The Lost Track of Time

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
>
  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.