My Homework Ate My Homework

by Patrick Jennings

  “ ‘You ast that question twelve million times, Lije Canary,’ ” young Martha (Eden) says. “ ‘Cain’t ya see Ma’s feelin’ poorly?’ ” And she faux-conks Cooper on the head.

  Eden’s not talking nearly loud enough, or sassy enough, and the conk looked more like a tag.

  “ ‘Ow!’ ” Cooper says, which is his line exactly as written.

  When I get a chance, I grab Eden and tell her to speak up.

  “I’ll try,” she mutters, but her mind seems far away.

  She doesn’t speak up. She stammers and flubs her lines, or forgets them. She drops her gun three times.

  “You have to play Calam,” Wain whispers to me. “She’ll ruin the show.”

  I don’t answer. At this point I don’t care about the show. It’s Eden I’m worried about. She’s a wreck. I need to help her.

  Hold on just a second! Did I, Zaritza May Dalrymple, just say that I didn’t care about the show?

  What in the world is happening to me?

  We’re supposed to be at the theater/cafeteria by six fifteen. My mother made an early dinner, and it’s my favorite: tacos. The table is covered with small dishes and bowls filled with grated cheese, spicy beef, refried beans, salsa, sour cream, guacamole (yuck), and chopped lettuce. I take a taco shell and fill it with (the order is important): beans, meat, a ton of cheese, and a little lettuce on top. My mother goes vegan: no meat, no cheese, no sour cream. My father likes the works. Abby has a plastic bowl of beans and cheese.

  “Spoon, Abby,” Mother says, when Abby drops her face into the bowl.

  “I’m worried about Eden,” I say. “She’s a wreck. She was shaking so hard during dress rehearsal her teeth chattered.”

  “Too bad,” Mother says. “She’s such a nice girl.” She bites into her taco, and it explodes. That’s the problem with vegan tacos: they don’t hold together. You need cheese for glue.

  “She’s too nice,” I say. “She’s terrified to let loose. I think it’s her mother. She totally freaked out when I made Eden scream.”

  My mother gives me the hand-on-hip, chin-pulled-in look, like I did something wrong.

  “What? We were acting.”

  “It sounds as if she let loose when you told her an Asian couldn’t play Calamity Jane,” Mother says, as she picks at her broken taco.

  “Yeah, that was totally out of charac—”

  Hey!

  “Mother, you’re a genius! She had no problem telling me off that day. And in front of everybody, too.”

  “Are you concocting some fiendish plot?” Father asks. He rubs his hands together. “Because if you are, count me in!”

  “Stop it, Paul. Zaritza, you are not to say offensive things to your friend in order to get her riled up enough to play a character in a play.”

  Sometimes she’s so psychic it’s scary.

  “I was only kidding, of course,” Father says sheepishly. “Now, no fiendish plots, Zaritza. If we’ve told you once, we’ve—”

  “Are you listening to me, Zee?” Mother says, leaning toward me.

  “Abby has her face in her food again,” I say, which is classic subject-changing. Baby sisters are handy as distractions.

  “Spoon, Abby!” Mother says, turning away from me. “Spoon! Spoon!”

  “Poo!” Abby says, and waves it in the air.

  I lean over and start a conversation with Father about his day while Mother mops up Abby’s mess.

  “I don’t see why my students keep asking to sing their favorite pop songs in choir,” Father says. “Are teenagers not into madrigals anymore?”

  “I don’t know. What’s a madrigal?”

  “I guess that’s my answer.”

  Out of nowhere, Wormy pops up onto my lap, drags my taco off my plate, and then jumps to the floor, where he licks the meat and cheese out. He leaves the lettuce.

  “Devil ‘dog’!” I screech (with finger quotes).

  He runs from the kitchen. I fly after him.

  “Zee, we didn’t finish our conversa—” I hear Mother call after me, but I pretend I can’t hear.

  “Dogs” can be great distractions, too.

  It’s dark out when we get to the school, which always feels creepy and exciting. Kids from my class are arriving with their families, too. I spot Wain and run over to him.

  “Opening night!” he says, and puts up a hand for a high five.

