My Homework Ate My Homework (11 page)

“That’s fine,” Josh says. “Sing a song from it.”

“But shouldn’t I recite first?”

“It’s getting pretty late, so just the song, please.”

“Okay. I’ll do ‘Do-Re-Mi.’ ”

“Perfect,” Josh says.

I sing the song up through fa, then get stuck. I can’t remember the next note!

“That’s fine. Very nice. Thank you,” Josh says.

“But I’m not finished.”

“It was enough.”

Hannah writes something else in her notebook. Probably
Can’t remember simple songs everybody in the world knows. Doesn’t know the musical scales. No memory at all, apparently
.

“Now what shall I have you pretend?” Josh says, scratching his little beard. “I’ve got it!” And before he says it, I know what it will be. I start to shake my head, but he says it anyway: “Let’s have you pretend to be a ferret!”

He lets the laughter fill the room before asking my backstabbing classmates to simmer down.

“Now, you know all about ferrets,” he says to me. “What interesting things do they do?”

“Well,” I say, “they do a war dance.”

“A war dance?”

“Yes. A weasel war dance.”

Josh grins very wide. “All right then! Let’s see what one looks like!”

A part of me says I should storm off the stage, but another part—a much bigger part, the part of me that lives to act—tells me to stay right where
I am, where I belong, onstage, and do what my director tells me. The show must go on. Show the people what you got. Act your heart out.

I close my eyes and think of Bandito, tearing around my bedroom last night, doing his dance. Though I’m mad at him for all the pain and torment he’s caused me, I can’t help smiling. If I do it right, I can get the kids to laugh
with
me, instead of at me.

I bend over and set my hands on the stage. I arch my back as high as I can. I start huffing and wheezing and saying,
“Dook! Dook! Dook!”
Then I start hopping around. I fall over on my side and quickly spring back to my feet, like Bandito does. I hop and skip and flip and huff all around the stage until Josh says, “Okay, Ferret Girl! That’s enough! Very nice!”

I break character. I am me again. I stand up straight, look out at the audience, and bend forward at the waist. They are laughing hysterically, and I feel it is with me, not at me.

I exit, stage right, pass back through my chuckling classmates, and sit down next to Wain, who is stifling laughter.

“Are they laughing with me or at me?” I ask in his ear.

He doesn’t answer. He looks at me with a guilty expression.

They’re laughing at me.

“You were good,” Wain says. “Really.”

When people add “Really,” they usually mean “Not really.”

“That ferret has ruined my life.”

“I can’t believe you actually said ‘Faritza’! You’ve got ferrets on the brain.”

“Not just me! Stupid Josh won’t stop with the Ferret Girl thing. Why didn’t he call you Ferret Boy? You were carrying it, too.”

He shrugs. “The main thing is you did a good ferret, and you showed Josh you speak loud and clear.”

“Really? That’s the main thing? Not that everybody laughed at me, or I said my own name wrong?”

“The guy’s a pro. He goes all over doing these shows. I’m sure he can spot real talent. He would be an idiot to not cast you in the lead.”

“That’s very kind of you to say. You were good, too.”

“I was really hoping to try out for Wild Bill,” he says.

“It’s weird Josh is playing such an important character. And he wouldn’t let me audition for Calam!”

The bell rings and Mr. O. calls us in. Recess is over. Josh and Hannah spend it inside choosing the cast. I’m nervous to see if I got the lead. Excited, too. I run to get in the line going inside.

“No pushing, Faritza,” Aaron says loudly, though I didn’t touch him.

Only a couple of kids laugh. I hope this means the joke is wearing off.

Josh and Hannah are in the cafeteria, sitting on the edge of the stage, their feet on the floor. I rush over and sit down in front of them.

“Walk, please, Faritza,” Hannah says to me.

“Sorry,
Fannah
,” I say.

“It’s Hannah,” she says.

“It’s Zaritza,” I say.

“Okay,” Josh says when the others are seated. “We’ve chosen the cast.” He waves a fat stack of papers over his head. “Please come up for your script when I call your name. At the top it says what role you’ll be playing, onstage and off. That’s right, some of you will be stagehands as well as playing roles in the play.”

Are you kidding me? I may have to move scenery? Will the indignities never end?

“I know you’ll want to talk to your friends about what role you got, but I’m asking you to please observe the silent concentration rule until all the scripts are handed out. I’ll go quickly. Then we’ll take a very short break so you can talk. Understood?”

“Understood!”

“So, Aaron, Bianca, and Cooper, please come on up.”

Curses! He’s going in alphabetical order by the first name. Wouldn’t you know it?

Aaron, Bianca, and Cooper collect their scripts, glance at them, and sit down.

Wain leans over and whispers to me, “They don’t seem too excited.”

“The names of the characters probably don’t mean anything to them,” I whisper back.

Hannah gestures a silent
shhh
! You can barely even breathe in here without getting in trouble. It’s worse than being in class.

Eden goes up with the next group, and when she reads what’s written on her script, she makes a tiny little hop—just a quick lift up onto her toes and back down. What could it have said that would make shy Eden light up like that? Knowing her, she’s probably just an extra, but also gets to be ticket taker. Something that requires plenty of math. She sits back down, clutching the script to her chest as if it were a teddy bear.

Then again, Josh sure did like her poem, and her faux shyness (which wasn’t faux).

