My Homework Ate My Homework

by Patrick Jennings

  “They call me Ferret Girl, you know,” I whisper to him. “And Faritza.”

  “Are you guys on a break?” Mr. O. asks. “Why are you alone?”

  I wish he’d quit with the questions. Can’t he see I don’t want to talk? Can’t he see that my life has ended?

  “Maybe you were missing your pal there? You’re getting pretty attached to him, aren’t you?”

  My pal? Attached? Is he nuts?

  “I guess so,” I answer.

  “What about the play?”

  Play? You call that a play? A mouse is playing Calamity Jane, the best actor available is playing a minor character, and the director is in every scene. I don’t call that a play.

  “There you are,” Wain says, hustling into the room. “Come on. Rehearsal is starting.”

  I don’t look at him.

  “You know,” Mr. O. says, “if you don’t participate, you have to stay here with me.”

  I don’t look at him, either. Instead I watch Bandito gnaw the bars. He’s trying to get out so he can play with me.

  “I’ll keep you busy doing classwork,” Mr. O. adds.

  Now I look at him. “Oh.”

  “Josh is looking for you,” Wain says.

  “Oh?”

  “You really should read the script. Your character has a pretty important scene. You sort of tell Calam off.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I see. You didn’t get the part you wanted,” Mr. O. says, like this information explains everything to him. Know-it-all.

  I turn back to Bandito. “Sorry, but I have to go. You see, the show must go on.”

  Mr. O. gives us hall passes—after reminding us that we’re not allowed to go back and forth from the cafeteria to the classroom without them—and we speed-walk back toward rehearsal.

  “Can you believe it?” I ask Wain. “Eden helps with my math so I can be in the play, then she steals my role, and then tells me off in front of everybody just because I called her Asian. I mean, she is Asian, isn’t she? Isn’t that the right thing to call her? How was I supposed to know she’s from Java. Isn’t that coffee or something?”

  “She’s not from Java,” Wain says. “Her ancestors are. She said her parents were born in America.”

  “Whatever. I think she meant all this to happen. That’s why she helped me. So she could embarrass me in front of everybody.”

  Wain looks at me with his left eyebrow way up, like I’m not making any sense. “I don’t think she got mad at you because you called her Asian.”

  “No? Then why?”

  “Because you said she couldn’t play Calam because she’s Asian.”

  “She can’t! An Asian Calamity Jane? Java Jane?”

  “Quiet in the hall!” a teacher says, poking her head out of her classroom.

  “We’re sorry,” Wain says for both of us. I let it slide this time. After the teacher goes back inside, he whispers, “Eden’s right, you know. Calam wasn’t blonde. She had raven black hair. I looked it up.”

  Father once told me that one of the greatest stage actors of all time, Sarah Bernhardt, played Hamlet. Hamlet the prince. A man. Actually, in Shakespeare’s time (Shakespeare wrote the play Hamlet), women weren’t allowed to act in plays (how unjust!), so men played all the roles, male and female. Father says what an actor looks like doesn’t matter. What matters is how good an actor they are. If they’re good, they can convince the audience they’re anyone, or anything—like I did in The Marshmallow and the Frog. In that play, I was a marshmallow.

  Another thing Father tells me is that there are no small roles, only small actors. He doesn’t mean small like tiny. He means small like … well, like I’m being right now. I’m acting like a big baby because I didn’t get the role I wanted, and I was mean and spiteful to Eden because she got it instead. Father says every role in a play is important, and any actor, no matter what role they play, can steal the show.

  Which is my new plan.

  “Ferret Girl! You’re back!” Josh yells from the stage.

  “Yep!” I say proudly. “Ferret Girl is back!”

  I’ve decided to own the nickname, like I did drama queen. Once you own a nickname, no one can hurt you with it.

  Wain and I sit down on the floor, and I uncrumple my script. I had twisted it up pretty tight during my little fit.

  “Where’s the scene?” I say, flipping through the pages.

  He leans over and stops me. “Here.”

  I read from the page. “Deadwood Lady #1 says, ‘It ain’t proper for a lady to wear trousers.’ Then Deadwood Lady #2 says, ‘It ain’t proper for a lady to say ain’t.’ ” Which is a joke, I guess.

