Meanwhile Mrs. Madison had arrived at Biff's house and was staring at the beefy young man before her who's life she was about to live for a week. His broad shoulders and thick arms indicated someone who was dedicated to their body image, while the slightly vacant look in his eye showed someone who didn't get much of what was happening around him.
"Okay," he grunted, annoyed at the inconvenience, "come upstairs, let's go over things."
She followed him to his bedroom. The pungeant odor hit her as soon as the door opened. Sweaty clothes were strewn across the carpetted floor. There were empty energy drink bottles on the dresser. Sports posters were hung unartfully on the walls, and the bed was unmade.
"Alright Biff," Mrs. Madison began, having been through this many times (she was quite good at the game, she thought), "Let's make a schedule of your week. Once we're done that, then let's talk about you."
She pulled out a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen, and began to write down everything Biff told her about his week. School schedules, upcoming dates, T.V. shows he wanted to watch, football practices, and friends he wanted to hang out with. After about forty-five minutes of prodding questions she thought she had enough to get her through. Anything else, as she knew quite well, she'd be able to figure out as she went. These schedules were often just frameworks, anyway, and life had it's own way of making it's own schedule.
She flipped the page and put the book down beside her on the bed. "That should be good. Thanks, Biff. Now, can you show me around and tell me everything?"
"Well, this is my room. You're sitting on my bed..."
