This is the Writer's Voice! Here is my query
and first 250 words!
Dear Amazing Coaches,
Fifteen-year-old Adelaide Dorsten is an expert liar. But when
her lies no longer seem believable and her friends begin to question her tales,
she confesses her biggest secret to her best friend. The bruises she’s always tried to
hide don’t come from falling down stairs or running in to doorknobs, they come
from her brother.
Harper Maddock is a new student at Adelaide’s posh private
school, desperate to keep the secret of her rape and attempted suicide from her
new classmates. But when she falls in with a couple of popular girls, she finds
herself in a spotlight she never desired. As Harper tries to keep up with her growing
list of lies, she catches the attention of a popular boy – Adelaide’s older
brother.
Gemma Drayton is Adelaide’s best friend, and she doesn’t want
to know anyone’s secrets. In fact, she’s quite content believing what she knows
are outright lies – even if that means covering up what she suspects about
Adelaide’s family. But when the abuse takes a deadly turn before her eyes, her
suspicions are confirmed.
With one confession, each girl’s web of lies will unravel,
risking the people they love, their friendships, and even their lives.
Told from Adelaide, Harper, and Gemma’s points of view, SWEET
LITTLE LIES is a YA dark contemporary novel, complete at 64,000 words. It will
appeal to fans of 13 Reasons Why and Speak. I
am an active and founding member of the Writer Diaries. Thank you for your time
and consideration.
Sincerely,
Tabitha Martin
First 250
The bruises fade long enough for a new crop to pop up,
raising more eyebrows and even more questions. I run my fingers along the cheek
bone under my right eye, wincing as I graze the three knuckle-sized bruises. I
fall back, leaning against the glass door of my shower, glaring at myself
through the mirror. How in the world will I cover these up?
My excuses get weaker and weaker, to the point that I'm not sure anyone believes me. I'm not even sure I believe me.
Stuttering halfway through sentences only makes the story even less believable
than it might have been in the first place.
I fling open the top drawer of my bathroom cabinet and pull
out a bottle of foundation. I'll cake it on until you can't see a single
bruise, despite the fact my skin will look eight shades darker when I'm done.
"Let's go loser," my brother shouts from outside my
room.
I throw the foundation on the counter, silently cursing as
the glass bottle chips the edge of my sink, a small porcelain triangle falling
down the drain.
Glancing back in the mirror, I try carefully not to let my
eyes fall to my ribs, to the pancake-sized bruises right underneath my fading
violet bra. It's a relief clothes are a school requirement. No one would
believe I got these bruises from a not-so-graceful fall to the
ground. They're clearly in the shape of a fist.
"Adelaide, let's go!" he shouts and hits my door
hard.
