The Lost Track of Time

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<
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  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.