by Paige Britt
“Mushrooms are a vital part of our ecosystem,” continued Ms. Romine.
“In fact, fungi are one of the most important organisms on the planet! You
might even say they have a role to play in every part of our lives — from food
production to waste management.”
Penelope found this extremely hard to believe. Everyone else, though,
was madly taking notes. Penelope propped her chin on her hand and stared out
the window.
Just then Ms. Romine clapped her hands. “All right, everyone, partner up
with the person next to you. We’re going to work on mushroom identification.”
The boy at the desk next to Penelope’s was named Ebon. She knew him
from Quiz Bowl competition.
“Did you know that some mushrooms have a body that spreads out over
several miles?” Ebon asked as soon as they’d pushed their desks together.
Before Penelope could answer, the girl with pigtails seated in front of
them swiveled around. “I know. They’re called mycorrhizal associations.”
Why are you even in science camp if you know everything already? wondered
Penelope.
Ms. Romine passed out fungi identification charts, and the rest of the
morning was spent drawing and labeling the parts of different mushrooms. That
afternoon they took small samples from the mushrooms and looked at them
under a microscope. While Ebon recorded the cell diameter of the various sam-
ples, Penelope thought about story ideas. Her story needed to be something her
parents would like. Maybe a story about a girl who got a perfect score on the SATs
and graduated from college at sixteen and became president of the United States.
Or maybe a story about a boy who had an internal clock that told him what time
it was no matter where in the world he was. He had super-turbo-charged feet
and could run faster than the speed of light so he was never late.
Nah. Neither of those seemed right.
When camp was over for the day, Penelope couldn’t wait to get home and
see if she could come up with something better. She ate dinner as fast as she
could. By the time she finished picking up her room and getting ready for bed,
she was too tired to concentrate, but she dug her red notebook out from under
the bed anyway. A few ideas came to mind.
A girl who starts a business and makes a million dollars . . .
A boy who is smarter than a computer . . .
A really organized kid who can speed-read . . .
Ugh. These were horrible!
“Lights out!” called her mother from downstairs.
Already? Penelope reluctantly turned out the lights and slipped her note-
book under the bed. I’ll come up with something better tomorrow, she told herself.
Penelope rolled over on her back and closed her eyes, letting her mind
wander to one of its favorite places . . . After she finished her story, her
mother would love it so much that she would clear Penelope’s schedule. Every
day would be wide open. Filled with nothing. Penelope’s stories would be so
good her mother would let her display her notebooks on the bookshelf in her
bedroom. No more digging them out from underneath the bed. Maybe someday
someone would buy what she’d written and there would be a whole shelf in
the library filled with her stories. She would be a famous author and travel the
world looking for inspiration. She’d travel by hot air
balloon, so she could see all the sights. Birds
would land on the balloon’s basket and
she’d tie little notes to their feet, just
like messages in a bottle . . .
Penelope drifted
off to sleep, where her
fantasies took flight
and turned into
dreams.
The next day was very much like the one before except for one thing:
homework. Ms. Romine didn’t call it that. She called it a “science project,”
but Penelope knew better.
“This is the perfect thing for a work-flow diagram!” exclaimed her mother
when she heard of the assignment. “We’ll make one together right after
dinner.”
Penelope cringed. How was she going to steal time to write if her mother
kept crowding her schedule?
As soon as the table was cleared, her mother got busy breaking down the
project into tasks and something called “deliverables.” Penelope had never heard
of a deliverable before, but she had a pretty good idea what it meant. A deliverable
must be something you delivered or turned in. Proof that you did something.
Penelope thought about her checklist. Just wait. In a month, I’m going to turn
in my own deliverable — the most amazing story ever!
After identifying the project deliverables, her mother created a timeline.
Penelope was shocked to see the entire week mapped out in tiny segments. It
looked like her daily schedule, but blown up and stretched out. Was this the
future? The future Penelope couldn’t imagine? Instead of being wide open and
full of possibilities, it was a series of little boxes.
chapter three
For the rest of the week, each night after dinner was devoted to the
science project. All Penelope wanted to do was go to her room and write, but
she told herself that keeping her mother happy would pay off in the long run.
The only problem was that as soon as she finished one task, another one
seemed to pop up. Penelope started carrying her small red notebook in her
back pocket and used any spare time during science camp to write down story
ideas, but none of them seemed good enough.
It was odd. Ever since she started keeping better track of time, the less of
it there seemed to be. The better she got at following her schedule, the busier it
became. She was constantly checking the clock to make sure she didn’t fall
behind, but she fell behind anyway.