  Then Calamity says, “A body who ain’t wearin’ trousers had better stay inside where there ain’t any rattlers, cuz in a frilly frock like yourn it’s a lot easier to git bit!” Calam then tries to bite Lady #1.

  Then Deadwood Lady #3 says, “That’s no excuse for dressing like a man. I’ve been wearing a dress for years and I’ve never had any trouble with snakes.”

  “Ya never rode bareback, neither, I bet,” Calam says.

  “Of course not!” Lady #3 says.

  “And ya ain’t ridden into battle, yer pistols blazin‘?”

  “Certainly not. I am a lady, ma’am.”

  “Then ladies sure miss out on a heap a’ excitement!” And Calam fires her gun into the air.

  “Firing guns is not what I call fun!” Lady #3 says. “It’s dangerous and it hurts my delicate ears.”

  “I’m awful sorry, ma’am.…” Calam says, and bows.

  I elbow Wain.

  “My character’s stuck-up,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, but she tells Calam off.”

  “I’d rather be the one firing the gun …”

  “Quiet, please,” Josh says to us. “I want you concentrating on what’s happening in every scene. It’s important that everyone learns the whole play by heart. You’re all essential to making it work.”

  Yeah, yeah, there are no small roles. But some are sure bigger than others.

  I go back to page one and start reading the whole story. It starts when Calamity is thirteen and her name isn’t Calamity yet. It’s Martha Canary. She and her family are riding a covered wagon from Missouri to Montana. They sing a song called “Ridin’ ‘Cross the Range.” Then Ma Canary dies, and Calamity has to be mother to her brothers and sisters. She sings the song called, “If’n I Put My Mind to It.” It goes:

  There ain’t nuthin’ I cain’t do,

  If’n I put my mind to it.

  There ain’t no horse I can’t shoe,

  If’n I put my mind to it.

  Obviously, the play is supposed to teach stuff like “Be yourself,” “Don’t let others tell you how to be,” and “You can do it if you try.”

  Gag.

  Onstage, Eden is reading through the song with her brothers and sisters, played by Luis, Cooper, and Devanna. We won’t start actually singing the songs till tomorrow, when Aaron’s mother comes to accompany us on piano.

  “ ‘She was a good woman,’ ” Eden/Calam says after the song. “ ‘She was brave an’ strong an’ always took real good care of us. An’ she’d want us to be brave an’ strong an’ keep on goin’.’ ”

  “That was pretty good, Eden,” Josh lies. She read it word by word without much feeling or inflection. “But from now on, let’s see a little more strength, okay? Remember, Martha’s a strong girl with a lot of spirit and a big voice.”

  “Okay,” Eden says in a quivery voice, like she might start crying.

  “Okay!” Josh says. “Continue!” He’s modeling how he wants her to sound: big. He wouldn’t have to model for me. I am big.

  Next, Calamity slaps her knee and says, “ ‘Now that’s enough of that blubberin’! We got us a ways to go a’fore sundown. Git up into that wagon!’ ” Eden slaps her knee too softly to hear. And her scolding is too nice. She’s too shy to let loose. She sure ain’t no Calamity Jane, I’ll tell you that.

  J
osh keeps the run-through moving. The play will only last about an hour when we perform it for an audience, but the run-through takes much longer. All morning.

  My scene doesn’t come till Calam is a grown woman living in Deadwood. I stand with Ladies #1 and #2 (Melodie and Jacqueline), facing Calam (Eden) and Wild Bill Hickok (Josh). Wild Bill narrates the story directly to the audience as well as appearing in every scene, which means Josh has ten times as many lines as anyone else, which seems totally unjust. The play really should be called Wild Bill.

  Josh has played the role probably a zillion times, so, of course, he knows his lines backwards and forwards. A lot of his lines are jokes, which he delivers to the audience like a standup comic. After a joke, he pauses for the laugh. I doubt he’ll get very many. The jokes aren’t funny. Maybe they’re for the adults, like a lot of the jokes in computer-animated movies. (I hate computeranimation. I hope by the time I’m in movies the fad has passed. I’m not interested in doing voice work. I want to be seen and heard, not just heard.)