After Jacqueline gets her script, she sits back down beside me. I peek over and see, handwritten at the top in red ink, the words DEADWOOD LADY #2 + STAGEHAND. Not only is she playing a character without a name (read: extra), she’s not even the
first
Deadwood lady. She’s Lady #2.

“Opal, Sam, Tristan?” Josh calls out.

They get their scripts and sit down. Nobody seems particularly thrilled about what’s written on them. Except Eden, that is.

“Vivian, Wain, Xander?”

“Good luck,” I whisper to Wain as he stands up.

When he comes back, he drops his script in my lap. PA CANARY + CHORUS is written at the top. He’s playing Calam’s father—who died when Calam was a teenager—and singing in the chorus on musical numbers. On the front page of the script is the list of characters. There’s C
ALAMITY
J
ANE;
M
A
, P
A
, L
IJE
, S
ILAS
, and L
ENA
C
ANARY;
W
ILD
B
ILL
H
ICKOK
, C
APTAIN
C
RAWFORD
, C
OLONEL
C
USTER
, and some names that look like Indians: R
UNNING
D
EER
, W
INTER
W
REN
, and S
ITTING
D
UCK
. Maybe Eden is playing an Indian. That would make sense. She looks kind of Native-Americanish. But all the Native American roles are small. I doubt landing one would make Eden go up on her toes.

Wain suddenly elbows me and hisses,
“Zaritza!”

“Try Ferret Girl!” a boy shouts. I think it’s Xander.

“Go get your script,” Wain whispers.

Josh is waving it at me from the stage.

He must have called my name.

I leap to my feet and run to the stage.

“Sorry,” I say as I snatch the script.

My eyes fly to the top of the page. Written there are the blood-red words DEADWOOD LADY #3 + CHORUS.

“Come on,
tell
me,” Wain says. “I mean obviously you’re not Calam, but who are you? Are you Ma Canary? Are you Colonel Custer?”

His idea of a joke, but I don’t laugh. I could easily play George Custer. I just show him my script.

“You’re
kidding
,” he gasps.

I snatch the script back. “Shut up, will you?” I say. “You want everyone to know my shame?”

“Well, everyone is going to know eventually.”

He’s right. Why should I hide this indignity? They’ve seen all the others. Today has been Let’s Embarrass Zaritza to Death Day.

“
Jacqueline
has a better role than me! And
she recited the ABC song! And got it wrong!”

“Do you have lines?”

I flip through the script and find a few highlighted lines here and there, no more than five or six. I look up at Wain, my eyes flooded with real tears.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “How could this happen?”

“Oh, I
get
it all right. It’s the ferret’s fault. Ferret Girl. Faritza. My homework ate my chance at the big-time.”

I storm away, dramatically, Wain hot on my heels.

I stop, dramatically. He runs into me.

“I want to be alone,” I say, with great faux dignity.

He nods. “Okay, but remember: the show must go on.”

“Let it go on without me,” I say, which is a good line.

I spin on my heel and head for the door. On the way I pass Eden. She is smiling and showing people her script. I stop.

“Hello, Eden,” I say as if nothing in the world
were eating me alive. “So what role did you get? Are you taking tickets? Or designing the program?”

Inside my head, a voice is repeating,
Don’t tell me you’re playing Calamity Jane, don’t tell me you’re playing Calamity Jane, don’t tell me you’re playing …

“I’m playing Calamity Jane!” she squeals. Like a piglet. “Can you believe it?”

I swallow my pain. “No. I can’t. Congratulations.”

“Oh, thank you, Zaritza! I know how much you wanted this part. You really should have it. I’ve never even acted before. This is just so—”

She stops talking because suddenly there is a very loud growling sound. It’s coming from me, from somewhere deep inside me, and I can do nothing to stop it.

“Are you okay, Zaritza?” she asks.

“Me? No, actually, I’m not! You see …” I see a blinding flash. I’m sure no one else can see it. It’s a flash of rage caused by indignity and unjustness. Then I go on. “… 
I
am supposed to be Calamity Jane.
I
was born to play her.
I am
Calamity Jane!
Not you. You are not an actor.
You
have never acted before.
And
you are
Asian
! Calamity Jane wasn’t Asian! Who ever heard of an Asian cowgirl? It’s ridiculous! You can’t be Calamity Jane!
I’m
Calamity Jane.
I
am.”

“Zaritza,” a soft voice from behind me says. A hand is touching my shoulder. I spin round, ready to take the head off whoever’s there. It’s Wain.

“She’s upset,” he says to Eden. “I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean. I know what I mean. I—”

I stop because I suddenly realize how deathly quiet it’s gotten in the cafeteria. I look around and no one is talking. Everyone is looking at me.

“For your information, Asia is a continent,” Eden says to me in a shaky voice. “Koreans are Asian. And Russians. And Iraqis. And Indians.”

Exactly. She should have been cast as an Indian.

“My family is from Java, which is an island in the Indian Ocean.”

“Oh?” I say. I didn’t know that. “Where’s Java?”

She ignores me. “But my parents were born
in the United States. We’re American. Like you. And Calamity Jane. Or do you prefer to be identified by the continent
your
ancestors came from? European, maybe?”

I have no idea what continent my ancestors came from. Or even who my ancestors
were
. My father’s from Walla Walla. My mother was born in Iowa. Or was it Ohio?

“Are you saying you’re mad at me because I called you Asian?” I ask her. “What should I call you? Javan? Javish?”