about it.” I rolled my eyes at her mock sympathy.

Electra flopped down on the couch next to me. One of the most annoying things about my twin is that she’s a good 5 cm taller than me.

Dad was always telling me not to worry, that my growth spurt would come. “I wasn’t tall until the year I turned fifteen” he said. “My shoe size went up three times in six months.”

I hoped Dad was right. It was bad enough having to deal with a name like Halogen (my parents have a sick sense of humour, and wanted to make the most of the fact that our last name is Watts.) But what really sucked was having a sister that everyone thought was at least two years older than me when in actual fact, she was twenty-five minutes and 30 seconds younger.

I turned my focus back to the immediate problem, the fact that my canine had consumed my homework. What was I going to do now?

Electra seemed to think it was all a big joke. She stretched out her long fingers on her lap, and started inspecting her nails. “What a pain, losing your whole assignment to a dog.”

“And I haven’t got time to do it again.” My voice quavered.

Electra didn’t flinch. “No homework, no computer expo. That’s gotta hurt a geek like you. Me, on the other hand…I don’t care if I go or not. Can’t think of anything more boring.” She yawned to prove her point.

Awesome! Electra had just handed me a possible solution. I suppressed a grin, tried not to show my excitement. The more Electra knew I wanted something, the more she would make me pay.

“I guess I could give you five dollars for your maths assignment,” I tried to sound casual, even though I knew Mum would kill me if she ever found out about our deal, and the school bus was due in half an hour.

Electra crossed her long legs and peered at me down her nose – as if I’d just offered to wash her hair with dead cockroaches. “Five dollars? ! I sweated for hours over that homework.”

Unlikely, seeing as Electra is a brain at maths, but I had to admit that the assignment sheet had a lot of questions.

“Ten dollars, then. I can’t afford to pay you more, Electra. I need the rest for computer parts.”

She stretched her legs out and rested them on the coffee table. She shook her head. “No deal.”

I gulped and took a deep breath. I knew I could be landing myself in bigger trouble, but I was getting desperate. “What would you agree to?” I was even prepared to tidy her room for a year if that’s what it took. I cleared my throat, “Um…”

Electra grinned at me slyly. “I guess I could give you my assignment…”

“Really? You’re the best sister.”

Electra fake vomited and even I had to agree that maybe I had gone a little over the top but that’s what desperation does to a person.

“I’m your only sister.”

True. “What’s the catch to your offer?” My voice came out squeaky.

Electra leant back in her chair. She knew she had me. “If I give you my assignment, you have to do something for me.”

I nearly said, “Anything”, but I bit my tongue just in time. You don’t put yourself at the mercy of someone like Electra.

“What do you want?”

Electra grinned smugly, as if she was about to ask for something totally unreasonable, but she knew I’d get it for her anyway because I was DESPERATE!

So many things tumbled through my mind. What could she want from me? My blood ran cold. What if she wanted me to do something really gross like kiss her best friend Tabitha? I asked myself, “How far are you prepared to go”?

Electra’s voice sliced through my thoughts like a blunt butter knife. “I want a cat.”

Not what I was expecting! No tidying bedrooms, no kissing Tabitha? I just about wet myself with relief. “ You want a cat? But you’re allergic to cats.”

Electra gave me her I don’t want my hair washed with dead cockroaches look. “I don’t want a real cat, silly.”

Was there any other kind?

“What sort of cat do you want then?”

“Think about it, Hal.  You’re a lame geek, but you’re an awesome inventor.

She had a point there. I’d already invented a toothpaste free toothbrush, and the painless nostril hair remover (that was last year’s Christmas present to Dad).

“A computer cat should be a cinch for a nerd like you.”

It was the closest thing I was ever likely to get to a compliment from Electra, but even more shocking was what she was actually asking me to do. “You want me to make you a cat?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Do you want to go to that computer expo or not?”

She had me cornered. I nodded.

I wasn’t sucked in by the voice as much as I would have liked. I skimmed and didn’t really click with it overall. This is a pass for me.

11. Moonrise is a YA paranormal: when Jessie adds a few offerings to her mom’s St. Agnes altar, it’s not a saint who responds, but a demon.

Jessie stretched out her arms–admiring how her thumbs poked up through the ragged holes she’d just made in her sweatshirt with her pen. Just what she needed to keep the sleeves from riding up during the day and giving her away.

She could still feel the burn ringing her wrist, the pain flaring each time she remembered the demon grasping her there, but she felt calmer now knowing none of her classmates would see a thing.

She slouched down in her assigned seat in the front row and waited for English to start. For the first time, she wished she could sit in back, avoid eye contact, and just zone out.

Sufi was absorbed in doodling kawaii animals on the cover of her binder.  Jessie felt a stab of envy at her carefree attitude. She never worried if anyone saw her goofing off—even the teachers seemed to have some silent agreement that Sufi got a pass.

