I think this is my 100th post!

In my defense, I only snuck into the nationally-televised writing tryouts to prove my parents wrong. Chandler Literary Hall’s lobby bustled with the most promising teen writers in the country and their elite coaches. Scores of Gold and Silver-tiered contenders sailed past in the accelerated queue, badges flashing.

I rolled my invitation between clammy palms. The turquoise banner on the paper marked me as a Jade: unranked, unknown. Until now, I’d brushed off Mom’s warnings that I’d never land a spot on a professional writing squad. Just because you never made it doesn’t mean you get to squash my dreams! I’d yelled only yesterday. Now, as the slideshow spotlighted the top prospects’ accomplishments, Mom’s arguments settled like lead in my bones. 

Turning to my honorary big brother, Alan, I summoned a pained smile. “I might be doomed.” 

“Aw, don’t say that, Lace. You’re the best writer I know. You’ll blow those judges’ wigs off.” Alan peeled his gaze from his Nintendo Switch to pat my painstakingly crafted updo.

I ducked away, muttering, “High praise coming from someone whose only writing experience is signature forgery.” 

The snazzy literary coach in the queue ahead of us glanced our way before handing her client a thick briefcase. “Trust me, you’ve found your niche. Stick with the flash-fiction—the one that had critics raving….” Her voice was a soothing note beneath the rumble of conversations. I chewed the inside of my cheek. If only I had some insider intel right now . . . 

Alan’s Switch trumpeted a victory song before he grinned and tucked it into his blazer pocket. “Really, Lacey. I believe in you.” 

My eyes misted. The last time I’d heard those words was from Michael, right before he drove off for military college and appointed Alan to stand in as my big brother. And Alan hadn’t wasted a second. He’d somehow sweet-talked Chandler Hall’s staff into giving him a tryout invitation as a surprise for my fifteenth birthday. 

“Thanks,” I whispered. 

The agent-client duo breezed through the turnstile and disappeared into the auditorium. Who needs a fancy-schmatntzy writing coach with Alan around? Not me. 

Still, my stomach roiled as we stepped up to the registration counter. He cleared his throat gruffly. “Alan McClaine here. And this is my plus-one, Lacey-Mae.”

Eyeing us, the security guard trailed a finger down the guest ledger. My heart kicked up an earthquake in my chest. We’re on the list, right? I mean, this has to be legit . . .

After an eternity, the guard pronounced, “Ah. Here you are.” My breath whooshed from my lungs, leaving me lightheaded with relief. “It will be $400 for entrance tonight.”

Flattening my now-wrinkled letter on the desk, I frowned. “There must be a mistake. We were invited.”

“Only the top tiers get free or reduced admission. Jades pay full price,” he recited.

I dug in my tiny clutch, knowing I’d used my last dollars on this flowy gown. Maybe Mom or Dad could bail me out… No, it was a ridiculous idea. My parents insisted I earn every penny I spent, and besides, the last thing I needed was to hear Mom’s drawn-out sigh, the one where she let her lips flap together in exasperation. My throat tightened painfully as I pictured her signature eyeroll. Peering up at the guard, I whispered, “Are t-there any payment options?”

In a flash, Alan slid four bills to the guard and whisked me through the gate. Before I could babble my thanks, we were following the crowd into the auditorium. 

I gasped. We’re in. Mic booms reverberated through the space. This was the very room where the Chicago Flames won the Golden Quill last year, becoming the number one writing team in the country. 

We’re in! All around, camera flashes snapped through the darkness like lightning. I was standing in the very room where Marguerite Harlowe won ‘rookie wordsmith of the year’ when she was not much older than me. Perfumes warred in the dim space as Alan propelled me to the nearest Jade seating area. I sank into the marshmallow-soft seat, straining to see the illuminated stage. 

“You’re the best!” I whisper-squealed. “I owe you to infinity, Alan!”

“Give me a 30% cut once you land your million-dollar contract, and we’ll be even.” 

