Something I noticed right off the bat is how many ideas and characters you introduced within the first two pages. I had a hard time keeping track of who's who when the story wasn't giving me any time to cement these characters in my head. We jump from Tina to a whole other character named Alex out of the blue while trying to understand the relationship between them and the protag's family and the conflict within the protag's family all at the same time. The Queen of Fairies sounds like an important title, but she hardly does anything impressive. When Samantha first started speaking in Chapter 2, I had to go back in the text because I had no clue who she was and what she was doing there, and going back still didn't provide an explanation. There is too much information being loaded on to the reader at once.
This connects to your issue of flat characters. Despite the gravity of the situation happening within the first few pages, I don't have any reason to care about these characters because I know nothing about them or their world. There needs to be some time to introduce at least some these characters and do some world building before this confrontation happens. For example, if the story started before the protag's father shows up, that would give some much needed space to introduce the protag. What does she enjoy? What is she good at, or bad at? Is she popular among her peers? Most importantly, what is her relationship with her mother, and how does she feel toward her dad? At the same time, what is Ally like? How did she handle becoming a single mom? How does she feel toward her husband who bailed on her? Even their feelings toward certain subjects can tell a ton about them. Then, the father's sudden arrival can organically add another element to the story as well as give an opportunity to introduce him.
On a side note, it was also a difficult for me to keep track of who is speaking in your dialogue. Putting in some action before what the character says might help with this. A random example of what I mean:
Jacob banged his fist against the vending machine. "Get out, you stupid candy bar!"
I couldn't help feeling embarrassed by all the people watching us. "Can you please stop? What did that vending machine ever do to you?"
"It robbed me of my last dollar," he fumed.
I wrote a chapter that takes place before the current events I have written. What do you think? Keep in mind that it's not finished.
I didn’t ask to be born or to be burdened by my family’s secrets, forced to move and to change, and hated simply because I exist. For much of my childhood, I thought I was alone in this, but life is too complicated for that to be true.
“Ami!” my mom shouted from the kitchen. “Ready? Time to go!”
“One second!” I yelled. I stood in my now empty bedroom, holding a cardboard box filled with pictures - photos I had taken throughout the years. On the top of the pile was a picture of my younger brother Toby; he was five when I took that photo. He stood in front of a blank, white wall. Toby grinned that infectious grin of his. It was goofy and ecstatic, revealing his missing front tooth - all signs of a perfect childhood, despite his being not so ideal. His chocolate brown eyes gleamed with pride and excitement. He had our mother’s straight black hair, but where her’s long, his was short, but only long enough that it hit his eyelids. My mom always insisted that she have it cut, but one day, not so long after, I took the photo. Toby made such a fuss that she didn’t argue.
I walked towards my bedroom door, turned around to face my barren room, and whispered, “Goodbye.” This would be the last time I would lay eyes on my childhood home.
It was a clear, warm summer morning. The sun reflecting off of the black minivan sitting in the driveway. My mom leaned against the side of the van, her arms crossed. She wore a baggy cerulean blue tank top that reached her hips and black shorts. Her expression was one I didn’t expect - grim determination. Her eyes, like mine, were forest green, they were transfixed on the house as if she were trying to take a photo of it and store in her own mental scrapbook. Today, she wore her hair in a ponytail. On her left upper arm were three pale white vertical scars, like cuts or slits. From the day I could talk until I was eight years old, I would ask her where she got those strange scars. Finally, she explained me the truth about her past with her mother. Let’s just say Samantha Cowiak was far from the ideal mom.
“Just take a picture. It’ll last longer,” I told her, putting my fingers to my lips, “Hmm, better yet, I’ll give you one of mine.” I placed the box in the trunk and began rifling through its contents. It has to be here somewhere. Aha! I pulled out a photo of the house and handed it to her. It was small, one-story, and was painted white. It was brand new when my parents had bought it but that was ten years ago.
“I can’t believe we’re leaving this place,” I said.
“I know. It feels like yesterday I was driving across the island, with you in the back of the car, your dad next to me. No care in the world,” my mom said, smiling, lost in the past. She sighed heavily, “Time to leave. Time to go home.” My mom took one last look at the house, slammed the trunk, and got in the car.
“Did you know that forty percent of people in Southwater are fairies and powered people?” Toby said, ten minutes later. Today, he wore a navy blue tee-shirt and black shorts.
“Yes, Toby. I did. In fact, it’s the reason most people don’t like it there. There afraid of us. They think we’re all bad people, destined to break the law,” my mom replied calmly even though we all knew there was more to her words than she was letting on.