by Jackie Yap (@jackieyap.bsky.social)
YA Mystery
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Query
Sixteen-year-old Australian Isabelle ‘Izzy’ Gomez’s world tilts when her newly divorced mum takes a job in Manila at her fancy new school and to care for Izzy’s sickly grandmother (TB and dengue, double-whammy).
Homesick and drowning in culture shock at the uber-wealthy Manila International School, Izzy tries to survive the year before she can move back to Australia. But when the daughter of a powerful diplomat––Izzy’s rival for the photography contest and the most popular girl in school–turns up dead, all signs point to Izzy.
With the police pressured to find a suspect fast, her mum’s career on the line, and her grandmother’s treatment hanging by a thread, Izzy finds herself in a risky game of wits with Manila’s rich and famous. Her only hope? Carlo, a quirky scholarship student who believes in Izzy’s innocence. Together, they must outwit nepo babies, aunties of Manila, old (and new) money families, and toxic teenage drama to uncover the truth.
With the Aussie charm of Eleanor Jones is Not a Murderer meets the high-society glitz and glamour of Crazy Rich Asians––ISABELLE GOMEZ IS INNOCENT, SHE SWEARS is a YA mystery complete at 70,000 words. Written as a standalone with series potential, it’s part murder mystery, part fish-out-of-water, and part coming-of-age. Full of big family dynamics, strong found friendships, absurdly rich escapades, and a pithy puzzle-solving heroine, this novel will appeal to fans of Amy Doak, Mia P. Manansala, and Jesse Q. Sutanto.
This manuscript has interest from senior editors from Penguin Random House Australia, Simon & Schuster Australia, Affirm Press, Allen & Unwin, and Hardie Grant. It has placed in the following: 2026 Sisters in Crime Eleanor Taylor Bland Award, 2026 RevPit winner; 2025 CYA Aspiring YA competition winner; longlisted for the 2026 Queensland Writers Centre Adaptable Program; Honourable Mention in the 2025 Round Table Mentorship; shortlisted for the 2025 Ascent Novel Prize; shortlisted in the 2025 Sketch & Scribe First Pages, and Top 100 of the 2025 Bath Children’s Novel Award.
I’m a recipient of the 2025 We Need Diverse Books and Kill Your Darlings mentorships; an alumna of the Australian Writers’ Centre and Faber Writing Academy; and a member of the ASA, QWC and SCBWI. This #OwnVoices novel draws on my experiences as an Australian-born Malaysian-Chinese-Filipina who’s lived in eight cities in five countries. Much like Izzy Gomez, I swear I’ve not killed anyone.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
I don’t belong here.
Pretzeled on the closed toilet lid of a stuffy cubicle-turned-hideout on the third-floor school loos––my daggy uniform clinging desperately to my skin like it’s in a toxic relationship.
Messy, unhealthy, but it’s not letting go.
This is where ventilation goes to die. Manila’s humidity is proof I’m not in Australia anymore.
Everything’s sticky, inescapable, and way too real.
Biggest regret so far?
Not bolting the second I heard the loo door bang open. Now I’m trapped here. Heart racing as I eavesdrop on something straight out of an episode of Married at First Sight.
Since I arrived at Manila International School, I’m learning more about the students here than I ever wanted to know.
Two of the top five families on the Forbes Rich List send their kids here. Someone’s set to inherit an empire of screws and bolts––yep, screws. Another family owns vineyards in France, Italy, and a ski resort in Switzerland. Someone owns multiple private islands.
There’s a kid whose birthday parties are so over-the-top lavish, they make the news every year. Rumour has it they even had a public road shut down to accommodate last year’s guest list. Oh, and there’s royalty walking these halls. As in a proper prince or princess. No joke. That’s the buzz at Manila International School––where drama trumps homework. It’s like Crazy Rich Asians. But this is real life.
And then there’s me. Record scratch.
Miserable, homesick, and melting like an açai bowl in peak Aussie summer. I’m so far from home on the Gold Coast, I might as well be on another planet. To be fair, I’m also sitting on a toilet that can keep my arse warm and has instructions in Japanese, so I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.
‘Seen Sabs’ nose job? Obvious much?’ A voice echoes outside my stall.
‘Oh my god. I can’t believe she went through with it!’
‘Right? I thought it was just a rumour. About time. God knows she needed it.’
Adrenaline floods my system as I––reluctantly, mind you––listen in.
I have no idea who Sabs is. But here I am. Catching up on all the latest about her new nose. Sorry, Sabs.
‘I bet she went to Dr. Rose,’ the second girl says. ‘My mom swears by her. She’s, like, the go-to for all the society ladies. Did my cousin’s eyelids and my godmother’s second chin.’
It sounds like they’ve set up camp in front of the mirrors. The noise of running water, makeup compacts snapping open, and the whoosh of the hand dryer fills the space. The air is thick with sweet floral perfume that stings my eyes. My stomach churns, and the cubicle feels like it’s closing in on me.
