by Paige Britt
Miss Maddie was always saying things like that. Things that made no
sense. As far as Penelope was concerned, time was like a bank account, and she
was overdrawn.
“I don’t have all the time in the world,” insisted Penelope.
“You haven’t seen my schedule today.”
“Nor do I want to.” Miss Maddie stepped back to let Penelope in. “Don’t
suppose you have time for tea?”
Penelope shook her head.
“All right then, let’s just have a sit.”
At Miss Maddie’s house “a sit” was a very special thing. But then again, it
wasn’t. It was a little bit like waiting, but at the same time, not like waiting at
all. Penelope couldn’t quite figure it out. It involved sitting down in a chair and
doing nothing. It was wonderful.
Penelope followed Miss Maddie into the living room. A thick rug covered
the floor like grass. Miss Maddie had told her it was a Persian rug. Persian. It was
one of the first words Penelope had ever collected in her notebook. Just the
sound of it gave her a shiver of pleasure.
A deep fireplace that burnt real logs took up one end of the room. At
the other end, a bay window looked out on Miss Maddie’s unruly front
yard. There were no curtains on the window. Instead, the sprawling oak
tree blocked the view of the street.
As beautiful and exotic as these things were, the best thing about the
room was its silence. Not one clock ticked, tocked, chimed, or donged. There
wasn’t a clock on the mantle or on the wall or on the coffee table. In fact,
Penelope had never seen a clock anywhere in Miss Maddie’s house.
When Penelope had asked her about the missing clocks, Miss Maddie had
just shrugged. “I don’t need clocks to tell me what time it is. I always do things
at the same exact time anyway.”
“Really?” Penelope had said. “At the same exact time?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do things in my own sweet time. Every time.”
Penelope couldn’t imagine what it must be like not to have a schedule to
follow. Having “a sit” with Miss Maddie was the closest she ever got to her “own
sweet time.” She settled herself in a comfy chair in front of the bay window and
curled up her legs. Miss Maddie sat next to her, hands resting loosely on her lap.
A hush settled over the room and the sitting began.
Penelope stared at the sunlight playing with the leaves on the oak tree.
After a while, a hush crept into her mind and the sunlight stopped being
sunlight and the leaves stopped being leaves and for the briefest, smallest
moment everything was everything until . . .
Ring!
Penelope sat bolt upright. She glanced over at Miss Maddie. Miss Maddie
was still staring out the window, hands in her lap.
Ring!
“The phone is ringing,” Penelope blurted out.
“Yup,” said Miss Maddie with a slight nod. “That’s what they do.”
Ring!
It occurred to Penelope that it might be her
mother.
“Aren’t you going to get it?”
Miss Maddie sighed and got up from her chair.
Penelope wondered how long she had been sitting there. It only felt like a
minute, but it could have been longer. There really was only one way to find
out. Slowly, slowly Penelope looked down at her wristwatch. For a second, the
numbers were nothing but little black marks marching around in a circle. Then
they came into focus and Penelope read the time:
8:46.
She was late.
At dinner that evening, her mother made an announcement. “Penelope, your
father and I have discussed it, and we think it best that you no longer visit Miss
Maddie.”
Penelope stared at her, fork frozen in midair.
“I know Miss Maddie meant a lot to you when you were little, and
heaven knows I appreciated her help looking after you, but now that you’re
older, I think you need to focus on the future. I’ve already called and told her
not to expect you any longer. So it’s settled.” She took a large bite of her steak
and began to chew.
Penelope looked at her dad. He just shrugged. “Your mother is in charge
of your schedule, pal. Besides, she has so many great things planned for you this
summer, you’re not going to want to miss any of them. Just think, science camp
starts in a few days.”
Penelope could feel dinner turning to stone in her stomach. She
swallowed hard. “But why?” she finally blurted out.
“We don’t think it’s the best use of your time,” her mother answered.
“I hardly have any free time as it is,” pleaded Penelope.
Penelope’s mother placed her fork neatly on her plate and fixed Penelope
chapter two
with a stare. “Time isn’t free, Penelope. And neither is college. Do you know
how much an Ivy League school costs?”
Penelope shook her head. She didn’t even know what an Ivy League
school was.
“I can tell you, it costs a lot. How do you expect us to pay for college
if you don’t get a scholarship? If you weren’t so caught up in your fantasies, you
would be farther along in your studies. You would be more productive. More
competitive.”
Penelope sat very still, struggling to focus on what her mother had
just said. If she wasn’t so caught up in her fantasies, she would be more competitive?
What was she competing for? Why did her mother treat life like it was a race
against time? No matter what Penelope did, she always fell behind.
