My Homework Ate My Homework

by Patrick Jennings

  “Oh, good!” He kisses her cheek. “So you caught up on your sleep.”

  She growls at him. She growls a lot. I wonder if she might be a werewolf. That would be so cool.

  “Come on, Father,” I say musically. “Let’s put this in my room. It’s heavy.”

  We leave Mother fuming behind us and set Bandito in my room.

  “I better go start dinner,” Father says. “Your mother looked hungry.”

  “Yeah—for human flesh.”

  “I was thinking trout. Isn’t this Friday?”

  Father always cooks fish on Friday. “Mother’s Night Off,” he calls it. In the summer, he grills the fish outside. But when it’s cold, like now, he uses the broiler.

  “Can I have some trout for Bandito?” I ask.

  “Sure. Broiled or raw?”

  We both look at Bandito, who is slithering around his cage like a hairy snake.

  “Raw,” we say at the same time.

  In the kitchen Father cuts a piece of the bloody trout and sets it on a plate. We look at each other and faux-gag, then I take the fish to my homework.

  Bandito gobbles it up.

  I open the Ferret Observations notebook and write, Loves trout.

  I go back to the kitchen.

  “He loved it.”

  “Oh, I yam zo proud zat zee muskrot eez cone-tent!” he answers. This is his French accent, and it’s better than his Cockney one.

  “Can I have another piece?”

  “Oui, oui, mademoiselle. Encore trout for the muskrot! Toot sweet!”

  He carves another bloody chunk and sets it on the plate, and I head back to my room. I meet Mother in the hall. She’s holding Abby.

  “Fur!” Abby says. “Beh!”

  “No, the fur is in the cage, Abby, not on the bed.”

  “Is that our trout?” Mother asks.

  “Just a little piece of it.” I don’t tell her it’s the second little piece of it.

  “Didn’t your teacher send ferret food home with you?”

  “It’s an experiment.” Which is sort of true.

  “Zuzza,” Abby says. “Uppy!”

  “Can you take her for a while?” Mother asks. “She can watch you feed the ferret our fish.”

  “Nice alliteration, Mother. Come on, Abby.”

  I can’t carry her, since that takes both arms, and I have to carry the fish, so I take her chubby hand and she toddles along beside me.

  “See that you don’t let the ferret out,” Mother says, wagging her finger at me as she walks away.

  The woman needs a vacation.

  “Fur!” Abby says when we finally reach my room. (Babies are so slow!) She points at the bed.

  “He’s not on the bed, Abby,” I say. “He’s in his—”

  But he isn’t.

  I let go of Abby’s hand, and she collapses onto her cushioned butt. I rush to the door and shut it.

  “Fur!” Abby says. “Beh!”

  She starts crawling for my bed. I scoop her onto my beanbag chair—I don’t want my homework to eat my baby sister—then peek under the bed. I see him hunkering behind whatever all that stuff is under there.

  “Give up, mustelid. There’s no way out.”

  He clicks at me, then hisses, but stays where he is.

  “Come out and I’ll give you another piece of fish,” I say, faux sweetly.

  Where did I set it? I don’t remember putting it down.

  “Beh!” Abby says.

  “Yes, you were right. Congratulations. Now where’s the fish?”

  “Fiss,” she says, and points at the plate, which is on the floor behind me. The fish isn’t on it.

  “Did he sneak out and take the fish, Abby?”

  “Shoo!” Abby says.

  This one throws me. Is she telling me to go away?

  “Shoo?”

  “Fiss. Shoo!”

  Is she shooing away the fish? I’ll be glad when she starts speaking in complete sentences.

  “Fish shoo?” I ask.

  She points at one of my shoes, which is laying nearby. I pick it up. The trout is inside. Gross. How did it get there?

  Doesn’t matter. I pluck it out, set it on the plate, then rub the fish juice off my fingers onto the carpet. Fish juice. Gross.

  “Here it is,” I say to the fur under my bed. “Here’s the fish. I bet you can smell it. Now come on and get it.” I smile like I’m not furious at him.

  He doesn’t come out.

  So I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  I’m role-modeling patience.