  I practice my lines while I am waiting, so when it’s time, I say them without referring to the script. I say them loudly and clearly. After the line “I’ve been wearing a dress for years and I’ve never had any trouble with snakes,” I act terrified that there might be some around.

  Josh doesn’t comment, but I can tell he’s impressed.

  “ ‘Ya never rode bareback, neither, I bet,’ ” Eden reads.

  Flat, weak, stiff. But it’s my cue.

  “ ‘Of course not!’ ” I say, waving a pretend hanky at her.

  “That’s good, Zaritza,” Josh says.

  Yes!

  “… but maybe tone it down just a touch?”

  No!

  “Of course,” I say, faux-smiling. “Sorry.”

  The next scene is a musical number, “Shootin’ Off Your Mouth.” The Ladies each a sing a verse, then all of us join in on the chorus. Being Lady #3, my verse is last, which is fine by me. People are more likely to remember what comes last.

  After the song, we Ladies are supposed to exit stage right. Jacqueline goes left and crashes into me.

  “Careful, Ladies,” Josh says.

  Lady, I think, but again faux-apologize.

  “Good scene,” Wain says when I sit down.

  “Tell that to Josh.”

  “I will.”

  I grin at him. He’s my biggest fan. And a pretty good friend, too.

  I’ll go back up for the finale with the whole cast, but otherwise that’s it for me. Not exactly what I had hoped for.

  But I won’t complain. I am a big actor in a small role.

  After the finale, Josh tells us, “Okay, that’s it for today. Rehearse your lines! Get together with friends after school if you can. Remember, you must have them memorized by Wednesday. Our first performance is Friday night!”

  We’re sent out to the playground so the theater can be changed back into the lunchroom. Eden walks off alone, looking pretty upset. She did an awful job and must be feeling discouraged and scared. She just found out acting is no walk in the park. It’s hard work, especially when you’re the lead.

  She looks at me suddenly, like she knew I was looking at her. She flashes me the stink eye and stomps off.

  “Looks like she’s still mad at you,” Wain says.

  “Maybe I should help her. She helped me with my math.”

  “That would be nice of you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but do I want to be nice to the girl who cheated me out of fame and glory?

  “There are no small roles …”

  “I know, Father.” I don’t need to hear the rest.

  “Play the role like your life depends on it,” he says, sweeping his arm dramatically.

  “Her life definitely does not depend on this role,” Mother says. “It’s just a play.”

  My mouth falls open. Father’s, too. “Just a play?” we say in unison.

  “Madame, the theater is in our very blood!” Father says.

  “Bluh!” Abby says.

  Father and I laugh. Mother does not.

  “Bluh! Bluh!” Abby chants.

  Whenever we laugh at something she says, she repeats it over and over until everybody’s sick to death of it. She has a lot to learn about comedy. Just because something gets a laugh once, doesn’t mean it will again. In fact, usually it won’t, unless you change it somehow.

  “Lovely dinner conversation,” Mother says.

  “But she’s right,” I say. “It’s in our blood.”

  “Bluh!” Abby says.

  “That’s enough, Abby,” Mother says. “Eat your peas.”

  “Blecch,” I say.

  “Bluh!” Abby says. “Bluh! Bluh! Bluh!”

  Mother glares at me as she shovels peas into my sister’s laughing mouth.

  “So why do you think Josh cast Eden as Calam, Father?”

  “Can she act?”

  “No. She’s terrible. But she did do a pretty good job reading a poem during her audition. And she doesn’t sing too badly.”

  “He must see something in her. Raw talent. Charisma.”

  “Bluh!” Abby says.

  “Ignore her,” I say. “That’s the only way she’ll stop.”

  “Maybe Josh gave her the role to draw her out of her shell,” Mother says. “To give her confidence.”

  “Bluh!”

  “Abalina doesn’t have a confidence problem,” Father says.

  “Giving her the starring role is more than drawing her out of her shell,” I say. “It’s more like tugging her out of it and plopping her onstage for nearly every scene and making her sing and cry and yell.”

  “Poor little turtle,” Father says.

