Free Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day by Gary Paulsen Page A

abilities were the primary reason there were airplanes today. The Wright brothers probably had three-ring binders.
    Molly's address book was in the social section of the binder. She included pertinent information about her friends: phone numbers, e-mail addresses, birth dates (including a special notation to avoid Kevin Spencer's birthday parties, where the combination of carrot cake, chocolate frosting and Neapolitan ice cream was a given and where on one occasion somebody had made the frosting with laxative as a primary ingredient), pets (type, size and general level of friendliness, with a jotted reminder to steer clear of the D'Agostinos’ slobbery Great Dane, Caesar, who might or might not have eaten a cat), siblings (age and likelihood to be annoying duringsleepovers, with a highlighted, double-underlined postscript to skip Patty Schumacher's house until the twins were done teething because they bit like Tasmanian devils and probably had not had their shots), and favorite subjects, for the organization of future study groups prior to final exams.
    Lunch tickets were tucked into a zippered plastic pocket along with bus tokens and extra quarters for emergency phone calls, although Molly had never actually faced an emergency where a phone call would have helped, unless you counted the time Nicholas O'Connor set his hair on fire to show off for Kimberly Klein, and then the fire was well out before the fire department got to the bus. Still, she felt comforted knowing she was prepared.
    The notebook also contained a family section, with a color-coded calendar so she'd know when to remind her grandmother to pay the bills. Molly had come up with that particular strategy after having taken phone messages from a number of bill collectors. Regardless of Irene's determination to look upon those two weeks without water and electricity as an urban adventure, Molly had notenjoyed bathing by candlelight with two-liter bottles of natural springwater heated, or rather slightly warmed, in a pan held over a butane lighter.
    Molly's grandmother was a talent agent specializing in animal clients. (“Do you realize, sugar, that last month's entire mortgage was paid for by Dizzy the dog?” Irene had recently boasted. Dizzy was Irene's favorite, a three-year-old border collie who had landed the enviable role of spokesdog for the largest bank chain in a three-state area.)
    Irene's unusual career explained, at least to Irene, why their home was in a constant state of upset. She claimed that she couldn't be on top of things at both her house and her business. Her creative juices would desert her if she was too regimented.
    Apparently, her creativity was also threatened by paying bills on time, dressing sedately and dusting.
    Molly had a schedule for housecleaning, too, in her lost notebook, immediately before the grocery list, the pager number of the emergency plumber and the list of her and Irene's doctor and dentist appointments for the next year.
    Molly reluctantly dragged her thoughts from her lost data and watched Irene fluff her hair.
    “Irene, did I already ask you if you'd seen my notebook?”
    “Notebook? Hmmm … no, I haven't seen it today. But if you had a good bag, pet, a really smart purse, you'd never misplace anything. See … I can keep everything I need in my shoulder bag and, being basic black, it goes with everything I own!”
    Irene triumphantly dragged her purse to the middle of the room. It was the approximate weight and size of a Marine Corps duffel bag. She hadn't been able to actually lift the purse for weeks now— ever since she'd ordered the miniature chess set from the Shopping Channel, the one-of-a-kind set with the pieces carved to represent the two teams who played in the 1991 World Series.
    “You never know, angel,” Irene had cooed when the chess set arrived in the mail. “This stuff could be worth a fortune someday to serious baseball memorabilia collectors. That series marked the start of the Atlanta