  I slap it. “Let’s get inside. I’ve got a fiendish plot to save the show, but I don’t have much time.”

  The theater/cafeteria looks more like a theater tonight. There are rows of chairs facing the stage, the first set is ready, and someone is tinkering with the stage lights. Hannah, probably. Aaron’s mother is warming up on the piano. She’s dressed in a long black dress with a white lace collar and is wearing black high heels. I’ve never seen her look so snazzy.

  There’s a table set up with a roll of tickets, a cashbox, and a stack of programs. Caitie and Tristan will sell tickets till showtime, then run backstage. Family members don’t get in free, not even parents. When I make it big, I’ll buy my parents all the tickets they want so they can see me in every one of my many, many performances. They may have to buy their own movie tickets, but I’ll be sure they get to attend my premieres in Hollywood.

  Wain and I leave our families in line and rush off to find Eden, but we don’t see her anywhere. Neither has anyone else. I wonder if she faked a sore throat or something and stayed home. I don’t want that to be true, but I can’t say I’d be crushed.

  “We should get in costume,” Wain says.

  “I’m going to wait for Eden.”

  “Just in case you’re asked to put on buckskins?”

  “No,” I lie. He knows me too well. “I just want to be sure she’s okay.”

  At six thirty the seats are half-filled and Eden is still not here. I see Ms. Tsots schmoozing with parents, and some of the teachers hanging out together over by the wall, probably comparing notes on bad kids. I wonder if they are truly excited for the play, or if they feel put out having to work on a Friday night. At least Mr. O. had an easy week.

  “Anyone seen Eden?” Josh calls out, concern in his voice.

  “I haven’t,” I say.

  After he’s gone, I smile. I can’t lose tonight. If Eden doesn’t show up, I’ll get to play Calam. If she does, I’ll act upset and finally confess the “truth” I’ve been hiding: I’m angry that she stole my part; I’ve never seen worse acting than hers in my life; I don’t really like her; and I only helped her because my mother made me. Oh, yeah—and that an Asian girl can’t play Calamity Jane. I don’t mean any of it, of course, but it will make her blow her top, and she will give the performance of a lifetime, and our play will be a smash success. Plus I will be credited with saving the show.

  Either way, I win.

  Josh passes by me again later. “Why aren’t you in costume, Zaritza? Curtain’s in fifteen!”

  “It is?” I say, pretending I haven’t been checking the cafeteria clock every ten seconds. “Don’t worry. I’m an expert at getting into costume fast.” And I snap my fingers.

  This was my very clever way of letting Josh know that, if need be, I could get into Eden’s costume at a moment’s notice. Which is why I haven’t gotten dressed yet. Why get into it if I’m just going to have to get out of it again? How hard can it be to slide a buckskin over your head and smudge your face with damp cocoa powder to make it look dirty?

  It looks like that’s just what I’m going to have to do. I can’t see Eden being late like this without a reason. And she wasn’t sick today. Not physically sick, anyway. She is emotionally sick. Afraid sick. She might be throwing up for all I know.

  At six fifty I go into the girls’ bathroom, which is our temporary dressing room, and start undressing … real … slow.

  Then I hear someone say, “She’s here! Eden’s here!”

  Eden bursts into the room, breathless, flustered, her eyes red and puffy.

  “Hey, Eden!” I say wi
th a big, faux smile. “Glad you ma—”

  “Can’t talk,” she grunts. She grabs her buckskins off a hook and locks herself in a stall.

  “Curtain is in—” I start to say, but she cuts me off. “Not now, Zee! Leave me alone!”

  Hmm. Maybe I won’t have to make her mad after all. She’s plenty worked up already.

  Before I finish getting into my costume, she busts out of the stall. She rushes over to the mirror and starts smudging on her makeup.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Perfect!” she shouts. “I made up one excuse after another, but no-o-o-o-o! My mother said I had a responsibility to do the play. So here I am!”

  “Ooh, I hate the R-word,” I say sympathetically.

  “I hate acting!” she snarls.

  This is good. I don’t need to do a thing. Unless she cools off, of course. Then I’ll have to insult her. As her acting coach and friend, it would be my duty.

