Melody looked up at him in surprise. “Okay, I guess.”
“Really?” said Frankfort. He sat beside her. Lightfoot flicked her tail in his direction.
“Well, no.”
“What’s the matter?”
Melody dropped her eyes and stroked Lightfoot’s back. “I still feel like the new kid here,” she said finally. “It’s horrible being so shy.”
“But everyone likes you,” Frankfort told her. “You know that, don’t you? My sisters always talk about how nice you are.”
“They do?”
Frankfort nodded. “And so do Tulip and Veronica. Everyone, really.”
Melody smiled at him. Then Frankfort glanced behind him and saw that Missy was at the door. She was smiling, too.
What Missy was thinking was that sometimes all it took was one gumdrop.
11
The Just-One-More-Minute Cure
SAMANTHA TICKLE LIVED with her parents, Trillium and Edison Tickle, in a small brown house just one block from Little Spring Valley Elementary School. Samantha had no brothers or sisters, but she had a black-and-white cat named Harley and a white-and-black cat named Jack and six goldfish that all looked exactly alike, so she hadn’t bothered to name them. Samantha was a perfectly nice girl with lots of friends. She was neither too neat nor too messy, neither too polite nor too rude. She was generally helpful and thoughtful, and she took good care of the cats and the fish. Until recently, if you had asked Samantha’s parents if their daughter had any bad habits, they would have frowned and looked offended and said, “Why, of course not!” They probably would have wanted to add, “Our Samantha is perfect—a little jewel of a child.” But they were too modest to say such things.
All that had changed over the summer. It seemed that the more free time Samantha had in which to do whatever she pleased, the more free time she wanted. Just as the Freeforalls began to dread hearing Frankfort’s “Whatever!” all day long, the Tickles began to dread Samantha’s “Just one more minute!”
“Samantha, please come inside for lunch.”
“Just one more minute!”
“Samantha, it’s bedtime.”
“Just one more minute!”
“Samantha, it’s time to leave for your ballet lesson.”
“Just one more minute!”
Samantha asked for “just one more minute” no matter what she was doing—playing on her computer or taking a bath or drawing pictures or lying in bed. In the evening she didn’t want to go to bed, and in the morning she didn’t want to get out of bed.
“What is the matter with her?” Trillium asked her husband one evening. They had just finished eating a cold dinner. The meal had started out hot but had grown cold while they waited for Samantha, who was reading in her room, to join them. “Just one more minute!” she yelled every time they called her.
“Maybe she’s becoming a teenager?” Edison suggested doubtfully as he and Trillium tidied up the kitchen.
“Is eleven considered a teenager?” replied Trillium.
They didn’t know.
“I’ll call the LaCartes,” said Edison.
This was a mistake, of course, and one that almost every parent in Little Spring Valley made from time to time. They would call the LaCartes for child-rearing advice and then hear about the perfection of Della and Peony and feel that their own children couldn’t possibly measure up.
Nevertheless, Edison went ahead and made the mistake. When he got off the phone, he turned to Trillium and said, “Della and Peony never ask for one more minute. In fact, they tell their parents when it’s time to leave for things like dental appointments and flu shots.”
Trillium sighed. Tears came to her eyes. “Yesterday I had to call Samantha for forty minutes before she got out of bed.” She recalled how the morning had progressed.
6:30—“Samantha! Rise and shine!”
A muffled “Okay” had come from under the pillow.
6:35—“Samantha, get up, please.”
“Just one more minute.”
6:47—“Samantha, get up now. I’m tired of nagging you.”
“Then don’t nag me. I just need one more minute.”
6:59—“Samantha! This is ridiculous.”
“But I like my bed. And I’m still sleepy.”
7:10—“Samantha. Get. Up. Now!”
“Okay!” Samantha had thrown back the covers. “You don’t have to yell. I said I’d get up.”
Edison Tickle put his arm around his wife. He offered her a Kleenex. “I’ve been hearing wonderful things about Missy Piggle-Wiggle.”
