QK Agent Round: (YA Contemp) Caprice No. 13

Entry Nickname: Caprice No. 13

Title: Strung Along
Word Count: 51,000
Genre: YA Contemporary

Query:

Seventeen-year-old Sarah Avery has always been a violinist, ever since her mother took her to a symphony performance when she was seven. But now her mother is dead, and Sarah’s violin is her only salvation. Her violin means safety, it means Juilliard, it means an escape from her lecherous uncle and ignorant aunt. That is, if Sarah can get in.

But the audition itself isn’t the only thing standing in Sarah’s way. Not when the school guidance counselor forces her to tutor another student for credit hours: Sawyer Cavallo, a self-described fat queer punk with a blue violin and her own share of secrets. Who, to Sarah’s surprise, ends up becoming a friend—even if she is one Sarah can’t afford. Friends get too close. Friends notice things that are off, things that Sarah would rather keep hidden. Things that she has to keep hidden. 

Because if her uncle finds out she plans to leave him, he very well may kill her. 

First 250 Words:

My eyes are closed. 

Violin music resonates around me, Bach’s Sonata in G minor filling the room, my body, notes wrapping me in a cocoon. My bow is merely an extension of my arm, my fingers press down on the strings at the exact moment they need to make something exquisite, something perfect. This, this is what I live for, this music that makes me feel like I’m in Carnegie Hall, I’m a soloist for a great symphony, I’m—

I’m perfect.

No—I’m safe.

“Miss Avery?” 

I start, open my eyes. Mrs. Canady, the music teacher turned guidance counselor, stands in front of me. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, the bangles on her wrist clinking dissonantly as she waves her arm.

“You scared me,” I say.

She shrugs, a halfhearted almost-apology. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your practice, but I need a favor.” 

I flinch. 

I don’t do favors. 

“What?” I ask as I stand up. I tower over Mrs. Canady, so much I can begin to see her scalp through her straw-thin hair. 

But the way she’s looking at me makes me feel small.

“You’re very talented,” she says. “I was wondering what your plans were after here.” 

“I… I haven’t really…”

“You’d be doing yourself a disservice if you weren’t at least considering music,” she continues. “You’re good enough for Juilliard.” 

My face burns. 

Juilliard.

I don’t want anyone to know about Juilliard.