I laughed. I’d happily give up a million dollars for a spot on any Guild team. I could still feel warm tears streaming over my chubby three-year-old cheeks, matting my teddy’s bristly fur. After Michael left for his first day of first grade, I wept in my powder-scented playroom. Holly, our household manager, found me curled there, snot dripping over my lips. She wiped my nose, wrapped me in her doughy arms, and read me a Peter Rabbit tale. By the last page, I was in love. For years, stories were the only things keeping me going through the daily shuttles from STEM academies to soup kitchens to honours society meetings. Now, pressing the invitation to my chest, I could almost feel Holly’s warm squeezes. I wish she could see me now.

The opening exhibition was a whirlwind. Triple-star wordsmiths battled in speed-writing contests. Poets crafted sonnets from live prompts. Hand-picked Gold writers defended their pitches amidst a gauntlet of critics, many fleeing the stage in tears. I couldn’t tear my gaze from the stage. When the Flames’ MVP, Cecil, took the stage to direct guests to the atrium, I took a shaky breath. After years of dreaming, feeling, writing under my parents’ disapproving shadows, this was my one chance to break free. To find my people. I had to make today count.

“Imma blow them away.” For Holly. And Alan. And three-year-old me.

Alan grinned, bumping my fist. “Now we’re talkin’.”

The Evaluation Atrium was way more crowded than the engineering bootcamps my parents made me attend. Squinting in the chandelier light, I wobbled across the glossy black tiles, pushed along by the surge. Camera people roamed free, drawn to the Gold writers crossing a red carpet. District scouts lined the room, interviewing potential talent. My breath caught as I spotted the Champaign Scribblrs’ ruby banner.

Alan was back on his Switch, furiously toggling the joysticks. I yanked on his sleeve.

“What?” he mumbled.

“That’s my team!” I raised my voice over the crowd’s roar. I’d watched their every competition, read every scrap of writing they produced. On draft night, when the Scribblrs selected Marguerite Harlowe straight out of high school, I cried. They were the underdogs, the newest team in the Guild…and I belonged with them. 

“Have fun,” he mumbled vaguely as I veered to the Scribblrs’ banner. By the time I reached the front of the queue, my feet were sore, and my stomach was full-on trembling. But the blond-haired scout didn’t even look up. “State your name, age and genre, please.”

I could barely breathe.“L-Lacey-Mae, fifteen, and I write c-cozy, modern remixes of classic tales. I just finished my first nov—” 

“—fifteen? Oh, honey. I’m sorry, but we’re looking for an older cohort,” she said, gaze flicking to my Jade lanyard, and then beyond me.

“But..you…Marguerite…I thought…,” I stammered.

“That was an extremely special circumstance.” She spoke slowly, patiently, like I was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

Heat flooded my face. “But you haven’t even looked at my work yet! Please, give me a chance. I’m a number one Scribblrs’ fan!” My voice cracked. How can they turn me away just like that? Mom’s eyeroll flashed through my mind. 

The scout finally met my eyes, pasting on a sympathetic frown. “Our manager is only recruiting seasoned writers currently. Come back in five years, and we’ll talk.”

I stood there, jaw hanging open. “But, but . . .,”

“Move it, kiddo. There are plenty of us waiting our turn,” a man growled behind me. 

I stumbled away, hot tears pricking my eyes. 

“How’d it go?” Alan asked from his spot along the wall, fingers still twitching. I couldn’t speak. 

“Uh-oh.” Al finally looked up to see me swiping away tears. “Don’t cry, Lace.”

“This is supposed to be an open tryout! She didn’t even give me a fair chance!” 

“Their loss. They don’t deserve you.” 

I reluctantly let him steer me to the Detroit Drabblers’ table. This agent nodded and smiled as he listened to my thirty-second pitch, and my heart lifted. “I love remixing childhood tales into cozy novels to help adults reconnect with their younger selves. But I’ll learn any genre, whatever you need me to write,” I finished.

