T

he television's saccharine voice was a persistent hum, praising him. "He has just been named the Best Businessman of the Year," the reporter gushed, a forced smile plastered across her face. "He's now poised to become the CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire." Blah, blah, blah. The endless stream of accolades, the droning emphasis on his "hard work" and "success," grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Can you change the channel, please?" I grumbled, sinking deeper into the couch cushions, as if to physically escape the insipid praise. "Why can't these people show something useful? Do they honestly think we care about his glowing achievements?"

Dad, predictably, turned his head, a mild frown creasing his brow. "Isa, why do you always react this way? He's a young, successful man. People should learn from him, from how he manages all his responsibilities."

Of course. Like every other adult with a blind spot for inherited wealth, Dad would also champion him. Rich kids with rich parents, inheriting empires built on someone else's hustle, then paraded as self-made gurus. It was nauseating.
"Fine, whatever," I muttered, pushing myself off the couch. I needed to escape the relentless drone of his perfection. As I pulled open my bedroom door, the reporter's voice shifted, sharp and serious. "The dangerous mafia empire has been suspected of having a hand in the killings last month..."

Oh, those mafia people. My thoughts spun with a cynical twist. Probably the same people he hangs out with after those 'business' awards. Can't they just stop all these killings and let us have some peace?

My room, usually my sanctuary, swallowed me whole. Papers, forgotten sketches, and an entire ecosystem of clothes carpeted the floor. Empty coffee mugs formed an abstract art piece on my nightstand, and a half-eaten bag of chips lay sprawled on my bed like a casualty of a snack war. When I stepped inside, my foot connected with an empty can of coke, sending it skittering across the wooden floor with a clang. I hadn't thrown it away, naturally. Laziness, my most loyal companion.

"Oh god," I groaned, picturing Mom's face. She was going to flip.
My room was a glorious disaster, a testament to my busy, creative mind. As they say, a messy room is a sign of a genius. Why couldn't they understand the hidden brilliance within this chaos? If anyone ever dared to break into my bedroom to kill me, they'd trip over something within seconds, giving me ample time to execute my highly sophisticated escape plan. There were so many undeniable advantages to a messy room, yet people, in their tedious pursuit of order, tended to ignore them. What a shame!

"ISABELLA!"

I flinched, my entire body jumping at the sudden, ear-splitting bellow. The sound seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. Oh no! It's Mom. The gig was up.

She appeared in my doorway, hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed into slits of pure parental disapproval. "Why is your room always so messy?! Why can't you ever keep it clean? Just look at Alex's room!"

Oh, great. Don't even get me started on Alex. My "perfect" brother merely crammed all his dirty laundry and discarded junk under his bed, hiding it neatly out of sight. I’d seen him do it, the little sneak.

"I was just about to clean it, Mom," I said, a practiced innocence in my voice as I haphazardly began scooping clothes from the floor onto my bed, creating a new, albeit slightly taller, mound.

"I want to see this room spotless in an hour," she declared, her voice firm, before slamming my door shut with a definitive thud.

Wonderful. Now I had to waste an entire hour of my precious time on this mundane task. One time, I tried Alex's method. I'd shoved everything under the bed, proud of my ingenuity. But, of course, Alex, the dutiful little spy, had noticed a suspicious bulge and promptly tattled on me when Mom came to inspect. My punishment? Pulling weeds from the yard under the scorching sun all day. Never again.

With a sigh, I resigned myself. All my clothes were now piled on the bed. I started gathering papers from the floor, stacking them precariously on my desk chair. I grabbed a damp cloth and meticulously wiped down my desk, neatly arranging my books and papers into actual piles. Then I attacked the half-eaten chip bags, sweeping every last crumb into the wastebasket.

My phone's insistent ring suddenly pierced the quiet hum of my reluctant cleaning. Tess's name flashed on the screen, a beacon of procrastination. I snatched it up.

"Hey, girl, what's up?" I chirped, leaning against my now somewhat tidy desk.
"Hey! I was super bored, so I thought of calling you. How are you holding up?" Tess's voice, usually bubbly, sounded genuinely sympathetic.

"Oh, you know, just great. Mom's making me clean my room, and I swear, it's a form of torture." I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn't see me.

Tess let out a commiserating groan. "Ugh, tell me about it. Who actually likes to clean their room?"

"Exactly! But she doesn't know that. She thinks I'm the only slob on the planet."
"My mom says the same thing!" Tess exclaimed, her voice picking up. "She's convinced all my friends keep their rooms pristine and tidy."

Our conversation drifted, weaving through various random topics – a terrible history test, a new crush in our class, the latest viral cat video – an endless stream of delightful distraction. It was only when I glanced at my watch, a jolt of panic seizing me, that I realized my hour of forced labor was almost up. Mom would be back any second.
"Gotta go, Mom's coming!" I blurted, barely giving Tess time to respond before hanging up

I launched myself into a frenzy of activity, folding clothes faster than the Flash, shoving them into drawers. I straightened the duvet, plumped the pillows, and swept every remaining speck of dust off the floor. By the time I took a breathless step back, the room, miraculously, looked… clean.

Just as I finished admiring my handiwork, the door creaked open. Mom stood there, her gaze sweeping over the miraculously transformed space. A slow smile spread across her face. "The room looks much better now, Isabella. Why can't it always be like this?"

I just shrugged, offering a noncommittal hum. What could I tell her? That, according to the laws of physics, a messy room is simply an object at rest? For my room to be clean and not in its natural state of entropy, an external force – namely, Mom's scolding – must be applied. It was just basic science.

***********
Hey guys, so what do you think about this chapter? Don't forget to let me know in the comment section and vote for the story