“Speaking of scholarships,” continued her mother, “you’ll be taking the
pre-pre-SAT this year and you need to be ready. From now on, I want you to
focus your writing on the sample essay questions I give you. No more scribbling
in your notebook.”
Penelope gasped. Scribbling? She wasn’t scribbling — she was writing.
There was a difference.
“Hey there, buddy,” said her dad. “Your mom is only trying to do what’s
best for you.”
Penelope exhaled slowly. “They’re not scribbles,” she finally said, trying
to keep her voice steady.
“What?” asked her mother, who was busy cutting her steak.
“My notebook. They aren’t scribbles. They’re stories. Mr. Gomez said I
could even be published one day —”
“Stories don’t pay the bills, Penelope,” said her mother, cutting her off. “In
today’s economy we can’t afford to be impractical.”
“Pass the potatoes, will you, sport?” said her father.
Penelope opened her mouth, then closed it. It was no use arguing.
Her parents didn’t listen anyway. Now there was to be no more writing
in her notebook. No more visits to Miss Maddie. No more nothing. “May I
be excused?” she asked, pushing back from the table.
“Not yet,” said her mother. “I knew you’d be disappointed about not
getting to visit Miss Maddie, so I bought you a little something to cheer you
up.” She put down her fork and napkin and got up from the table. “I’ll be
right back.”
She returned a moment later with a package. Inside the package was a
book. The cover featured a man wearing a suit, looking extremely pleased with
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himself. He was holding up a long to-do list. Next to each entry was a bright red
check mark.
“It’s your very own copy of Getting Everything Done,” said her mother
excitedly. “I have one, too. I just couldn’t live without it.”
Penelope flipped through the book, trying to think of something nice to
say. She stopped when she came to an illustration featuring a series of squares
with tiny arrows running back and forth between them. The man stood to the
side, pointing at the illustration with a ruler.
“That’s a work-flow diagram,” explained her mother. “You won’t believe
how helpful it is. Each square represents a task you need to do and the arrows
tell you when to do it. It will make you so much more organized. You’re just
going to love it!” She beamed down at Penelope. “I’ll clear your calendar for the
evening. You go ahead and read your book.”
Penelope bolted from the table, ran upstairs, and threw the book face-
down on her desk. There was the man again! He was posed for a portrait on the
back cover, arms crossed, a smug smile on his face. He was wearing a gray suit,
gray shirt, and gray tie. Everything about him was the same dull color, except
for his teeth, which were unnaturally white. Below the picture was a “personal
message.” Penelope read:
My work on human productivity resource allocation is the latest and, if I
may say so, greatest of the century! If you utilize my proven methods,
you’ll be a success like me. You’ll get everything done! In this book I’ll tell
you how to follow my time-saving tips and monitor your hourly progress.
I’ll tell you exactly how to overhaul the logistics of daily life, break down
the elements of your must-do tasks, and actualize the hidden potential
in the micromoments between project steps.
Ugh. How boring, thought Penelope. She shoved the book in her desk drawer
and plopped down on the bed. How on earth could she get through to her parents?
Words weren’t enough. That was obvious. Her father only listened to her mother
and her mother only listened to proof. But how could Penelope prove her stories
were important? If I don’t do something, my whole life will turn into a work-flow diagram!
Penelope heard the thump-thump-thump of someone running up the stairs.
A moment later there was a quick rap on the door and her dad poked his head
in. “Hey, pal! Got a minute?”
Penelope shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Great!” Her father stepped inside and grabbed the desk chair, flipping it
around to face Penelope. He sat down and leaned forward, propping his elbows
on his knees. “Time for a pep talk,” he announced.
Not again, thought Penelope. Pep talks were her dad’s favorite form of
communication.
“You know,” he said, launching into his speech, “I meant what I said at the
dinner table. Your mom really does want what’s best for you. All this planning
and organizing, it’s for your own good.”
“I do know,” said Penelope, who had heard this all before. “But why is it
that what I want isn’t good enough? She never lets me do my own thing. She only
wants me to do her thing.”
“She doesn’t want you to miss out on any opportunities for success. Trust
me, she knows what she’s doing. I used to sell hot dogs at football games until I
met your mother. Now I’m an insurance agent.” He sat back in his chair. “Not
bad, huh, kid?”
Penelope fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“Just wait and see. Your mom has a plan for your life. It’s going to be
top-notch.”
“But I want to be a writer,” Penelope insisted.
“Well, sport, writing is a little iffy.” He wobbled his hand back and forth.