“Let’s call her!” Trillium said so quickly that Edison knew she’d already been thinking about calling her. “She has potions and cures and pills. All sorts of things,” Trillium went on. “I wonder what she’ll suggest. If it’s medicine, I hope Samantha will take it without any fuss.”
“I hope she’ll take it without being called twelve thousand times.”
Edison and Trillium sat at the kitchen table with Trillium’s cell phone on speaker. When Missy answered, they explained their problem to her.
“I just can’t take it anymore,” Trillium said at last.
“We’re losing our patience,” added Edison. “Do you know that on Monday Samantha’s teacher called us to say that Samantha even asks for ‘just one more minute’ at school?”
“Can you imagine saying ‘just one more minute’ to your teacher?” exclaimed Trillium. “Your teacher.”
“So,” said Edison, “do you have a potion or something for Samantha?”
“No,” Missy replied.
The Tickles looked at each other in dismay.
“Nothing?” said Trillium.
“It’s that bad?” said Edison.
“It’s actually quite common,” Missy told them.
Trillium felt a pang for all the other parents who had been driven crazy by their children’s pleas for just one more minute.
“But what do we do?” asked Edison.
“The next time Samantha says ‘just one more minute,’” Missy began, “tell her you’re not going to give her another reminder.”
There was a long pause while the Tickles waited to hear the rest of the cure.
“And?” said Trillium.
“That’s it,” Missy replied.
“That’s it?” Edison repeated.
“Well, for instance, when she asks for one more minute after you’ve called her for dinner, tell her that dinner will be served in five minutes and that you aren’t going to give her another reminder.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” said Edison.
“And then,” Missy went on, “just let whatever happens happen. Go on with your dinner whether Samantha joins you or not.”
Trillium winced. She didn’t like the thought of her daughter missing a meal. Or arriving late to school. Or going to bed past her bedtime. Or skipping ballet class.
“There is one other thing,” said Missy.
“Yes?” said the Tickles eagerly.
“You might want to pick up Penelope and have her stay at your house for a while. You’re probably going to wind up leaving Samantha behind every now and then, and Penelope is an excellent babysitter.”
“Penelope the parrot?” asked Edison. “How does she feel about cats? And fish?”
“She loves them,” said Missy.
“All right. We’ll pick her up tomorrow.”
When Samantha came home from her ballet class the next afternoon, she found Penelope sitting on a perch in the Tickles’ living room. She stroked her tail feathers. “What’s Penelope doing here?” she asked her father.
“Just visiting.”
“Cool,” said Samantha.
Penelope burst into raucous squawks.
“She sounds like she’s laughing,” Samantha remarked.
That evening Trillium and Edison prepared a wonderful meal. They were gourmet cooks, and Samantha had grown up eating béarnaise sauce and quail eggs and Stilton cheese and lime curd and other
things that would make most children hold their noses and squinch up their eyes. Tonight they had prepared lemongrass chicken and crab bisque.
“Samantha!” Trillium called when the meal was almost ready. “Dinnertime!”
“Just one more minute!” shouted Samantha, who was in her bedroom playing on the computer.
“All right, but dinner is going to be on the table in five minutes, and I’m not going to give you another reminder.”
Samantha’s voice floated down the stairs again, this time sounding somewhat vague. “Kay-ay.”
Edison and Trillium carried the dishes into the dining room. Penelope flew in behind them and perched on the back of Samantha’s chair. Edison ladled the bisque into bowls, and Trillium served the chicken.
Trillium looked at her watch. “It’s been five minutes,” she said.
“Plenty of time!” said Penelope, ruffling her feathers. “Plenty!”
Edison shrugged his shoulders. He picked up his fork and began eating. Eventually, Trillium did the same.
They finished the meal. Twenty minutes had passed since they’d called Samantha.
They were reading in the living room when Samantha ambled downstairs. “Hey,” she said. “What’s going on? I thought it was dinnertime.”
