Zola

Zola was a roadrunner, and yes, she was fast — but she’ll be the first to tell you that fast was never the point.

At the Times Workshop, some of the little animals got a knot in their stomachs whenever times facts came up. Somewhere, someone had once put a timer on them — sixty seconds, go! — and now their minds went blank the moment they felt rushed. They knew the facts, mostly. But the clock scared the answers right out of their heads. They thought being slow meant being bad at math.

Zola hated that. She’d screech to a stop in a little cloud of dust and say, “Whoever put a clock on you was wrong. Facts pop on their own when you practice — but never because someone’s timing you. Speed is a gift practice gives you. It is not a test you can fail.”

The little animals looked up, hopeful but unsure. Wasn’t fast the whole idea? Weren’t they supposed to be quick?

Zola remembered her own timer-fear, when she was young. A gym teacher had made her race the clock on her sixes, and she froze, missed them all, and decided she was “just slow.” She started dreading math entirely.

Then a wise old roadrunner named Dash took her out to the open desert — no clock in sight. “Forget speed,” Dash said. “We’re just going to visit the sixes. Over and over, no rush. When you get stuck, use a trick — skip-count, or break it apart. The answer will come.” So Zola visited her sixes, gently, again and again, day after day, no timer, no shame. And one morning she asked herself 6 times 7 and — pop — 42 was just there. She hadn’t chased it. It had come to her, because she’d practiced kindly.

“That’s fluency,” Dash said. “Not racing. The facts just start to pop, because you visited them so many times they moved in and stayed. Speed is what practice gives you — never what a clock demands.”

Now a jittery jackrabbit named Bounce was shaking. “They’re going to time me on my eights,” he whispered. “I always freeze. I’m just slow. I’m bad at this.”

Zola sat right down next to him in the dust. “No clock here,” she said firmly. “None. We’re just going to visit your eights, you and me, as slow as you like. What’s 8 times 5?”

Bounce, without the fear, said, “Forty.”

“See? You know that one — it just popped,” Zola grinned. “Now 8 times 6. Stuck? Then don’t panic — use Parti’s trick. 8 times 5 is 40, plus one more 8 is 48.” Bounce did it. “Forty-eight.” “And soon, from visiting it, that’ll pop too — no trick needed.” They visited a few more, slow and easy, and every time Bounce got one he’d never rushed for, it started to feel less like a monster and more like a friend he was getting to know.

He missed 8 × 7 and cringed, bracing for the sting. “I got it wrong. See, I’m slow.”

“You got it not-yet,” Zola corrected, zippy and kind. “A miss isn’t a race lost. It’s just a fact you haven’t visited enough times. Let’s visit it. 8 times 7 — break it: 8 fives is 40, 8 twos is 16, that’s 56.” Bounce said 56. “Now it’s a little more yours than it was a minute ago.” There was no clock, no comparing, no shame — just one more friendly visit.

By the end, some of Bounce’s facts popped on their own, and the ones that didn’t yet, he could always reach with a trick — and the timer-fear was simply gone, because there’d never been a timer.

“How’s it feel?” Zola asked, feathers ruffling in the desert wind.

Bounce breathed out, long and slow, and felt his shoulders drop from up by his ears. “Loose,” he said, surprised the fear had let go. “There’s no clock, so my brain didn’t freeze. I could actually think. And the more I visit them, the more they just pop. I thought I was slow. Turns out I was just scared of the timer.”

Zola nodded fiercely. That was the feeling she fought for — not speed, but the relief of a mind that isn’t afraid, free to let the facts arrive. “That’s the whole secret,” she said. “Fast is lovely, and practice will give it to you as a gift. But it is never something to fail. Visit your facts kindly, and one by one, they’ll pop — no clock required, ever.”

Bounce hopped home visiting his eights the whole way — slow, unhurried, no timer, no fear — and grinning every time one popped out on its own.