#4 SON OF A (HIRED) GUN (YA contemporary)

Dear Agents,

In my 95,000 word YA Contemp novel, Son Of A (Hired) Gun, 16-year-old Bixby Darwin’s life is thrown into a state of flux when he’s catapulted into the Witness Protection program.

Yesterday, Bix was Simon Rook.

Today he learned that that henceforth he’ll be Bixby Darwin.

Yesterday, Bix was avoiding the get-to-know-my-son lunch his mother insisted on having with her current boyfriend, Omar.

Today, Omar was blown up along with his shop.

Yesterday, Bix suspected Omar was a terrorist.

Today, Bix learned his absentee father is an assassin.

 He’s a little concerned about what tomorrow will bring.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

I look forward to hearing from you,
 

Margie Senechal
 http://rgsenechal.com/ 
@wishwryter


SON OF A HIRED GUN

Chapter 1

 I have imaginary conversations with my dad.

 Some people call it blogging. But seeing as he abandoned us when I was still incubating, it’s the one way I have to tell him about my day, my thoughts, my life. I imagine that he stumbles across my blog, Simon Says, and realizes that this Simon—this short but witty sixteen-year-old—is the son he left without a trace.

 I like to think he regrets this loss. I like to think —

 “Simon,” Mom calls down the hall to me. “If you make us any later I’ll—.”

 “I’m ready.” Heading her off, I save my latest blog.

 You’d think we were having lunch with someone more important than her latest boyfriend. Now that she’s reached the critical get-to-know-my-son juncture in this relationship, she’s a little on edge. Or ready to jump off one.

 I take out my phone and tweet. @Simonsays: Lunch at Melting Pot with Omar. Rather stay home than break bread (and dip it) with Mom’s florist/terrorist boyfriend.

 Jury’s still out on whether Omar is actually a terrorist but it does make good blogging and tweeting. It’s not like anyone takes me seriously anyway. That’s kind of the problem when you’re sixteen and look like you’re twelve. Which is why my cyber life is so important—I’m judged by my words not by looks.

 “Simon?” Mom’s yell borders on hysteria. “You’ve got to stop calling him a terrorist.”

 I walk to the bathroom doorway and duck under a lingering mist cloud of hairspray. I hold my breath as I pass. Don’t want to die of cancer before I get my first kiss. “I can’t help it if I think he’s a terrorist.” Although last week, after I heard him talking Russian, I was pretty sure he was KGB. Turns out he’s a Croatian-Arab hybrid who speaks four languages fluently. Mom calls him worldly, I call him suspicious.

 “What if he reads it? What’s he going to think?” Mom watches me in the mirror as she applies her eye gook.

 “Mom,” I meet her gaze in the mirror. “That’s assuming he reads more English than plutonium rich.”

 Mom bites back a laugh, her mouth forming a heart. “He is not a terrorist.”

 Notice she didn’t say he could read.

 The doorbell rings ending our witty exchange.

 “Get that.” Mom flicks me away with a recently manicured hand.

 I check to make sure her ring finger is still unadorned.

 “What are you looking at?”

 I shrug, heading for the front door. “Making sure you’re not the gangster’s diamond-studded moll.”

 “I thought he was a terrorist,” Mom calls after me.

 “Potato, potahto.” Even though it’s been drilled into me, I don’t check the peephole.

 Two men in dark suits with dark glasses and even darker expressions stare down at me.

 Standing like twin sentries, they block any view behind them.