As if it is not bad enough that Fat Louie will only eat Chicken- or Tuna Flaked Fancy Feast. My little brother is turning out to be a carnivore as well.

And one day will doubtless grow up to be as tall as Shaquille O’Neal due to all the harmful antibiotics with which the meat industry pumps their products before they slaughter them.

Although I fear Rocky will also have the intellect of Tweety Bird, because despite all of the Baby Einstein videos I have played for him, and the many, many hours I have spent reading such classics as Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit and Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham aloud to him, Rocky doesn’t show any signs of interest in anything except throwing his pacifier very hard at the wall; stomping around the loft (with a pair of hands—usually mine—to hold him upright by the back of his OshKoshes…a practice which, by the way, is starting to cause me severe lower back pain); and shrieking “Tuck!” and “Kee!” in as loud a voice as possible.

Surely these can only be considered signs of severe social retardation. Or Asperger Syndrome.

Mom, however, assures me Rocky is developing normally for a nearly one-year-old, and that I should calm down and stop being such a baby-licker (my own mother has now adopted the term Lilly coined for me).

In spite of this betrayal, however, I remain hyperalert for signs of hydrocephalus. You can never be too careful.

“Well, what’s it say, Mia?” my mom wanted to know about my letter. “I wanted to open it and call you at your grandmother’s to give you the news, but Frank wouldn’t let me. He said I should respect your personal boundaries and not open your mail.”

I threw Mr. G a grateful look—hard to do while trying not to cry—and said, “Thanks.”

“Oh please,” my mom said, sounding disgusted. “I gave birth to you. I nursed you for six months. I should be able to read your mail. What’s it say?”

So with trembling fingers, I tore open the envelope, knowing as I did so what I’d find inside.

No big surprise, the single sheet of typed paper said:

Sixteen Magazine

1440 Broadway

New York, NY 10018

Dear Writer:

Thank you for your submission to Sixteen magazine. While we have chosen not to publish your story, we appreciate your interest in our publication.

Sincerely,

Shonda Yost

Fiction Editor

Dear Writer! They couldn’t even be bothered to type out my name! There was no proof at all that anyone had even READ “No More Corn!”, let alone given it any kind of meaningful consideration!

I guess my mom and Mr. G could tell I didn’t like what I was seeing, since Mr. G said, “Gee, that’s tough. But you’ll get ’em next time, tiger.”

“Tuck!” was all Rocky had to say about it, as he hurled a piece of hamburger at the wall.

And my mom went, “I’ve always thought Sixteen magazine was demeaning to young women, as it’s filled with images of impossibly thin and pretty models that can only serve to legitimize young girls’ insecurities about their own bodies. And besides, their articles are hardly what I’d call informative. I mean, who CARES about which kind of jeans better fit your body type, low rise or ultra-low rise? How about teaching girls something useful, like that even if you Do It standing up, you can still get pregnant?”

Touched by my parents’—and brother’s—concern, I said, “It’s okay. There’s always next year.”

Except that I doubt I’ll ever write a better story than “No More Corn!” It was this total one-shot deal, inspired by the touching sight of the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili sitting in the AEHS cafeteria picking corn out of his chili, kernel by kernel, with the saddest look I have ever seen on a human being’s face. I will never witness anything that moving ever again. Except for maybe the look on Tina Hakim Baba’s face when she found out they were canceling Joan of Arcadia.

I don’t know who wrote whatever Sixteen considers the winning entry, and I honestly don’t mean to brag, but her story CAN’T be as compelling and gripping as “No More Corn!”

And she CAN’T possibly love writing as much as I do.

Oh, sure, maybe she’s better at it. But is writing as important to her as BREATHING, the way it is to me? I sincerely doubt it. She’s probably home right now, and her mother’s going, “Oh, Lauren, this came in the mail for you today,” and she’s opening her PERSONALIZED letter from Sixteen magazine and going through her contract and being all, “Ho-hum, another story of mine is getting published. As if I care. All I really want is to make the cheerleading squad and for Brian to ask me out.”

See, I care MORE about writing than I do about cheerleading. Or Brian.

Well, okay, not more than I care about Michael. Or Fat Louie. But close.

So now stupid, Brian-loving Lauren is going around, being all, “La, la, la, I just won Sixteen magazine’s fiction contest, I wonder what’s on TV tonight,” and not even caring that her story is about to be read by a million people, not to mention the fact that she’s going to get to spend the day shadowing a real live editor and see what it’s like in the busy, fast-paced world of hard-hitting teen journalism—

Unless Lilly won.

OH MY GOD. WHAT IF LILLY WON ????????????????????????

Oh, dear Lord in Heaven. Please don’t let Lilly have won Sixteen magazine’s fiction contest. I know it’s wrong to pray for things like that, but I am begging you, Lord, if you exist, which I’m not sure you do because you let them cancel Joan of Arcadia and send that mean rejection letter to me, DO NOT LET LILLY HAVE WON SIXTEEN MAGAZINE’S FICTION CONTEST!!!!!!!

Oh my God. Lilly’s online. She’s IMing me!

WOMYNRULE: POG, did you hear from 16 mag 2day?

Oh, God.

FTLOUIE:         Um. Yes. Did you?

WOMYNRULE: Yes. I got the lamest rejection letter. FIVE of them, to be exact. You can tell they didn’t even READ my stuff.

