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outlined against the Dvorkian sky, they were filled with dread. The Darkest Man.
    What sounded so eerie a couple of weeks ago now just seems silly and immature. Dr. Sonenshine was probably right to slap me that 82. I skip through the story to her comments.
Danny you have really managed to create a strange and fascinating world in the science fiction/fantasy genre. I wish I could go to a place like Dvorkia, especially during all this cold weather! I do think, however, that the character of “The Darkest Man” remains somewhat elusive. It would be interesting if you could develop a story based on characters and events that are more relevant to your own life. Also, please remember to run your work through spell-check and watch your verb tense agreement.
    The phone rings and I let the machine get it. “Danny pick up if you’re there.” Portia’s voice is angrily insistent. “I know you’re home. Your mom said you left with back spasms. Thanks a lot; I know it was just to get out of fencing, which went really bad without you.” She sighs, a loud leaf-rustling noise over the tape.
    “Anyhow, Lauren and I’re going to watch the Rye junior varsity wrestling matches, and I really hope she doesn’t ask Ty Amblin to the Fling before you? Because she said she maybe was going to? So uh … so call me tonight, anyway. Oh, and uh, I have something important to talk about.” She slams down the phone.
    “Doubtful,” I mutter. Portia rarely has anything important to talk about. And Lauren already asked Drew Brewer to the dance. Portia’s lies are almost too easy to catch.
    I scoop the mail off the floor. The March issue of The Lilac is in and now I’ve given myself enough time to prepare myself to flip through it. I know in a minute that my story’s not in there, and I’m mad at myself for searching for it.
    “Car Crazy,” “Let Sleeping Dogs Wake,” “Disengaged,” “Julio Underwater,” “Soap.” I read through the table of contents very slow, wishing for the words “Woodpile Baby”—my story’s title—to surface suddenly with the others.
    Nothing.
    I flip to “Car Crazy,” by Mark Gould. “Mike cared for his Ferrari better than his women,” I read out loud. Stupid story. Fifth place.
    “Woodpile Baby” has a way more interesting idea—all about this orphanage in olden times where babies got dropped off in the middle of the night, placed on top of the woodpile by their poor mothers who couldn’t care for them. One night a baby freezes to death and her ghost haunts the school, eventually setting fire to it. The end has everyone burning right up to a crisp, even the nice cleaning lady. It’s a very tragic, Stephen King-ish kind of story.
    “Gruesome and depressing,” Mom had said, but she let me send in a check to cover the five-dollar entry fee. Mom never thinks my entry fees are a waste of money, even though I’ve never won anything. “Let the world know you’re in it,” is her motto.
    Winning submissions will be notified, the rules explained vaguely.
    I hadn’t been notified. I hadn’t even been honorable mentioned.
    My head really does hurt.
    There’s only one aspirin in the medicine cabinet, so I swallow it and replace the empty bottle. At least the people at The Lilac who probably were all laughing scornfully at “Woodpile Baby” don’t know my real name. Whenever I enter a contest I use my pen name, Antonia de Ver White. It’s a name for how I picture a serious writer: a chain-smoking older woman with high cheekbones and a knowing laugh.
    I know it’s a babyish thought, but I’m thinking of switching my name permanently to Antonia de Ver White, when I get to college. I mentioned this once privately to Dr. Sonenshine, since she’s a writer on the side, too, and she said some Native Americans get new names when they become men and women, so if I wanted to change, why not?
    The phone rings again. I walk slowly out of the bathroom to watch the machine take the call. “Pick up, it’s