My Homework Ate My Homework (10 page)

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 barefoot?” 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.”

“Excellent!” Josh says.

Oh, come on. What’s his standard for excellence?

“Now I’d like you to pretend to be a gorilla, Melodie,” he says.

“A gorilla?”

I knew she was going to say that.

She acts like a gorilla, which to her just means
going “woo-woo-woo” while scratching her side. But Josh eats it up.

Then he calls up Aaron, who recites the Pledge of Allegiance, sings “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and has to pretend to skate on cracking ice. Then Opal recites the Pledge of Allegiance, sings “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and pretends she’s surfing. After Tristan recites the Pledge of Allegiance and sings “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” Josh says there is to be no more reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

Wain recites his favorite scene from his favorite movie,
Napoleon Dynamite
. Of course, he doesn’t play Napoleon, the lead role. He plays Pedro, the supporting one. He knows his place.

Josh laughs and claps, then asks Wain to do the scene again, only this time with the hiccups. Wain gives it his best shot, which isn’t too bad. Then he sings “Forever Young” till Josh stops him.

“Thanks, Wain, that’ll do,” he says.

Eden recites a poem about creatures with green heads and blue hands who went to sea in a sieve. (What’s a sieve?) Then she sings “This Little Light of Mine.”

Josh makes a huge fuss over it, clapping loudly and saying, “
Brava
, Eden! Well done!”

Then he asks her to pretend she’s in class and knows the answer to her teacher’s question but is too shy to raise her hand. Ha! Being shy doesn’t require acting for Eden, so she does this easily.

“Excellent, Eden! Just excellent!”

Her
name he remembers.

What Josh is asking us to do are pretty basic acting exercises. Not many of my classmates have ever acted before. I have, so I can’t wait for my turn. Wouldn’t you know it that I have to wait till Josh calls everyone else up first? Guess he’s saving the best for last.

“Anybody else?” he says, looking out at us.

I don’t budge. No way am I going to admit that he overlooked me.

He didn’t, did he? He
couldn’t
have!

“Oh—Ferret Girl! Come on up!”

I stand and walk through my snickering classmates toward the stage. I don’t rush, but I don’t dawdle. I walk, like a queen—a drama queen—to center stage and cast my eyes at the middle of
the audience. I don’t make direct eye contact with any one person. This is what my acting teacher, Paul Dalrymple, says I should do. (Who better to teach me than an experienced stage actor like my father?)

“My name ……” I say, then pause to create some anticipation.

“Is Ferret Girl!” Aaron yells.

My classmates laugh themselves senseless while I wait for Josh to do the right thing and scold Aaron for yelling out, like he did to me. But he doesn’t scold him. He
laughs
.

“I thought yelling out wasn’t allowed!” I say, and cross my arms. “That’s just … unjust!”

Josh coughs into his fist, trying to disguise his laughter, then says, “Okay, let’s calm down, everyone. Let’s show some respect.”

I wait for quiet, but the whispering and chuckling continues.

“Go ahead,” Josh whispers to me. “Don’t be afraid.”

Afraid?
To speak in front of an audience?
Me?
What an upside-down day this is!

I say my name with good tone, resonance,
volume, and clarity, only instead of saying Zaritza Dalrymple, I accidentally say
Fa
ritza Dalrymple. Everyone totally loses it. They roar with laughter. Even Josh is snickering. Wain isn’t, but I can tell it’s difficult for him.

“I mean Zaritza,” I say over the laughter. “Zaritza Dalrymple.”

Aaron bellows. “Hi,
Fa
ritza!
Fa
ritza, the
Ferret
Girl!”

“Quiet now!” Josh says. “I mean it. Aaron, one more outburst and you will spend the week in your classroom.”

Everyone shuts up.

“Okay, Zaritza, will you recite something for us? Something short, I hope.” He peeked at his watch. “We’re running late.”

I take a cleansing breath. “I’m going to do a scene from
Calamity Jane
,” I say, “the classic 1953 movie musical.”

“Sorry, but can you do something else?” Josh says. “I don’t want anyone to audition for any specific roles in the play.”

I stare at him. “But I’ve been rehearsing the role for months …”

“That’s great, but I’d like to hear something you haven’t rehearsed, if you don’t mind. Do you know anything else by heart?”

Do I know anything else by heart? Of course I do!

“Of course I do!” I say, insulted. “I can recite …”

But I can’t think of anything to recite. Not one scene. Not one rhyme. Nothing. I notice Hannah is writing something in her notebook. Something about me not remembering things? Like my own name, maybe?

“I can do a scene from
The Sound of Music
.” It’s always a good idea to do something from
The Sound of Music
. Everybody knows it, even if they don’t really like it.