“It was,” her father replied. “So we ate.”
“Already? What about my dinner?”
“It’s on the table.”
Samantha peeked into the dining room. Penelope was still perched on the back of her chair. “Do you like cold food?” she squawked. “Do you like cold food?”
Samantha examined her meal. “Everything is cold!” she exclaimed. “The sauce is all, like, congealed. And there’s scum on top of the soup.”
“I don’t think it will hurt you,” said her mother.
Samantha slid into her place, and Penelope fluttered across the table to Trillium’s chair. Samantha skimmed the scum off the bisque and set it aside. She tasted the soup. She made a face. “I don’t like cold bisque!” she called to her parents.
Trillium continued reading. “Heat it up,” she replied.
Samantha sighed. “Maybe I’ll just make a sandwich.”
“Okay,” said Edison, and added, “don’t forget to clear your place and load the dishwasher.”
Samantha banged her way into the kitchen, mumbling things about parents and schedules and people who don’t care what their children eat.
“What’s that? What’s that?” cried Penelope. “Speak up, girl!”
Samantha ate a peanut-butter sandwich that stuck to the roof of her mouth and then stalked through the living room, saying, “I really enjoyed all the extra computer time. Thank you.”
Up in her room she tackled her homework and then went back to the computer. At nine thirty Trillium called to her, “Samantha! Time to get ready for bed. Tomorrow is the field trip to the wildlife preserve, and you don’t want to be tired for it.”
“Just one more minute!” called Samantha.
Trillium winced. She had hoped that maybe her daughter would already be cured. However, she said bravely, “Okay, but I’m not giving you another warning.”
Samantha didn’t answer.
At ten o’clock the Tickles put away their books and turned on the news. Edison looked at Penelope, who was dozing on her perch. “Do you sleep there?” he asked.
Penelope fluttered lazily upstairs. “I’ll sleep in Samantha’s room,” she replied.
Trillium and Edison watched the news. Then they locked the doors and turned off the lights. They tiptoed upstairs—and were dismayed to see that although Samantha’s door was closed, her light was shining beneath it. They could hear the computer keys clicking away.
“We must be strong,” said Edison, and he and Trillium went to bed.
At eleven thirty Samantha’s eyes began to close, but since no one had said anything else to her about bedtime, she played three more games. At last she fell into bed. “Wow,” she said. “It’s after midnight.”
“Quiet, girl,” Penelope replied. “I’m trying to sleep.”
The next morning Trillium knocked on Samantha’s door. “Time to get up. Field trip day!” When she heard no answer, she opened the door and said more loudly, “Time to get up!”
“Just one more minute,” murmured Samantha, who felt as if she had been asleep for barely an hour.
“Okay, but I’m not going to give you another reminder.”
“Mmphh.”
The Tickles left for work. The next time Samantha opened her eyes, it was nearly eleven. She found Penelope standing on her pillow, staring at her.
“It’s about time,” Penelope squawked.
Samantha shrieked. Then she cried, “You scared me!” and after that she cried, “I missed the field trip! The buses left at eight thirty.”
“Hmm. What a pickle,” said Penelope.
“Why didn’t Mom wake me up?”
“She did. Come on. Breakfast time. I’m starving.”
Samantha sat glumly in the kitchen. “There’s no point in going to school now,” she told Penelope. “Everyone’s at the preserve.” Then she brightened. “My art supplies!” she exclaimed. “I can spend the day making stuff.”
And she did. She was perfectly happy until the doorbell rang at three thirty, and who did she find standing on the porch but Melody, Tulip, Honoriah, and Petulance. They all began talking at once.
“What happened? Were you sick?”
“We saw owls and foxes and a baby raccoon!”
“And wild turkeys and three different kinds of snakes.”
“We ate lunch at a snack bar and got cotton candy.”
“We bought rubber snakes in the gift shop.”
“Any parrots?” screeched Penelope. “Did you see any parrots?”