  Minutes later, the lights overhead flicker. The audience claps. It’s showtime.

  Josh and Hannah move through the backstage area making last-minute checks and shushing everyone. Hannah is dressed up tonight: a purple, sequined gown and black high heels. She leaves Josh behind and steps onstage, to a big round of applause.

  “Hello and welcome, everyone, to tonight’s performance of Calamity Jane. My name’s Hannah and I’m one of the directors of tonight’s show. Josh, the other director, will be out in a moment. You’ll recognize him. He’ll be the tallest actor in the play tonight.”

  Mild laughter. I wonder how many times she’s told that joke. Not enough to get the timing right …

  She goes on to talk a little bit about the troupe and its mission, and reminds everyone to turn off their electronic devices, and not to take flash pictures, and blah blahbity blah while we are all going quietly crazy in the tiny, cramped backstage area. At long last, she says, “And now, enjoy Calamity Jane!”

  Josh rushes out and delivers his first speech and we have to wait some more till, finally, he says his cue—“treacherous territory”—and the stagehands push out the covered wagon. Eden, still freaked out of her mind, takes her place behind it.

  Break a leg! I mouth at her.

  “If only!” she whispers back.

  Things look bad right off the bat, when she misses her first cue, but at least she remembers the line: “ ‘You ast that question twelve million times, Lije Canary!’ ” She delivers it with a reasonable amount of sass, a lot more than usual.

  The Canarys sing their song and the next scene starts and, in general, things are going pretty well. You have to keep in mind that the cast—minus Josh—is a bunch of inexperienced fifth graders who learned this whole play in five days. A lot of lines get mumbled, stuttered, or forgotten, and there’s a fair amount of collisions as kids forget where they’re supposed to go and how to get there. But Josh is out there, filling in lines and directing traffic. It’s not Broadway, but it’s not horrible, either.

  Eden is surprisingly good. She’s louder and feistier than she has been, mostly because she’s furious, but probably also because this is the first time she’s done the play—any play—in front of a real live audience. Standing up in front of people tends to make a person either freeze up or come to life. Her mother is out there, of course, which must make her crazy, but the lights are so bright, you can’t make out any faces. Besides, I bet a part of her wants to show her mother what she can do. Then there’s all that pent-up nervous energy you feel as you get closer and closer to showtime. It can make you want to jump right out of your skin. The funny thing is, though, is that as soon as you hit the stage, with the crowd and the lights, all that nervous energy turns into really good energy, the kind you need to be able to project your voice and be bigger than you are in real life. That doesn’t happen in rehearsal. You have to be an experienced stage actor to know it.

  Now Eden knows it.

  As people clap and cheer at her jokes and songs, she gets better and better. I only get glimpses of her from backstage, but I can hear in her voice how relaxed she’s getting. She’s starting to enjoy herself, to find out how much fun being in a play is. I’m happy that she’s feeling that. She sure worked hard and went on even though she was terrified. She deserves to feel it.

  I see now why Josh picked her.

  I’m just as proud of her as I can be. I am her acting coach, you know. Not that I want credit for it. I’m sure Eden will tell everyone afterward she owes it all to me. Who knows, maybe one day she’ll win an Oscar or a Tony and when she’s up there at the podium she’ll thank me, her acting coach, who made it all possible.

  “Zaritza!” Wain whispers.

  I snap out of my daydream.

  “That’s your cue.”

  “Oh!” I say, and hustle my bustle onstage.

  Before I hit my mark, I’m in character. Snooty. Refined, though not as refined as I think. I live in Deadwood, South Dakota, after all. A busybody who wants people to act civilized. I like the role. It’s a stretch. Challenging. True, it’s small, but I’m no small actor.

  I join the other Deadwood Ladies (Jacqueline and Melodie, that is) to confront Calamity Jane. Then I hear a loud “Zuzza!” from the audience, followed by a wave of laughter. That’s my little sister for you. Always trying to steal the show.

  When the laughter dies down, Eden says to Lady #1, “ ‘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!’ ” Then she tries to bite her. She really hisses and snaps like a rattler, too.