I didn’t count on unwanted company. When I ducked out of class, I was just waiting to work on Dad’s riddle, undisturbed. By the time I heard voices, it was too late. I panicked and froze. At this rate, I might just die in here. Because I chose the one toilet in the entire school with broken air conditioning.
I wonder if my hero, Pulitzer Prize-nominated photographer Hannah Reyes Morales, ever had to hide in the school loos. Probably not, hey?
Dad’s daily riddle pops up in our family chat, and I feel a small tug of comfort.
The Happy Gomez Family, Dad Gomez: I speak without a mouth and hear without ears I have no body, but I come alive with the wind What am I? Chris Gomez: let you girls have this one Chris Gomez: jumpin in for a surf Bianca Gomez: I’m at work Bianca Gomez: Bet you a Tim Tam packet, Izza’s already on it Chris Gomez: mate Chris Gomez: you on Chris Gomez: get the dark choc raspberry yeh Chris Gomez: shes on special
Normally, I’d be all over it.
Games are serious business in the Gomez household. We’ve got a running tally to prove it. You didn’t ask, but I’m eight points behind Ate B, with Kuya C nowhere in sight. News alert notifications pop up on my phone. Being informed is definitely my older sister––journo-extraordinaire––Ate Bianca’s influence.
I thumb them away, absently registering the headlines. Nothing but natural disasters pretty much every week: An earthquake. Flooding. Some government drama. Fires. Road accidents. Traffic jams for days.
Take me back to the Goldie, please. Where my biggest crisis was which beach Kuya and I were going to decide on for tomorrow’s dawn patrol: Currumbin or Kirra?
I swipe a reply to the family chat:
Isabelle Gomez: Can I get a timeout, please???
My leg’s falling asleep, and I’m feeling a growing itch. I try to redirect my focus on the riddle, and not on my scratchy uniform. I’ve almost got it––until a voice from outside catches my attention.
‘Huh? Isabelle…Izzy something? The new chick? The Australian?’
Wait. Hold up.
That’s me, yeah?
They’re talking about me.
‘Boring. Don’t get me started on Australian passports. So overrated.’
‘Anyway, the new girl, Isabelle… what’s her face? Gomes? Gomez? Whatever. G’day, mate, and all that.’
My eyes roll so hard, I swear I almost see brain. The attempt at an Aussie accent is so cringeworthy, it physically hurts.
I should be used to standing out by now. Back home, I was pretty much the only Asian face in a sea full of white kids.
Sure, Mika was there, too. But she’s special.
Half-Australian, half-Filipino, and 100% effortlessly cool, my best mate––and cousin, so she’s stuck with me ’til death do us part––Mika’s got that racially ambiguous beauty that makes people accept her without question.
‘What do you think she’s doing in Manila, anyway? In MIS? She doesn’t even speak Tagalog. Seriously. What’s the point?’
My cheeks flame.
My Tagalog skills––or lack thereof––aren’t exactly a secret. But hearing it chucked out so casually hits harder than expected. I thought I could keep my awkwardness on the down-low for at least another week.
There’s a scoff.
I imagine it’s accompanied by the kind of eye-roll that could give someone whiplash.
‘She can’t be rich. As if. I mean, have you seen her? She screams poor. Probably another charity case. Standards are really dropping around here.’
‘I bet you she’s one of those kids whose parents want them to reconnect with their roots. You know, proudly Filipino, but don’t know a single thing about the culture.’
Brutal. But, yeah, fair.
Except moving back to Manila wasn’t a choice. Much less, my choice.
Mum made that call right after Lola’s double-diagnosis. A dengue and tuberculosis combo––talk about unlucky, right?––equals a one-way ticket back to the motherland. No questions asked.
Now, I’m stuck here. Trying to survive.
Oh, and trying to solve this riddle in the meantime.
Can you tell I’m stoked as?
My eyes fly to my phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The answer is ‘echo’, but I’m a little distracted.
‘Oh. She’s one of those.’
Clenching a free hand, my nails dig half-moon circles into my palm.
I breathe through a wave of frustration. The urge to smash someone––real hard––in the face is overwhelming. I promised my quarterly court-mandated therapist, a la my parents’ divorce, that my urge to choose violence had drastically downgraded from likely to almost never.
Clearly, I was lying.
‘Hah! Nakakahiya!’ Girl 2 barks a laugh. She reminds me of an aggro chihuahua. The Tagalog word for ‘embarrassing’ rings loudly.
Nakakahiya.
That’s the one Tagalog word I’m super acquainted with. I’ve heard it all my life. Mostly in whispered conversations between relatives after they learn I can’t speak Tagalog like my Ate Bianca or Kuya Chris.
The youngest Gomez? Apparently, the weakest link.
‘Not all of us can speak four languages,’ someone cuts in, their tone bone dry.
It’s a third voice.
Enter: a new player.
Queen Bee, who’s really driving this morning’s toilet massacre of me, says: ‘Yeah, well, at least speak two, right? Seriously. Imagine just knowing one. Talk about pathetic. Get an education, please.’