  “Do you see how patient Big Sister is being?” I say to Abby.

  “No,” she answers.

  She obviously didn’t understand the question.

  At last, Bandito starts creeping toward me, slowly at first, but then—zoom!—he slithers right at me. I scream and jump back, and he shoots by me.

  He stops in the middle of the room and starts prancing around, his claws making little ripping sounds on the carpet. He’s not running away. He’s not attacking. I think he’s playing. Performing. Putting on a show. He bends his long back, then snaps himself open, which propels him forward, like a Slinky pull toy. I’m afraid Abby might choke from all her giggling. I’m laughing, too, mostly because of Bandito’s huffing and wheezing. It sounds like laughter. Either that or asthma. I’m pretty sure we are witnessing the weasel war dance. Probably because of the fish.

  He darts under my rolltop desk and then out and under my nightstand and out and under my chairs and out and back under the desk. He’s gone crazy. He falls over a lot as he scrambles around, but he just barrel-rolls himself back upright. He’s acting a lot like a kitten, and I really like kittens. They’re cute and frisky. I’ve only seen Bandito in his cage, or hiding in my parka, or in my desk, or being held by someone. With a little room, he’s, well … kind of adorable. And dramatic!

  When he finally calms down, he comes over to me and sniffs at the plate. Then he peeks up at me, like he’s asking for the fish. Politely.

  “It’s all yours, fur,” I say.

  He picks it up with his pink fingers and starts chewing on it, like a squirrel eating a nut.

  I sure have a lot to enter into the Ferret Observations notebook.

  “They’re here!” I shout. A white van is parked in the lot. On its side, in colorful, sparkly, fancy letters, are the words LARAMIE TRAVELING CHILDREN’S THEATER TROUPE.

  “Just one van?” Wain asks. “It all fits in one van? The directors, the sets, the costumes?”

  “There’s probably more coming.” I’m a little annoyed at his negativity on a such a positive day, the day, in fact, I’ve been waiting for all my life. If I’d known he was going to act this way, I wouldn’t have suggested we pick him up on the way to school. I would have let him walk.

  We get out of the car, and Father calls out, “Your caged beast, m’lady?”

  He means Bandito. I really had fun with that silly mustelid over the weekend. I’m actually a little sad I have to bring him back.

  “Help my father with the cage, will you, Wain? I need to get inside.”

  “Uh … sure,” he says.

  “Actually, Your Ladyship?” Father calls after me. “I was rather hoping you and your manservant, Wain, might tote the cage inside, if it’s not too much bother, as I must away to duties on another campus.”

  “Oh, all right!” I suppose even the biggest stars must sometimes perform normal, human tasks, even on the most important day of their lives.

  When Wain, Bandito, and I enter our classroom, there are two young strangers standing with Mr. O., a man and a woman. It’s obvious they are not from Bridge’s Creek, that they’re from Laramie, that they’re professional theater people. I drop my end of the cage onto a stray desk and head over to them.

  “Hey!” Wain gripes behind me.

  “Howdy! I’m Zaritza!” I say with as much Calamity Jane spunk as I can muster. I stick out my hand to shake. When they stare blankly
at me, I add, “Welcome, thespians!”—which is a fancy word for actors. This isn’t very Calamity-like, but I’ve been rehearsing it for months and can’t not say it.

  The lady speaks first. She’s wearing glasses with lime-green frames, a plaid jumper over a white blouse with puffy short sleeves, and neon pink kneesocks. Her head is tangled into spiky red dreads. She’s definitely an artist. I mean, she’s not even wearing makeup. And her blouse is wrinkly, like she slept in it.

  “You have a ferret,” she says with a faux smile, then yawns. “Did she sleep well last night? Is it show-and-tell today?”

  “Is that what it is?” the man says. “A ferret? I thought it was a skinny possum.”

  He’s shorter than the lady but is better dressed. He’s wearing a dark green blazer and black pants, and shiny black leather shoes, though they’re scuffed. Under his blazer he’s wearing a red T-shirt with the same logo that was on the van. I can see it because his jacket is unbuttoned and his stomach is a bit rounded. He has a little pointy beard, though no mustache for some reason.