  I roll my eyes up at the sky (a.k.a., the cafeteria ceiling) and twirl my parasol.

  “ ‘That’s no excuse for dressing like a man,’ ” I say, then roll my eyes down at Eden/Calam, who’s glaring at me with her chin stuck out. I can barely believe it’s her, she looks so sassy and ornery. “ ‘I’ve been wearing a dress for years,’ ” I say smugly, “ ‘and I’ve never had any trouble with snakes.’ ”

  The audience bursts into laughter. Oh, I love that! It feels so good!

  “ ‘Ya never rode bareback, neither, I bet,’ ” Eden/Calam says, then gives a snort.

  “ ‘Of course not!’ ” I say.

  “ ‘An’ 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 she fires her gun into the air. Backstage, Aaron slams two boards together: BANG!

  Though of course I know it’s coming, I screech and go all to pieces. I clatter my hard heels on the floor and let my parasol fly. I wait for the huge laugh to simmer down, then deliver the punch line:

  “ ‘F-Firing g-guns is n-n-n-not what I c-c-call f-f-f-f-f-fun!’ ” Then, in baby talk, I add, “ ‘It’s dangewous and it huwts my dewicate eaws.’ ” I bring my dainty white gloves up to them.

  This gets a hugh laugh. Small role, big actor.

  That’s our cue to break into “Shootin’ Off Your Mouth.” I have a real good time singing my verse. Maybe that’s because it’s so opposite of who I am. It’s fun to play against type. My verse goes like this:

  I’m afraid, ma’am, we can’t al-LOW-eth

  Your shootin’ guns off in the HOU-eth!

  Oh, you might think we’re high-BROW-eth,

  Still, don’t start shootin’ off your MOU-eth!

  After the song, we Ladies exit to a roar of applause. Jacqueline cuts the wrong way again (I don’t think she knows her left from her right), but I anticipate it and avoid a collision. As I’m heading offstage I hear a whoop I recognize: it’s Father’s. It’s okay that I don’t hear my mother whoop. She’s not really a whooper. I’m sure she’s clapping and smiling.

  There’s not much play left after my scene. The whole cast goes onstage for the big finale, a reprise of “Who Doesn’t Want to Be Brave?” At the end of the song we’re all in a line at the front of the stage, our
hands up in the air. We bow, then, on Josh’s cue, we turn and rush offstage. The audience cheers behind us.

  Josh sends us back out in the order we rehearsed, which is based on how big our roles were. I go out with the Ladies and bow, then take our places at center stage left. The Canary kids go out together, bow, and go to center stage right. Then Pa and Ma (Wain and Opal), Captain Caldwell (Sam), and Colonel Custer (Bianca). They bow and set up center stage.

  Eden is last. She runs out to downstage center, and bows. The audience just roars. They stand up and clap and hoot and stomp their feet and wave their programs. It’s insane. Eden stands there, herself again, embarrassed, blushing and covering her face with her hands, but shaking with uncontrollable laughter and squirting out giddy tears. I couldn’t have been happier if it had been me. Really. No acting.

  Hannah and Josh then step out onstage and they quiet everybody down for some announcements. They thank the school, and the teachers, and the parents, and Ms. Tsots, and blahbity blah blah. Then they remind everyone that there are two more performances tomorrow (yay!), a matinee and an evening show, and that preorders for video recordings of tonight’s performance could be purchased in the lobby. Eden and I looked at each other and squeal. We could watch the play as many times as we wanted for the rest of our lives! Woo-hoo!

  Then it’s photo time, and parents come up and hand flowers to their kids. Mother hands me a single white rose, which is so elegant. Then we gather for group shots. Flash, flash, flash, flash. Josh makes it fun by calling out poses: “Monsters!” “Fairies!” “Gorillas!” “Lunatics!” When it’s finally over, we run backstage to change.

  I go looking for Eden, but I’m not alone. Everyone’s crowding around her and telling her how amazing she was. But she breaks through and runs right to me. Wham! Big hug.

  “You were brilliant!” I say. “I knew you would be. I just knew it!”

  Not exactly the truth, I know, but it plays well. It’s a good scene.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she sobbed, and squeezed harder.