“Well, Lacey, you seem like a promising young lady. However, I just don’t think you’re the right fit for the Drabblers,” the agent said, still bobbing and smiling.

I blinked, stomach plummeting. “What?” How could he grin while crushing my dreams?

“Our team focuses on gritty, societal issues, and I don’t feel you have the lived experience and conviction to convey that.”

“Just give me a chance, and I’ll learn! I’m flexible!”

His smile looked fabricated. “You’re an absolute sweetheart, and I wish you the best in your future endeavours.”

My Jade lanyard chafed my neck as I dropped my head. Too young. Not the right fit. Not good enough.

“We’re looking for fresh perspectives from previously marginalized groups.”

“Our prospects need to have a strong literary background.”

“Sorry, we’ll consider you once you build an established fanbase.”

The rejections echoed in my ears, ricocheted in my mind. The crowd of Jades began to thin, many seeping out the doors, heads hanging. Mom was right. 

Alan’s eyes were bloodshot from squinting at his tiny screen. “Ready to go, Lace?” he asked groggily.

“I failed.” I dropped my gaze to the tiles. “How am I going to  face my parents now?”

Alan shrugged helplessly, glancing up at stars peeking through the skylights. A throng of laughing writers passed.

“The next round of tryouts is going to be brutal!” a girl groaned, fiddling with her silver lanyard.

“Too bad for you. We get to advance directly to one-on-one interviews with teams,” another laughed, holding up her gold badge. “My coach pulled some strings to get me ranked.” 

“Lucky!”

As their voices faded into the distance, something in me snapped. Fire seared through my veins, words roiling in my mind. 

I was finished. Done with Mom’s scorn. Done trying to prove my worth. Done doubting myself. It was time for the world to hear my voice. 

Almost without thinking, I scrambled up the grand staircase. With the polished steps as my stage, I cupped my hands and yelled, “May I have your attention, please!”

I didn’t expect anyone to hear me. So when the roar diminished, and eyes settled on me, my knees went liquid-weak. What was I thinking?!  But I’d gone too far to stop now. Alan gaped at me, Switch dangling lifelessly from his hand. 

“I’m far from the most skillful writer in this room. I’ve never been to a literary camp or had a writing coach. I’ve never even won a contest. But I live and breathe stories.” 

Sweat beaded on my skin. The atrium was ghostly quiet now. Even the videographers had their cameras trained on me. I swallowed hard, wiped my palms on my dress and forged on. 

“I came here, hoping to find someone who’d listen to me. See my potential. Mentor me. And instead, I was pushed aside, overlooked and ignored. It’s wrong.” My voice broke with passion. “The Guild is supposed to inspire writers and give them opportunities to grow. But that’s not what’s happening. No, this is a playground of bias!”

Time was running out. Security guards were now shouldering through the throng, eyes firmly fixed on me. I had to make my last words count. 

My trembling fingers closed around my lanyard. “I refuse to let rankings define me anymore!” With a fierce tug, I ripped it from my neck, letting the frazzled ribbons drift to the floor. “You guys, don’t ever let anyone tell you that your stories are worthless. No. Your voices matter. Your stories matter. And every one of you holds a priceless contribution for the world. So write! Write like no one’s judging.” 

A hush lingered over the crowd. The first of the security guards barrelled up the stairs, boots crashing like thunder in the silence. 

One clap rang out. Alan. And suddenly the whole atrium was shaking with applause. I sagged against a railing, drained. 

“Halt!” A voice yelled from the fringes.

The guard hesitated.

There was a ripple of movement below, before a teen emerged at the base of the stairs. I took in her tousled hair, blazer dress and smiling blue eyes. My jaw crashed open as Marguerite Harlowe scaled the stairs towards me. 

“What’s your name?”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. “L-l-lacey,” I croaked.

“Lacey, you were downright magnificent. You spoke the words straight from my heart,” she declared, stopping in front of me. 

I bobbled my head dumbly. 

As the cameras watched, Marguerite Harlowe pulled me into a hug, right there on my forbidden stage.