Dear Miss Snark,
Game Day is a YA book complete at 50,000 words, aimed at a mature teen audience.
It's tough to fit in when you're the new kid in a small, close-knit high school. It's tougher when you're a gothed-out boy in a black trenchcoat, eyeliner, and nail polish. And when some kid who dresses like you shoots up his school somewhere upstate, it's just about impossible.
(there's a hook--you've got my focused attention)
After the death of his father, Edan Donahue and his mother move to Sutterville. Though he knows it could help him socially, he refuses to tone down his look, which leads to conflict with the school's football star and bully, Jackson Armitage. Edan is befriended by some of the school's other misfits: a punk princess who hides her secrets behind rose-tinted glasses, a devout Wiccan, a stoner who does little more than take up space, a math genius who'd rather play his guitar, and a shy artist. Other than being outcasts, they seem to have little in common, but they gradually form a group identity that supports them all.
All of that is torn apart when Jackson is found dead, apparently murdered, the morning after the last game of the season. Suspicion falls on Edan, even from within his circle of friends.
Thank you for your consideration.
Yup, you've got a good query letter.
You've got the arc of a plot without a synopsis.
Now, let's see if you can write.
The football players, following tradition, had all come to school in dress shirts and ties. They'd roamed the halls in packs, high spirited, making noise, slapping high-fives, pretending they didn't see the looks they got, imagining them all admiring or envious.
The cheerleaders were all in uniform too: short white pleated skirts, matching tops with a royal purple "S" emblazoned on the front, cute little white shoes. They'd traveled in packs and made noise, too: rhythmic clapping and chanting or random squeals.
But not now. Now the school was on lockdown. The halls were empty, or nearly so. A lone figure strolled between banks of lockers and closed doors. He wasn't impressive by his size or by his looks. Just an ordinary kid, puny by most standards. Invisible, unnoticed most of the time.
Now, they noticed. Now, for the first time in his life, he felt powerful. Tucked under his right arm was a rifle, used the previous autumn by his next door neighbor for deer hunting. There were extra bullets in his cargo pockets. His left hand held a pistol, heavy and warm. A variety of knives, all banned by the school's Zero Tolerance policy, were tucked into boots or sheaths strapped to his belt. Oh yeah, it was game day, all right. Just not the game they were hoping for.
There was movement ahead and soft sounds of weeping, and he moved closer. Three cheerleaders huddled in an alcove, the janitor's closet door they'd chosen as a hiding place already locked. Panicked, they didn't know where else to go and now stood with their arms around each other, shaking and crying.
They quieted when he approached. One of the blondes glared at him, the other hid her face on the shoulder of the girl with the black ponytail. He lifted the pistol at arm's length and sighted them. Life, or death? It was his decision to make. He decided, magnanimously, to let them live. He smiled at them. It would be in the news tomorrow, he knew. He'd aimed a gun at them and smiled.
After he was past them, he heard soft running footsteps receding behind him. One of them had called up her courage and broke for the office, to make sure they knew.
Oh, they knew, all right.
(here's your start)
He turned and lifted the pistol, getting her in the sights, and squeezed off a shot. It missed, but she fell anyway, fear tripping her up. She slid to a halt in a heap in the center of the hall and he stepped toward her. She shook with sobs. Wasn't this the girl he bumped in the hall last week? An accident, of course. Someone like him didn't deliberately touch a girl like her. He'd mumbled an apology and she'd looked at him like lint she would flick off her sweater, and then she'd moved on like he didn't even exist. They'd gone to school together since kindergarten, but she looked at him like he was a bug.
I'm guessing this is a prologue.
You don't need it.
Your story is the aftermath, not the shooting.
We don't need another description of a high school shooting.
We all know what it looks like, sounds like, feels like.
Your story is the consequences, not the action.
I'd send you a rejection letter saying so and offering to look at the first ten pages of revisions.