  Doesn’t a beard make it hard to play different characters? Dreads, too, I bet. Maybe these two aren’t actors. Maybe they’re directors. Or casting directors. Maybe they’re just the ones who’ll be auditioning us.

  “Please take a seat, Zaritza,” Mr. O. says. “We’ll have introductions after the announcements. It’s going to be a full day.”

  “Yes!” I say. “A day filled with drama and comedy and tragedy! Of theater!” I rehearsed that line, too.

  “Sit down, Zaritza,” Mr. O. says again.

  What a buzzkill he is. But at least he said my name. Twice. That should help them remember it.

  “Okay, Mr. O.,” I say, then, as an aside to the theater pros, I add, “We’ll talk later.” I part with a finger-gun-shot and a hard wink.

  They laugh a little. They get me.

  Sitting through the Pledge and the announcements is misery, way worse than usual. Then, at long last, things get started.

  “As you all know, this week we are delighted to have the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe with us—”

  Loud cheers erupt, mostly from me.

  “—who will be guiding you through the step-by-step process of putting on a stage play.”

  “A musical stage play,” the Laramie guy adds.

  “Right,” Mr. O. says. “This project will take place each morning till first lunch, which means normal morning activities will be canceled—”

  Really loud cheers erupt, and hooting, too. I love to hoot.

  “I thought you’d like that,” Mr. O. says with a grin. He probably likes it, too: it means he gets a break from us. “We will still meet here after lunch, of course. Remember, you are not required to participate in the play. If you don’t wish to, I will find something for you to do here in the classroom.”

  Right. Like who would choose not to participate?

  “Those of you who do choose to participate, I expect you to be attentive, courteous, respectful …” And blah, blah, blah until at last … “And so please let me introduce you to your directors, Josh and Hannah.”

  We all clap, but I make sure I’m the loudest, and the last one to stop.

  “Hi,” Hannah says, giving us a little wave. She’s blushing and uncomfortable, so she can’t be an actor. Actors love an audience. “I’m Hannah—with an h at both ends—and I’m one of your theater facilitators, and I’m so super excited that together we’re going to put on a show!”

  That was totally canned. I bet she says it every time. But I cheer and hoot anyway. It can’t hurt to be on her good side.

  “A show! Woo-hoo! All right!”

  Mr. O. glares. I stop.

  “I’m your director for the play,” Hannah goes on. “I’m also stage manager. I coordinate the lighting, the sets, the costumes, and the props. Do any of you know what a prop is?”

  “Prop is short for property,” I say. “And it’s the objects actors use during a performance.”

  Hannah nods, then yawns, and her partner steps forward.

  “I’m Josh. I’ll be your acting and singing coach. I’ll also be acting in the play with you, playing the role of Wild Bill Hickok.”

  I glance at Wain and watch him slump in his chair. I tilt my head, faux-pout, and mouth, Sorry! It’s better this way, though. No sense Wain getting his hopes up when he didn’t have a chance of landing the role.

  “I’ll be onstage with you at all times during the performances,” Josh says. “That way, if you get stuck and can’t remember your cues or lines, I can help out. How’s that sound … co-stars?”

  He’s going to be onstage at all times? Doesn’t that make him the star? That can’t be right. I’m the star.

  I raise my hand.

  “Ah! We have a question,” Josh says with a smirk. “What is it, Ferret Girl?”

  The class explodes in laughter.

  “I’m Zaritza, remember?” I say, but my stupid classmates are too loud.

  Someone starts chanting, “Ferret Girl! Ferret Girl! Ferret Girl!”

  Oh, no! It’s becoming a thing! I must stop it!

  “Ha!” Josh says. “Ferret Girl has a following!”

  No! It’s like a nickname. Ferret Girl—with capital letters.

  The chanting continues: “Ferret Girl! Ferret Girl! Ferret Girl!”

  My homework ate my name.

  We follow Josh and Hannah to the cafeteria. The tables are all folded up and rolled away. Some of the boys in my class take advantage of all the space and start racing around, acting like apes, as boys often do.