“I say, life is already full of surprises. Why not go for a sure thing?” He put his
fists up like a boxer and began making little jabs at the air. “You’ve got to be
prepared. Ahead of the game. On the ball.” He dropped his hands and gave
Penelope a meaningful look. “Got it?”
Before Penelope could say a word, he gave her a soft punch on the arm.
“ ’Course you do. That’s my girl.”
Penelope knew this meant the pep talk was over. He liked to keep them
short, which was fine with her.
Sure enough, her father rose to his feet. “I’m glad we had this talk,” he
said. “See you in the morning?”
“Sure,” said Penelope. “See you in the morning.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Penelope fell back on her bed with a
groan. Her dad’s pep talks always left her exhausted. The person she really
needed to talk to was Miss Maddie, but she was off-limits. Once Miss Maddie
had told her, “When faced with a challenge you have to fight fire with fire!”
Penelope wondered what that meant.
Fight fire with fire.
It didn’t make any sense. Fighting fire with fire would just make things
worse, wouldn’t it? Penelope imagined a bonfire growing out of control. You
wouldn’t fight it by throwing more burning logs on it. That was feeding the fire.
You would fight it with water. But that’s not what Miss Maddie had said.
Penelope knew that fire ate everything in its path. Maybe you couldn’t stop it.
Maybe you just had to let it burn. That didn’t seem right either.
Penelope closed her eyes and pretended she was sitting in Miss Maddie’s
living room. There was the big window and the giant oak tree and the bright
blue sky and . . . A thought popped into her head: If you fight fire with fire, maybe
you aren’t really trying to put it out.
Penelope sat up.
She might be onto something. She jumped out of bed, pulled open
her desk drawer, and stole another look at the book her mother had given her.
There was the man, holding up his to-do list, smiling like he was king of the
world.
I could make my own to-do list, she thought.
Her heart skipped a beat.
A list with tasks to accomplish my goals . . .
A list of things I want to do!
Penelope slammed the drawer shut. Maybe that was it! Maybe that’s what
fighting fire with fire meant. Maybe you could solve a problem by using the
same stuff that made it a problem in the first place.
Penelope grabbed a piece of paper and began to write her very own to-do
list. Next to each item, she placed a small box, just waiting for a check mark.
Stay on schedule for one month to keep Mom happy
Steal time to write an AMAZING story
After month is over, submit story to magazine and get published
Prove writing is not a waste of time
Make my own schedule!!
From that moment on, Penelope did everything right on time. She got up
at 6:00, dressed, and brushed her teeth. She reached the breakfast table at
exactly 6:30 and sat up straight while her mother conducted the daily schedule
review. She consulted her wristwatch throughout the day and made sure she
was exactly where she needed to be, when she needed to be.
“Seems like that book was a big help,” said her dad on the way to science
camp a few days later. “Look how smoothly everything is going already!”
Penelope, who was staring
out the window, just nodded. She was trying
to think up an amazing story idea. Maybe she would write about a super-genius
kid who created an endless energy source from bubble gum. Everybody chewed
gum all day to power the lights in their houses.
Honk! Honk!
Penelope looked up. Her dad had pulled up to the drop-off zone at the
community center where science camp was held. He was waiting for Penelope
to get out and so was a line of cars behind them. “Wake up, buddy! It’s time to
go,” he said. Penelope grabbed her backpack and jumped out. Her dad waved
apologetically to the car behind him and sped off.
A counselor was waiting at the curb to give Penelope her group assign-
ment. “You’re part of the Mad Scientists this week!” she announced cheerfully.
“Room 203.”
Penelope thought about this for a minute. She wasn’t exactly mad, she
decided, but she wasn’t very happy either. She had wanted to go to summer
camp, just not for science. Mr. Gomez was teaching a creative writing work-
shop at the library, but her mother had said no.
“Jobs of the future are in high tech or health care sectors,” her mother
droned, dropping two brochures on the table. “You can go to computer camp or
science camp. Take your pick.”
Penelope picked science camp. At least there were experiments.
She glanced at her wristwatch and hurried down the hall to her room. A
woman with short brown hair introduced herself as “Ms. Romine.” She wore
a lab coat and sipped coffee from a beaker.
“Hello, Mad Scientists!” Ms. Romine announced when everyone had
taken their seats. “Welcome to the first day of science camp. Today’s topic is
mushrooms. Does anyone know the difference between a mushroom and
a plant?”
Nineteen hands shot up in the air.
Penelope slid down in her chair. Apparently she was the only one at camp
who didn’t know anything about mushrooms. Well, she knew one thing. She
didn’t like them. They tasted musty. And slimy. And old.