On the last night of science camp, Penelope had to work through dinner
and late into the night to finish her project. She crawled under the covers,
exhausted from the day and ready for sleep, but when she closed her eyes sleep
wouldn’t come. She tossed this way and that, her head full of worries about
getting everything done.
A month has passed, and I still haven’t written my story.
Once I finish science camp, Mom expects me to work on those essay questions.
Penelope flipped over onto her side.
If I don’t ace those essay questions, I’ll never get a scholarship.
Maybe I won’t even make it into college.
But if I don’t finish this story, I’ll never be a writer . . .
She flipped over onto her other side.
Even if I were a writer, who would buy my stories anyway?
I’d probably end up homeless, eating tuna out of a can!
Somehow she managed to fall into a dreamless sleep only to wake the next
morning and start all over. It was the last day of camp and Penelope’s proj-
ect won an honorable mention. Her mother was delighted, but Penelope
was too tired to care. She moved through the next day and the days that
followed on autopilot. By the time another week had passed, she was no closer
to coming up with a story idea than before. Science camp was over, but
Penelope’s schedule was busier than ever. Now she was taking te
nnis lessons,
learning Mandarin, and doing volunteer service hours at the museum in the
afternoon.
One morning, Penelope forced herself to wake up before the alarm. She
dug out her notebook from under the bed and opened it. She stared at the page,
willing herself to write, but for the first time ever nothing came. Not even bad
ideas. Her mind was blank. Not blank as in wide open, waiting for something
wonderful, but blank like a wall.
That’s odd, thought Penelope. She usually had more ideas than she could
keep track of. She got out a few old notebooks from under her bed and flipped
through them. Detailed notes, elaborate doodles, long lists of words she’d
collected, and half-written stories filled the pages. None of them looked famil-
iar. She didn’t even remember writing them.
By now she should be writing madly, dreaming up new characters and
creating exciting plot twists. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t. Penelope heard her
mother’s heels clicking down the hall. She threw on her overalls, stuffed a pen
and her red notebook in her back pocket, and ran downstairs to breakfast.
“Good morning, sunshine,” her mother chirped. “What’ll it be?”
“Just some cereal,” said Penelope. She wasn’t feeling hungry. She wasn’t
feeling anything.
Once breakfast was laid out neatly, her mother sat down. “All right then,
let’s see what we have to look forward to today.” She picked up the calendar and
ripped off yesterday’s date.
Penelope braced herself for the little sigh her mother always made at this
point. But she didn’t sigh. Instead, she let out a gasp.
Penelope put down her spoon. “What?”
“Nothing,” said her mom and sat back stunned.
“Nothing?”
Penelope’s mother nodded slowly.
“Nothing what?” Penelope prodded.
“Nothing, nothing. That’s just it. There’s absolutely nothing on the
calendar today.”
Penelope craned her neck to get a better look. There was the month
(July), the date (3), and the quote, but after that the calendar was empty:
July 3
One today is worth two tomorrows.
Penelope’s mother frowned at the blank page. “Why is there a hole in your
schedule? I’m certain I had you booked until school started.” She flipped through
the calendar. Sure enough, all the pages were crammed with tiny black nota-
tions. When she flipped back to the blank page, she noticed a tiny smudge on
the corner. “The pages must have stuck together and now you have nothing to
do today,” she complained, rubbing at the smudge with her thumb.
This was what Penelope had been dreaming of — an entire day of noth-
ing! Her mind started to race. Maybe her mother would give her the day off.
After all, Penelope had been on time all day, every day, for weeks and weeks. A
day off wouldn’t hurt. She would sit at her desk, stare out the window, and . . .
“All right,” said Penelope’s mother, “we’d better get busy.”
Penelope’s mind came to a screeching halt. “Busy? Doing what?”
“What do you mean, ‘doing what?’ You can’t do nothing all day.”
A familiar knot of dread formed in Penelope’s stomach.
“Let’s see,” said her mother. “We’ll start the day with another cooking
lesson — you still haven’t learned how to make Chicken Cordon Bleu — followed
by ironing and Mandarin vocabulary drills. This afternoon I’d like you to
replant your tomato patch. Your rows are crooked. After dinner, I think you
should take up knitting. How does that sound?” She looked at Penelope
expectantly, one pencil-thin eyebrow raised as high as it would go.
The knot in Penelope’s stomach grew tighter.
“Penelope? I said, how does that sound?”
The knot moved from her stomach and into her throat. Penelope took a
deep breath. “Can I have a day off instead?” she asked, pushing the words out as
best she could.