  Josh steps up onto the stage, which is only about a foot off the floor, and says in a commanding voice, “Attention, company!”

  Good projection. He must be an actor. I like that he calls us “company.” Very professional.

  “I need everyone’s attention and concentration at all times. If I do not have your attention and concentration at all times, I will send you back to your classroom.”

  The ape-boys deflate like leaky balloons.

  “And remember: always walk when you are in this room, unless you are onstage, of course, and I tell you to do otherwise. Anyone who runs will be sent back to the classroom. Understood?”

  Everyone nods.

  “When I say ‘Understood?’ I want you to answer, ‘Understood!’ Understood?”

  “Understood!” we all say.

  “Good. Now when I say ‘Action,’ I want you all to stand up and walk to the back of the room. I want you to walk as if you are crossing deep, wet sand. Your feet should sink in with each step. Show me how well you can pretend. Ready? Action!”

  I glance around and see some of the kids walking like they have glue on their feet. Wrong. Or they drag their feet, like zombies. Also wrong. I’ll show them how it’s done.

  I take a step and imagine my foot being sucked into the sand, then salt water pouring on top of it. I pretend to lose my balance as I try to tug my foot free. I wobble. I almost believe this is really happening, right there on the hard floor of the cafeteria.

  This is what school is supposed to be like!

  I look up, waiting for Josh to single me out, but he’s not looking at me. He’s whispering to Hannah, who is writing in a spiral notebook.

  This is part of the audition!

  Because I’ve done such a realistic job of walking in deep, wet sand, everyone else is way ahead of me, so I start walking fast—not running—in deep, wet sand. I move in a squat, like those guys who danced with bottles on their heads in the musical Fiddler on the Roof.

  “Are you a crab on the beach, Ferret Girl!” Josh howls, which gets a big laugh. The whole cafeteria is filled with echoing meanness.

  “Okay, now everybody turn around and come back,” Josh says, “only now you’re walking on scalding hot desert sand. Emphasis on walking. Action!”

  Everybody starts hopping on their toes across the floor, saying, “Oooh! Oooh! Hot! Hot!”

  “Do we have shoes on or are we b
arefoot?” I yell, because I want to get this right, but I can’t be heard over all the faux yelping. So I scream louder, “DO WE HAVE SHOES ON OR ARE WE BAREFOOT?”

  “Please do not shout, Ferret Girl,” Josh says in his commanding voice.

  Everyone freezes.

  “That goes for everyone. If you have a question, raise your hand.”

  “But everyone’s raising their hands,” I say, which is true. For some reason that’s what people do when their feet are burning.

  “Ferret Girl, if you can’t stop shouting out, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your classroom.”

  Total silence. Everyone looks at me. Usually, that’s a good thing. But not when you’re in trouble.

  What is going on here? Can I do nothing right? This was supposed to be the most glorious, stupendous day of my life. Instead it’s the worst. And who is to blame?

  “Understood, Ferret Girl?” Josh says.

  There is my answer.

  “Understood,” I say.

  “I want you each to come up onstage and say your name loudly and clearly,” Josh says. “Loud enough to be heard at the back of the room, and clear enough to be understood. That is how we speak when onstage. Understood?”

  “Understood!”

  “When you’re up here, I’ll ask you to do a couple of things. Do them the best you can, then go back and sit down and be a good audience member. Polite and attentive. Understood?”

  “Understood!”

  “You,” he says, pointing at Melodie. “Come up and tell us your name in a loud, clear voice.”

  Melodie goes up and says, “Melodie,” in an unloud, unclear voice.

  “Okay, Melodie,” Josh says, “I want you to recite something you know by heart.”

  “Recite something?”

  “That’s right. It could be a poem, or a nursery rhyme, or a scene from a movie you like. Anything.”

  Melodie thinks a few seconds then recites “Hickory Dickory Dock.” Which is pretty easy and lame. And she gets stuck halfway through.

  But Josh says, “All right! Amazing! Thank you! Now, Melodie, can you sing something for me?”

  “Sing?”

  “Yes, sing. Anything you know. Anything you like.”

  She blushes. “All right.” Then she croaks out “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”