Thank you, God. I believe in you now. I believe, I believe, I believe. I will never fall asleep during mass in the Royal Genovian Chapel again, I swear. Even though I definitely don’t agree with you about that whole original sin thing because that was NOT Eve’s fault, that talking snake tricked her and, oh yeah, I think women should be allowed to be priests, and priests should be allowed to get married and have kids because, hello, they’d make way better parents than a lot of people, such as that lady who left her baby in the car outside the convenience mart with the motor running while she played video poker and someone stole her car and then threw the baby out the window (the baby was okay because he was in a protective car seat that bounced, which is why I made Mom and Mr. G buy that brand for Rocky even though he screams like his skin is on fire every time they try to stick him in it).

Still. I believe. I believe. I believe.

FTLOUIE: Same here. Well, I mean, I got one letter. But mine was a rejection, too.

WOMYNRULE: Well, don’t take it too personally, POG. This is probably only the first of many rejections you’ll be receiving over the years. I mean, if you really want to be a writer. Don’t forget, almost every Great Book that exists today was rejected by some editor somewhere. Except maybe, like, the Bible. Anyway, I wonder who won.

FTLOUIE: Probably some stupid girl named Lauren who would rather be on the cheerleading squad or have a guy named Brian ask her out and couldn’t care less that she’s soon to be a published author.

WOMYNRULE: Um…okay. Are you feeling all right, Mia? You’re not taking this rejection thing too seriously, are you? I mean, it’s only Sixteen magazine, not The New Yorker.

FTLOUIE: I’m fine. But I’m probably right. About Lauren. Don’t you think?

WOMYNRULE: Uh, yeah, sure. But listen, all of this has given me a totally great idea.

Okay, when Lilly says she’s got a totally great idea, it so never is. A great idea, I mean. Her last great idea was that I run for student council president, and look how that turned out. And don’t even get me started about the time in the first grade when she threw my Strawberry Shortcake doll onto the roof of the Moscovitzes’ country house outside Albany to see if squirrels would be attracted to her Very Berry scent and gnaw on her vinyl face.

WOMYNRULE: Are you still there?

FTLOUIE: I’m here. What’s your idea? And no, you are not throwing Rocky onto any rooftops, no matter how interested you are in what the squirrels might do to him.

WOMYNRULE: What are you talking about? Why would I throw Rocky onto a roof? My idea is that we start our OWN magazine.

FTLOUIE: What?

WOMYNRULE: I’m serious. We start our own magazine. Not a stupid one about French kissing and Hayden Christensen’s abs, like Sixteen magazine, but a literary magazine, like Salon.com. Only not online. And for teens. This will kill two birds with one stone. One, we can get published. And two, we can sell copies and make back the five grand we need to rent Alice Tully Hall and keep Amber Cheeseman from killing us.

FTLOUIE: But, Lilly. To start our own magazine we need money. You know. To pay for printing and stuff. And we don’t have any money. That is the problem. Remember?

God. I may only be getting a C minus in Economics, but even I know that to start a business, you need some capital. I mean, I’ve seen The Apprentice, for God’s sake.

Also, I sort of like seeing Hayden Christensen’s abs in Sixteen every month. I mean, it makes my subscription worth it.

WOMYNRULE: Not if we get Ms. Martinez to be our advisor and she lets us use the school photocopier.

Ms. M! I couldn’t believe Lilly would bring up the M word with me. Ms. Martinez, my Honors English teacher, and I do NOT see eye to eye where my writing career is concerned. I mean, she’s loosened up a little since the whole incident at the beginning of the school year when she gave me a B.

But not by much.

I know, for instance, that Ms. M would NOT see “No More Corn!” for the compelling psychological character study and moving social commentary it is. She would probably say it was melodramatic and filled with clichés.

Which is why I wasn’t planning on showing it to her until Sixteen published it. Except I guess that’s never going to happen now.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I highly doubt we’re going to be able to raise five grand from selling a teen literary magazine. I mean, our peers barely have time to read required stuff like O Pioneers, let alone copies of some student-written collection of short stories and poems. I think we need some more feasible way to generate cash than depending on sales of a magazine we haven’t even written yet.

WOMYNRULE: What do you suggest then? Candle selling?

AAAAAAHHHHHHH! Because you know in addition to the strawberry-shaped candle, there are ones shaped like bananas and pineapples. Also, birds. STATE birds. Like, for Indiana, there is a cardinal candle, the cardinal being the Hoosier state’s bird.

Worse—and I hesitate to write this—there is an actual replica of Noah’s Ark, with two of all the animals (even unicorns). In CANDLE form.

Even I could not make up something that revolting.

FTLOUIE: Of course not. I just think we need to put a little more thought into the matter before we rush into—

SKINNERBX: Hey, Thermopolis. How’s it going?

MICHAEL!!!! MICHAEL IS IMing ME!!!!!!!

FTLOUIE: Sorry, Lilly, gotta go.

WOMYNRULE: Why? Is my brother IMing you?

FTLOUIE: Yeah…

WOMYNRULE: Oh. I know what HE wants.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, I TOLD you, we’re WAITING to have sex—

WOMYNRULE: That’s not what I meant, you tool. I meant—Oh, never mind. Just e me after you’ve talked to him. I’m serious about this magazine thing, POG. It’s the only way you’re going to be able to see your name in print—besides on Us Weekly’s—Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us! pages.

FTLOUIE: Wait—you know why Michael’s IMing me? How do you know? What’s going on? Tell me, Lilly—

WOMYNRULE: terminated

SKINNERBX: Mia? You there?

FTLOUIE: Michael! Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m just having the worst day. My government is out of money and Sixteen rejected “No More Corn!”!!!!!!

SKINNERBX: Wait—the government of Genovia is out of money? I didn’t see anything about that on Netscape. How did THAT happen?

This is why my boyfriend is so wonderful. Even when he doesn’t understand a single thing that is going on in my life, he’s still, you know, way concerned for me.