The classroom door slammed shut and woke half the class from a semi-slumber. Mr. Bates beamed at his captive audience.

“Okay, let’s get started. Today we’re going to look at some wild and not-so-wild theories about a guy named BillyBob Shakespeare. Did he exist? Was he a woman? Did he write all his own work? Did he channel Xenu, the god of Scientology?”

The class giggled. Mr. Bates was a little weird, but it kept things interesting.

Jessie tried to forget the demon burn on her wrist and focus on whether William Shakespeare was an alien baby born in the shadow of a Martian volcano. But night was coming and so was the demon.

#

It all started a week ago when her mom made a little altar in the kitchen. There were a lot of layoffs coming at her job, and she was afraid she might be next in line.

Jessie came down the stairs to find her mom laying an orange oak leaf in front of a small statue of Saint Agnes. Agnes had on an acorn cap and was standing on top of the Morton’s salt container.

Her mom didn’t even look up from arranging the altar, but muttered a distracted greeting: “Hi honey, I made you an egg with some toast, and there’s OJ in the fridge.”

Jessie whipped a look over to make sure that the egg was scrambled, NOT sunnyside up. When her mom was half-tuned out like this, there was a good chance she’d forget that—ever since The Incident–Jessie L-O-A-T-H-E-D eggs sunnyside up.

Phew. Scrambled.

She turned back to stare at her mom just as she reached into her back pocket and pulled out an M&M. Jessie gasped. She didn’t think her mom even KNEW about M&Ms. She never allowed junk food in the house.

Stopped reading and started skimming.

“Mom! Where did you get that?!?”

“I have my sources. Go eat breakfast.”

“But what are you doing with Agnes?”

“I’m just covering all my bases, honey. It can’t hurt, right?”

“But what’s this supposed to do?”

Her mom straightened slowly, wincing and rubbing at the small of her back with one hand.

Jessie felt her chest constrict. She looks so tired.

“Your grandmother told me that her family used to have an altar to Agnes in their kitchen. She said she’s the saint of last chances, wild risks, and crazy wishes, and if you make the right offerings, she will grant your wish in one week.”

Her mom looked over at her, her eyes bloodshot and filled with worry, “So I am asking Agnes to help me keep my job.”

Jessie’s heart was beating really fast. She went over and hugged her mom.

“You know we can use my college savings if we need to.”

She’d said this before in hard times, and her mom had always objected loudly to the idea, so she was shocked when her mom replied in a defeated voice, “We may just have to.”

“Now eat your breakfast, ok? I have to get ready. The last thing I want to do is show up late when they’re thinking about who to let go.”

Her mom kissed her on the forehead and trudged upstairs.

Jessie sat at the breakfast table. She was shook up by her mom looking so worn out, trying to do magic with dolls, and the fact that she would even consider using her college savings. This was serious.

She picked at her egg. She offered some pieces to Farkle, but the cat was not interested. She was staring fixedly at the altar, tail twitching.

When her mom came back downstairs, Jessie got up to talk to her.

“Mom, is there anything I can do, uh, you know, with Agnes?”

Her mom opened her mouth as if to say no, but then she closed her eyes and said slowly, “I don’t know much about her. Why don’t you see what you can find out?”

Jessie hugged her mom tightly and swore to be expert by the end of the day.

#

Jessie set her netbook aside, slid off her bed, and did some stretches. Long day—school, homework, then research on St. Agnes. After almost three hours glued to the Web, she was a little stiff and a little creeped out. All those funny quirks that she thought were unique to her extended family, she now realized had their roots in the superstitions swirling around St. Agnes. Like leaving the window cracked during dinner, or having a white cat with two-color eyes, and saying “From your hands to Agnes’s tongue.”

Had her family been practicing magic all her life? Did any of it work? Did they even know what they were doing?

Time to call her grandmother.

She printed out her notes for reference and ran downstairs to get her mom’s address book, surprising Farkle mid-leap from the counter.

The altar was a mess–Agnes was on her side, feet in a small mound of salt. The M&M was gone.

“Oh man, Farkle, you know Mom’s NEVER going to believe me when I say I didn’t eat that.”

She dialed her grandmother’s number on her cell and then straightened up the altar while waiting for her to pick up. She knew it would take like seventeen rings before the voicemail kicked in. Her grandmother still had the kind of phone with a cord that stayed in one place, so she needed a lot of time to get to the phone sometimes, like when she was in the garden.

Jessie was dumping the spilled salt into the garbage, when the voicemail message clicked on, and her grandmother’s voice came on: “Leave a short, clear message, so I know whether to call you back.”

“Hi Grandma. I had some questions about the Agnes statue you sent to Mom. Could you please call me back? My number is 555-2358. Thanks! Bye!” Just as she was about to hang up, she remembered to add, “I got to bed at 9:30 p.m., so please don’t call after that, k, love you, thanks, bye!” Without a set time, her grandmother might call back at 2 a.m. or something. Apparently old people didn’t sleep much.

