shelley watter's first page critique and contest

This is version #2,095,003 of the first page of Solstice.  Please help me out by critiquing it.  Don't worry, I can take your honest opinions and would love feedback and advice.  I don't mind writing version #2,095,004 one bit.  Whatever works.  Thanks in advance!

Please go here to visit Shelley's Blog to find the links to all the other entries!

Title:  Solstice
Genre:  YA Paranormal Romance
Word Count:  65,000

(Original version.  After some great feedback, I tried to apply some of the advice by making revisions. Please see below.   The only thing I was unable to do was cure the excerpt of wordiness.  In fact, I may have made it worse.)

        Deep down I knew this was a bad idea.  If I chickened out, though, it would bug me all day, maybe longer.  So here I sat on a bed of dry, crunchy leaves with my back against one of the many tall oak trees in Haven Forest.  Early morning sunlight streamed through the trees and the mist, making the forest look eerier than normal.  The journal I’d sneaked from my great-grandma’s old trunk lay unopened in my hands.  Staring at it didn’t help.  If it had an invisible clasp, it didn’t flip open magically.  That would have been too easy. 

            Sure, I’d sneaked peeks at it over the years, but nothing I’d ever tried had opened it.  Giving up wasn’t an option.  Its mystery intrigued me.  That, and the whispered stories I’d overhead my dad and aunt share, years before, that taunted me, and reassured me that there was a story for me to read within it.  One thing I’d heard my dad say ran through my mind:  “Grandma Mari’s story is meant to be sealed.  When it becomes necessary for it to be opened, one of us will know how to do it.  Only then will our history be known.”  Something had quivered through me with those words, and I’d known who that one would be.  Me. 

            That was the first time my intuition had spoken to me, using a type of sign language on my skin with its icy fingers.(Revised Version) (A third below)

          Deep down I knew this was a bad idea.  Yet here I sat on a bed of dry, crunchy leaves with my back against one of the many oak trees in Haven Forest.  Early morning sunlight streamed through the trees and the mist, making the forest look eerier than normal.  The journal I’d sneaked from my great-grandma’s old trunk lay unopened in my hands.  Its binding was seamless and without a clasp or lock.  Staring at it didn’t help.  Willing it to open wouldn’t do the trick.

            Sure, I’d sneaked peeks at it over the years, but nothing I’d ever tried had opened it.  Giving up wasn’t an option.  Its mystery intrigued me.  Over time the desire to get in the journal grew, like a spark catching on dry fabric, the heat in the pit of my stomach a stark contrast to the shivers running down my back as I held the cool metal-bound book. 

            The whispered stories my dad and aunt had shared years before taunted me, reassuring me that there was a story within its hidden pages. One thing I’d heard my dad say ran through my mind:  “Grandma Mari’s story is meant to be sealed.  When it’s necessary for it to be opened, one of us will know how to do it.  Only then will our history be known.”  As soon as I heard those words, shivers quivered through me.  And I’d known who that one would be.  Me.

            That was the first time my intuition had spoken to me, using a type of sign language on my skin with its icy fingers.

You are all amazing.  Thanks so much for your help!  (Revised Version) (I may have taken the changes too far....)

          Deep down I knew this was a bad idea. Here I sat on a bed of dry, crunchy leaves with my back against one of the oak trees in Haven Forest.  Pale morning sunlight streamed through the trees and the mist, making the forest look eerier than normal. The metal-bound journal I’d sneaked from my great-grandma’s old trunk lay unopened in my hands. Its binding was seamless and without a clasp or lock. Staring at it, willing it to open, did no good.

             Nothing I’d ever tried had opened it. Giving up had never been an option, for no reason other than its mystery intrigued me. Recently, however, my desire to get in the journal flared, like a spark catching on paper, the heat in the pit of my stomach in stark contrast to the shivers running down my back chill in the air as I examined every corner of the book.

            My parents never talked about Great-Grandma Mari or the items in her trunk, skirting questions the few times I'd asked. The secrets taunted me though everyone else seemed able to ignore them.

             Whispered conversations between my dad and aunt, years before, had reassured me that there was a story within its hidden pages. “Grandma Mari sealed her story," my dad had said. "When necessary, one of us will know how to open it. Only then will our true history be known.” As soon as I heard those words, shivers quivered through me. And I’d known who that one would be. Me.

            That was the first time my intuition had spoken to me, using a type of sign language on my skin with its icy fingers.

and...HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BEST BLOG PARTNER IN THE UNIVERSE!  HAVE A GREAT DAY, ERICA!