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J.P.:
Embarrassing? I was mortified! I haven’t been able to stand the sight of corn since!
Me:
Well. That explains it, then.
J.P.:
Explains what?
Me:
Nothing. Your aversion to corn, I mean.
J.P.:
Yeah. Parents. They mess you up, you know?
Me:
Tell me about it.
J.P.:
Can’t live with them. Can’t afford to live without them. Speaking of which, what do you think of this poem:
They pay for your food,
And lodging and school.
All they ask in return
Is that you follow their rules.
You have no control
Your destiny’s not your own
At least till you’re eighteen
And you can finally leave home.
Me:
Whoa. That is good! You should submit it to Lilly’s magazine!
J.P.:
Thanks. I might submit it—along with the Principal Gupta poem. Are you going to have anything in it? Lilly’s ’zine, I mean?
Me:
No.
Because of course the only thing I’ve written lately (besides journal entries) is “No More Corn!” And I already told Lilly she can’t publish it. Something I’m especially glad of now, because I really don’t think, considering the story J.P. just told me about WHY he hates corn, that he would think it’s funny. My short story about him, I mean.
Oh, God. Grandmère wants me for the strangulation scene.