She spread her notes out on the kitchen table. According to her research, Agnes was a Christian version of the old Norse goddess Eddgna, ruler of the legions of the underworld. But, over time, as the monks tried to convert people to Christianity, they made Eddgna into a Christian saint. And now St. Agnes statues were something you could buy in tourist shops in Stockholm along with a little bag pre-packed with bribes.

Agnes apparently liked sweets, the color orange, all things risky, and monkeys. She hated cats. Probably because the cats kept knocking her over and stealing her offerings.

A spot of white on the floor caught her eye—the paper was still folded, but she recognized the note with her mom’s wish inside.  Jessie got up to put the note back under Agnes’s feet, but then something made her hesitate. She had the strongest urge to read it.

She debated with herself. Should I ask her first? It IS private. Nah, Mom already told me her wish.“But if you know her wish, why do you need to read it?”

She stared at the folded note in her hand.

Somewhere upstairs, Farkle yowled. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She opened the note.

Interesting premise, but I felt there was a lot of back story trying to be incorporate into the opening pages, which made the pacing a little awkward and even slow at times. This is a pass for me.

12. YA supernatural. Teen queen dies in car crash. Hell-bent on keeping her boyfriend and her tiara, she fears being stuck In Between forever.

Everyone knows that senior prom is a throw away.  Unless you have a high school sweetheart, it’s mostly for people who missed out on junior prom, and let’s face it, by Spring most seniors realize that they have better things to do than hang out with high school kids.

Junior prom, on the other hand, is the pinnacle of high school social achievement.  If you don’t go to junior prom, then you are a nobody, ask anybody.  You go to junior prom and you have bragging rights.  You get elected to prom court, and you are admired for a lifetime.

Southwood Junior Prom is white tie, formal gowns, no exceptions.  It’s been that way for decades.  Most juniors hire a limousine.  But if you are the “it” couple of Southwood, daddy lets you borrow his car, and that’s where the trouble begins.

Jason and I were the “it” couple of Southwood High.  Everyone looked up to us.  Everyone.  We were gorgeous, popular, rich, and we had style.   My sister Macey pretended that she didn’t care.  Macey and I sort of looked alike, fraternal twins and all that, but Macey had her own way of seeing the world.  She kept herself busy with sports and she studied every day.  I tried to tell her that it’s not what you know it’s who you know that counts.  Typical Macey totally blew me off and stuck her nose in a book.  Whatever.  Still, don’t think I didn’t notice her all ga-ga eyed over my boyfriend Jason.  Granted, she couldn’t help it.  What girl could?  Even a few of the guys had secret crushes on him.  Jason was dreamy.

Stopped reading and started skimming.

So, there we were at junior prom.  All hail the queen and king.  That’s right.  Jason and I were elected prom royalty.  Don’t act surprised, we so deserved it.  Everyone said so.  I was dressed in a sky blue watercolor silk, beaded bodice, strapless, with a light as air scarf that trailed behind me when I walked on my three-inch strappy sandals.  Jason, like all the other guys, was dressed in a white-tie tuxedo, but Jason totally stood out with his athletic build and early spring tan.

Macey got elected to the court too, which totally surprised me, and her I think.  Okay, I admit it, she looked decent in her crushed silk dress, not good enough for queen, but good enough for the court.  I helped her pick out the dress, of course.  Fashion was something she was clueless about, and was one of the only things she said I did well.   I would have done her hair and makeup, too, but Mum surprised us when she sent us off to Santabella Spa for our prom pampering package.  Who am I to turn down a day of massage, scrubs, mani-pedis, and beauty products?

First dance together as king and queen felt so completely right.  Jason and I fit together.  I was the perfect height for him, with or without the three-inch heels.  I’ll never forget when he looked me in the eyes and said, “I could hold you all night.”  I felt my spine go all loose and I swear I would have melted onto the dance floor if he hadn’t been holding me then.  Jason and I were going to be together forever.

We danced a few more dances, talked to friends, and watched the dance floor.  But mostly we sat, Jason on the chair, me on Jason’s lap with his arms around me.  He kissed the back of my neck and even snuck a lick at the hollow behind my ear.  It was way too hard to concentrate on conversations around me when he did that, so I have no idea what anyone said to us.  Probably stuff like oh you’re so beautiful and I knew you would be prom queen and king and you had my vote.  All stuff I knew already, so I just smiled and said thank you a lot.

When it was time for dinner, Jason and I sat next to each other.  He had his left hand over my right hand for most of the main meal, so I didn’t eat much because I have a hard time holding my fork with my left hand.  There was plenty of food left on my plate by the time Jason was done with his meal.