Samantha tried to convince herself that a day spent making a cardboard town was just as good as a trip to see wild animals and buy cotton candy.
The week wore on. Samantha missed another day of school by sleeping until lunchtime after watching hours of late-night television.
“Wow. It’s almost one o’clock,” said Samantha when she finally woke up, bright sunshine pouring through the blinds.
“What a shock,” said Penelope.
Trillium and Edison were at work, of course, so Samantha and Penelope spent the afternoon together.
The doorbell rang at three thirty, and Samantha was astonished to find her teacher on the stoop. Mrs. Gnash handed her a folder. “Here’s today’s work,” she said. “Everything we did in class, plus your homework. Also, you still need to hand in the essay that was assigned after the field trip.”
“Oh!” said Samantha. She felt a little overwhelmed.
On Thursday Samantha made it to school and was only fifteen minutes late. Mrs. Gnash said to her, “You’re late, Samantha.”
“My mom only told me to get up once.”
In the front of the room, Della LaCarte raised her hand. “My parents never have to tell me anything twice.”
“Thank you, Della,” said Mrs. Gnash.
Samantha flumped into her seat and stuck her tongue out at the back of Della’s head.
That night when Trillium Tickle knocked on Samantha’s door and said, “Time to start your homework,” Samantha replied, “Okay!”
Trillium ran downstairs to report this happy turn of events to Edison.
Upstairs, Samantha looked around for her work folders. It had become difficult to find anything. All week long Edison and Trillium had said to her, “Time to clean up your room,” and Samantha had replied, “Just one more minute,” and then gone back to her art projects or her computer. Now her floor was a sea of papers and markers and beads and books and blankets and shoes. Her bed wasn’t any better, and the pile of dirty clothes on her desk chair was so tall that earlier in the day, Harley had tried to jump on it, and the clothes had toppled over and buried him. Samantha had unburied him and thrown the clothes back on the chair. Now she looked around in vain for her work folders.
<
br /> “I can’t find them!” she complained to Penelope. “I can’t find anything.”
“It’s quite a pigsty.”
The weekend rolled around, and Samantha was relieved. She spent all of Saturday trying to catch up on her missed homework assignments. At six o’clock she ambled into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” she asked her parents.
“We’re going to eat out,” Edison replied.
“Why?”
“It’s impossible to cook.”
Samantha took a look around the kitchen. It was her job to load the dishwasher, and she hadn’t done it once all week. Every single dish, glass, bowl, and pan was piled in the sink and spilling out over the counters. They were all dirty, and not a single clean dish, glass, bowl, or pan was left in the cupboards. There was nothing to cook with and nothing to eat on.
“Can I come with you?” asked Samantha in a small voice.
“Sure, but we’re leaving in two minutes.”
Samantha ran to her room. “I just need to change my clothes,” she called over her shoulder.
She looked at the pile of dirty things on the chair. There wasn’t much left in her closet. She pulled a shirt out from the pile and sniffed it. “Ew.”
“EW!” squawked Penelope. Then she added, “One more minute. Just one more minute until they leave.”
Samantha sniffed at a few other shirts, found nothing clean, shrugged, and began to pick her way through the mess on the floor. She tripped over a tiara, landed on the Monopoly board, and sat for a moment rubbing her elbow. By the time she reached the front door, the Tickles’ car was cruising down the street.
This is how Samantha suddenly knew she was growing up: She didn’t cry. She didn’t accuse her parents of torturing her or abandoning her. She simply said, “All right. I’ll make my own dinner.” She checked the contents of the refrigerator. “Pasta with vegetables, I think.”
She pulled a large pot out from the mountain in the sink, and the entire mountain went crashing and clanging to the floor. Pots rolled under the table. Pans skidded across the linoleum. One plate broke.
“Huh. Look at that,” said Penelope.
Samantha, still feeling grown-up, walked calmly to the cabinet where the cleaning supplies were stored and began to put the kitchen back in order. She swept and scrubbed and washed and dried.
Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Whatever Cure Page 11