“Certainly not!” her mother laughed.
“But I’ve been on time for weeks and weeks . . .”
“Penelope, we’ve been through this before. There’s not the least possibil-
ity you can have a day off and get everything done. Now then, help me figure
out what to do with the time slot after lunch.”
Penelope stared as her mother reached for a pen.
“I know what — you can clean out all the junk under your bed. I’ve been
wanting to do that for weeks.”
“What junk?” Penelope’s voice was barely a whisper.
Penelope’s mother gave her an exasperated look. “You know what junk.
Those broken toys, that useless hamster cage, not to mention those ratty old
notebooks. The new school year begins soon. It’s time for a fresh start, don’t
you think?”
Penelope wanted to yell, “NO!” But the knot in her throat wouldn’t let
her. Those weren’t ratty old notebooks. They were her stories. She’d been a fool
to think she could fight fire with fire, and now her plan had gone up in smoke.
Penelope watched, unable to move or speak as her mother began to write.
But just at that moment — the exact moment when pen touched paper — the
doorbell rang.
Ding-dong.
“Oh, dear,” said her mother. “Your father must have forgotten his key.”
She got up from the table and walked briskly toward the front door.
As soon as her mother left the room, Penelope let out the breath she
was holding and her head began to clear. There was only one person who could
help save her notebooks — help save her dreams! Penelope had just a few sec-
onds to act. It was now or never. She leaned forward, ripped the page out of the
calendar, and stuffed it into her pocket. Then she slipped off her wristwatch and
shoved it in a drawer before bolting out the back door.
“How’d you get here?” said Miss Maddie when she found Penelope at her
doorstep.
“There’s a hole in my schedule,” said Penelope, panting.
“How extraordinary.” Miss Maddie motioned Penelope inside, then closed
the door. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
Penelope shook her head. “No, but I had to come. I’ve run out of ideas and
my mother is going to throw away my notebooks and . . . and I’ll never be a
writer!”
“Ahh . . .” said Miss Maddie. “We’d better have some tea.”
When they got to the kitchen, Penelope sat down while Miss Maddie put
on the kettle. After the stove was lit and the water was on, Miss Maddie joined
her at the table. “So you’ve run out of ideas?” she asked.
“I thought my parents would give me more time to write if I could prove
my stories were important,” explained Penelope. “I have to write something
good — something amazing. But my mind is blank. I can’t come up with any-
thing. I’ve tried for weeks and now it’s too late. My mother wants to throw
away my notebooks! I’ve been writing in those notebooks for years. They’re
my inspiration. Without them, I’ll never come up with a story idea. Never!”
Miss Maddie pursed her lips and stared out the window. Penelope stared
with her. Usually staring out the window made her feel relaxed, but not this<
br />
time. The scenery outside looked flat, like the backdrop of a play.
Thwack! Miss Maddie slapped the table with her palm. Penelope sat up.
“Space!” she said.
“Space?” asked Penelope.
“Yes, yes. Space. Maybe your ideas are stuck. Maybe they got crowded out
and all you need is a little bit of” — she fluttered her fingers around — “you
know . . . space.”
Space. It sounded like a good idea.
“Speaking of space,” said Miss Maddie, “just how big is this hole in
your schedule?”
41
Penelope took the calendar page from her pocket and smoothed it out on
the table.
Miss Maddie leaned over. “That’s pretty big,” she said, tapping the
calendar page with her finger.
Penelope nodded.
“Watch out,” said Miss Maddie, “you could fall into a hole like that.”
Penelope glanced up, expecting to see a twinkle in Miss Maddie’s eye. But
there was no twinkle. Or wink. Or even a smile. Miss Maddie was staring
straight at her, a serious expression on her face. Just then the kettle screeched
and Miss Maddie got up.
Penelope looked back down at the calendar page with Miss Maddie’s
words lingering in her mind. You could fall into a hole like that . . . Penelope
noticed the white of the paper looked brighter than before, and the little black
lines seemed faded. The longer she stared, the fainter the black lines grew, until
they disappeared altogether. That’s odd, thought Penelope. She blinked and gave
her head a little shake. The lines reappeared.
Penelope looked over at Miss Maddie, who was spooning tea into the pot.
“Tea will be ready in no time,” Miss Maddie assured her.
Penelope nodded and stole another glance at the page. It happened again!
The paper seemed to glow for a moment. Penelope looked closer. The lines
were definitely growing fainter. This time I’m not going to blink, she decided.
Penelope kept her eyes open as wide as they would go. Sure enough, the
white grew slowly brighter, and the black lines receded.