  “Bluh! Bluh!”

  “Eden’s Asian, you know,” I say.

  “So?” Mother says, squinting at me like I said something wrong.

  “So Calamity wasn’t.”

  “So Eden can’t play Calamity Jane because she’s Asian?”

  “I once played a worm,” Father says. “And you played a marshmallow, Zaritza. Remember?”

  “Bluh!” Abby says.

  “Eden got real mad at me when I said she was Asian,” I say, looking at my lap, trying to convey real regret and shame. It’s not entirely faux.

  “What exactly did you say, Zaritza?” Mother asks like a cop interrogating a criminal. Now she’s mad, too. Boy, this is a touchy subject.

  “All I said was that she was Asian and who ever heard of an Asian cowgirl.” It does sound mean all of a sudden. Why do things sound so much wronger when you say them around your parents?

  “Oh, Zaritza,” Mother says, shaking her head.

  “Zuzza!” Abby says. At least she’s off “Bluh!”

  I look to my father for help, but he just looks at his plate. Even he’s disappointed in me. Oh, this is horrible! I hate Father’s disappointment more than I hate Mother’s worst scolding.

  “You apologized to her, right?” Mother says.

  “Um …”

  “Immediately after dinner you are to call her and say you’re sorry. Understood?”

  Now she sounds like Josh.

  “Understood,” I say.

  “You know, Zee,” Father says, looking up from his napkin, “even if you didn’t mean to be mean … well … it was mean.”

  Did I mean to be mean? Am I mean person? Am I bad?

  I feel bad.

  “And after she helped you with your math!” Mother says, rubbing it in.

  “You know what you might do?” Father says.

  “Yes. I’ll call her and tell her I’m sorry, then, if she hasn’t already hung up on me, I’ll offer to tutor her in acting. Though I doubt she’ll want me to. Right now she despises me.”

  “Maybe the apology will help,” my mother says. Then she actually smiles. Wow. We don’t see that very often these days. She sets her hand on mine.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask.

  “Because I’m proud of you. You’re being a good r
ole model for Abby.”

  “Bluh!” Abby says.

  I laugh. “Think so?”

  Mother nods, and wipes a tear off my cheek that I didn’t even know was there.

  I didn’t call, but that’s only because I’m better in person. I need my face and hands—heck, my whole body—to communicate. I pretended to call, though, in a voice loud enough for my parents to hear, and I’ll tell Eden I’m sorry today without fail.

  I didn’t have time to talk to her before school started, and then we were sent to the cafeteria/theater and were busy rehearsing all morning. Aaron’s mother is here accompanying us on piano, so we’ve been working on the play’s songs. Josh broke us up into groups to work on individual scenes. Hannah took some of the groups to talk about moving sets and arranging props. Every time I got Eden’s attention, she stink-eyed me. When we worked on our one scene together, she scowled at me the whole time. She read her lines with more of Calamity Jane’s spirit, probably because she was mad at me. She was still pretty awful, though.

  I thought I’d talk to her at recess, but she didn’t go outside with the rest of us. I don’t know where she went, but I guessed the library, to tutor. My next hope was lunchtime, but I couldn’t find her in the lunchroom. More tutoring, I bet. The girl’s a workaholic. Mr. O. kept us busy in the classroom all afternoon, so my only chance to talk to her was going to be after school.

  Which is now.

  “Eden!” I say after the bell rings.

  She quickly grabbed her things and slipped out the door. I run after her, calling her name. Her shoulders shrink up, but she doesn’t look around. In fact, she speeds up. I skip after her. Yes, skip. I’ve decided the tone of this apology is going to be light and breezy.

  When I catch her, I take a deep breath, smile wide, and say, “Hey, buddy! I wanted to say I’m sorry, right? For the things I said yesterday? What was I thinking? It was so stupid. I’m really, really, really, really sorry. You’re going to make an awesome Calamity Jane.”

  She looks confused, or maybe suspicious. I can’t tell. Her facial expressions are so … expressionless.

  “You know I’m not prejudiced or anything. I don’t judge people by stuff like that! I never even noticed before that you’re …” I almost say Asian again.