“Hey are you gonna eat that?” Jason asked me.

I smiled and shook my head.  “You can have it.”

Instead of just pushing his plate forward, Jason wanted to trade his plate with mine, which kind of annoyed me because it would look like I had finished my entire meal before everyone else.  I mean, the plate was wiped clean.  I knew other people would make their little mental notes about what a pig the prom queen was, so just to clear up any misconceptions, I pulled my hand away from Jason’s and stood up to change our plates.  It was totally obvious that I was sharing, and kudos to me for being so generous.

Jason startled me when we got to dessert.  He slid his hand up my inner thigh and then pressed against my panties.  I jumped and banged into the table, which was enough to topple my glass and spill icy water all over Jason’s jacket and his right thigh.  The glass rolled off the table and shattered on the tiled floor.

Jason just laughed it off, “It ain’t a party until something’s broke.”

“Oh, Jason, I am so sorry,” I said.  What was I apologizing for?  He was rounding the bases without my permission.  Served him right to get all … wet.  I sighed and grabbed napkins off the table, to help dab up the mess.  And as I began to lower myself to the floor, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about how it felt with his warm hand pressed up against me.  It made me feel all fizzy, sort of like a shaken bottle of orange soda.

“Don’t even bother cleaning that up,” Jason said.  “Let’s move over here for dessert.”

Jason pulled me up and led me to a small table set off in a dim corner.  Its view of the dance floor was partially obstructed by a large white pillar.  I was kind of nervous going to that table with him.  Dim, partially hidden, private.  What exactly did he mean by dessert?  Was he planning on any more funny business?  What was I going to do with all those other people around, not that I would see them because my eyes kind of glazed over when Jason touched me and I was never sure of whether I wanted to stop him or not.  But I mean, how much cold water could I possibly spill on him in one night?   An image flashed in my mind of me tracing an ice cube over his sculpted pectoral muscles; that, of course, would have the opposite effect of the one I desired… or maybe, if I were honest, it was what I desired most.

“Jess, are you okay?” Jason asked me.

“My head is spinning.”

“Try taking a deep breath,” he said.

He was right.  Breathing helped.  If I was going to get through the rest of the night I would have to stop fantasizing and remember to breathe.

The white-skirted table was so small that we sat across from each other, our knees parallel.

Jason smiled at me.  I smiled back and stared at his perfectly formed lips.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, slipping his hand under the table and sliding his hand over silk.

I closed my legs hard, but that just increased the pressure and I thought I might burst.

When a server came with two flutes of dark chocolate mouse, I relaxed reflexively, whether inviting the insane pleasure of chocolate or just grateful for the distraction, I’m not sure.

Jason knew how much I loved good chocolate.  Not the sickly white pretender, or the meek milk.  No.  I went for the best.  Chocolove, Cote D’Or, El Rey, Scharrfen Berger, Valrhona, my decadent heaven.

“I love watching you eat chocolate,” Jason said as I closed my eyes and savored the slow melt of Schokinag over my tongue.  “But if I’m honest I have to admit I am a little jealous seeing you enjoy something so much.”  He chuckled.  One corner of his mouth turned up as he raised his spoon to feed me and smeared chocolate on my lips.  He smiled roguishly, put the spoon down and leaned forward to lick the chocolate off my lips, overwhelming me with the long deep thrill of chocolate kisses.

After dinner we danced again, a slow dance.  The speakers blared the tenor voice of some one-hit wonder and the dance floor vibrated with bass.  It didn’t matter what was playing, Jason and I danced to our own song.  I slipped my arms under his tux jacket and laid my cheek on his shoulder, as we pressed hard against each other.  I could feel Jason’s desire pulsing against me.  There was a burning tight sensation down low in my belly and my breath was shallow.   I thought I might faint.  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he said, his lips slightly parted, inches from my own.

I took my cheek off his shoulder and brought my lips close to his ear.  “Let’s go to Moon Bay,” I said, my voice raspy.

Jason knew exactly what I meant.  Moon Bay was a beach about twenty miles from the center of Southwood.  We had never gone there before, but Jason knew as well as I did that sometimes couples went there at night to do more than make out.  Jason’s eyes flashed and the corners of his perfect mouth turned up.  “You sure?” he asked.

I nodded.

There is so much back story in these pages – it would make for a much better read if the information was organically introduced throughout the plot rather than just dumped in the opening pages. This is a pass for me.

Kathleen Ortiz began her career in publishing at Ballinger Publishing as an editorial assistant and interactive media designer for the young adult section, working to boost the magazine’s online presence through social networking. She then moved on to uwirepr.com as online editor for the features, art & entertainment sections. She has also taught high school classes as a visual media instructor. Currently an Associate Agent and Foreign Rights Manager at Lowenstein Associates, she is seeking children’s books (chapter, middle grade, and young adult) and young adult non-fiction.