"PHILLIP BAILEY CARLYLE!" John Carlyle's voice echoed through the house. Phillip, with the door to his room closed while he was working on a story, didn't hear his father until it was too late. "PHILLIP!" his father hollered again, closer this time. Phillip heard his father's voice and stuffed his papers into a folder under his mattress as his father barged in.
"Oh… Father! I was just working on my composition for school!" Phillip lied. "Would you like to see it?" Phillip handed a stack of papers to his father, who shuffled through them.
"You haven't fixed the grammar mistakes I marked, Phillip." his father said, staring at him. "And where is the new work you speak of?" Phillip realized that the new papers were still on his desk, under the play he was working on. At age twelve, he had discovered plays, and now, at thirteen, he had decided to write his own. He carefully pushed the play aside and pulled out the composition to show his father. He handed it to his father, who read through it with a critical eye.
"Hand me a pen, Phillip," his father said. Phillip pulled one out from his jar of pens and pencils and handed it to his father, who, to Phillip's horror, sat down at the desk and began correcting it. As he handed the marked sheet to Phillip, the play caught his eye. "What's this?" he asked. He pulled it out and looked at it.
"Um… it's nothing!" Phillip said. Phillip's father raised his eyebrows.
"It says 'Play' on the front, young man. Is this for school? Did I ever assign a play?" his father asked. Phillip, sensing the danger in his father's voice, swallowed and thought about what to say next.
"No, sir," he replied.
"Then what is it?" his father asked.
"Um… it's something I wanted to try writing," Phillip said quietly.
"Not for school," his father asked again. Phillip shook his head.
"No, sir," he said again. His father stood up, dropping the papers on the floor.
"Then why did you write it?" his father yelled. "You know the rule, Phillip!"
"No non-school c-compositions allowed," Phillip stuttered. His father slapped him across the face.
"Why did you write this play? Answer me!" Phillip's father bellowed. Phillip cowered in front of his father, blood dripping from his nose.
"B-because I wanted t-to," he answered truthfully. His father grew even angrier.
"You're grounded!" he hollered. "For a week!" He slapped Phillip again and strode out of the room as Phillip threw himself on the bed and wept, the blood staining the white pillowcase as shuddering sobs convulsed his body. Amoeba and Penelope, his two cats, poked their heads out from under the bed to see if Mr. Carlyle was gone and jumped up on the bed next to him. Penelope climbed onto his stomach and Amoeba curled around his head, calming him down enough to think logically. He seldom left his room and almost never left the house, so being grounded shouldn't be a big deal. Still, he had a bad feeling in his gut about the next few days.
The next morning, he found some oatmeal, two slices of bacon, and a glass of milk on his desk, along with a note. It read:
You are not to leave this room for one week. After consideration and speaking to your mother, I have burned your little play. However, in the future, I will be assigning plays for you to write, since you seem to have a small amount of skill in this field and being a playwright might bring honor to the family. Your punishment for disobeying me will be tomorrow. Stay in your room until I collect you tomorrow. In the meantime, you should complete your schoolwork and reflect on your actions yesterday.
—Father
Phillip slumped down in his chair, and his cats jumped into his lap. He fed them each a slice of bacon and tried to eat some oatmeal, but only managed a few bites.
"Why does Father hate me?" he asked Amoeba, who licked his face as if to say, He may, but I don't. He rubbed her head affectionately, and she purred. Phillip put his head down on his desk, feeling tears slip down his face and onto the wood. He fell asleep there and woke up an hour later. He decided to work on his schoolwork to pass the time, since he didn't dare take out his story from under the bed. Penelope sat on his desk and Amoeba sat on his bed while he worked.
Around two that afternoon, he finished his work and sat back in his chair. He didn't have the next day's work yet, so he pulled a book off his shelf and started to read. He read until dinner, when one of the maids knocked on the door with a tray of food. She left the food and nearly ran out the door without talking to Phillip, who guessed that his father must have given the servants strict orders not to talk to him. He sighed and tried to eat something, managing all of the rice and half the chicken on his plate, avoiding the boiled vegetables like the plague.
After dinner, he changed into pajamas and fell asleep, too tired to worry about the day ahead.