My Homework Ate My Homework (14 page)

Eden shrunk even smaller.

“You don’t have to
be
her, Eden. You just have to
act
like her. When the play’s over, you can be Eden again, and the play only lasts about an hour. You can be big and loud for that long, can’t you?”

She shakes her head. She looks more terrified than ever.

It’s funny. To me, acting is as easy as
breathing, like math is for her. She stuck with me when I was buried in math I couldn’t do. She was patient. She waited till I dug myself out. I would be patient, too.

“Say the line, only say it bigger this time. Not huge. Just a little bit bigger. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just us. You can’t possibly mess up, and if you do, I swear I’ll never tell a soul. Ever.”

She still looks uncomfortable.

“Do it with your eyes closed,” I say. “That might help.”

She closes her eyes, then opens one and peeks at me, then closes it.

“I’m here. Say the line. Say it big. Rattle the windows.”

She takes a deep breath, then says, “ ‘I ain’t never seen such a lily-livered bunch a’ no-good yellow varmints in all my born days!’ ”

It ain’t Calamity Jane. More like Calm Jane. Bigger, but too polite.

“Better,” I say. “But it could be a lot bigger. And madder. Do it again.”

She says the line again, but it barely grows in size. So I tell her to do it again. Then again. And
again. Boy, am I being patient. I don’t like being patient. A funny thing starts happening: instead of getting bigger each time, she starts getting smaller. I think it’s because she’s getting discouraged.

I don’t know what to do. How can I help her? What is she so afraid of?

A knock on the door startles both of us.

“Who is it?” I snap.

“It’s your mothers,” Mother says, and opens the door.

“Time to go, honey,” Eden’s mother says in a tiny, polite voice.

She sounds like Eden, but she doesn’t look like her. I mean, she doesn’t look Asian—or Javanese, or whatever. She has strawberry blonde hair, like me, and blue eyes. Was Eden adopted?

“Okay, Mama,” Eden says, and gets her backpack and coat.

“We’ve been rehearsing,” I say to her mother. “For the play. You’re coming right, Eden’s mother?” I don’t know her name. Eden’s last name is Sumarta—which sounds kind of like
smarter—
but since not everybody’s parents have the
same name as their kids, I don’t call her Ms. Sumarta.

“You can call me Melissa,” her mother says, rubbing her hands together, like they’re cold. “Yes, I’ll be attending the play. Come on now, Eden. We have errands to run.”

“I’m ready,” Eden says.

“Have you ever acted onstage, Melissa?” I ask.

She shakes her head really fast but really small, like the idea of acting frightens her.

Hmm
.

“We really appreciate all the help Eden gave Zaritza with her math,” Mother says to both Eden and her mother, then smiles awkwardly. It’s awkward in here. I don’t know why.

Melissa looks at Eden, her eyebrows pinched together.

“Oh,” Eden says, then says to my mother, “You’re welcome.”

“Can Eden come back tomorrow to rehearse more?” I ask Melissa. She makes an expression like she smells something bad all of a sudden but doesn’t want anyone to know she smelled it.

“Eden’s really getting good,” I lie. “Can we
show you one of the scenes we’ve been working on?”

This freaks both of them out. Honestly, their eyes practically pop out of their sockets.

“Sorry, we really must be going,” Melissa says.

Eden jumps up and rushes to her. “Bye, Zaritza. Thanks.”

“Yes, thank you for helping her,” her mother says. “And thank you, Naomi, for having Eden over.”

“Come by any time,” Mother says.

Melissa nods then hustles Eden away.

“Wow,” Mother says when they’re gone. “That might explain some of Eden’s shyness.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It explains a lot of things.”

Day Three came and went. Eden, Wain, and I had gotten off-book—which means we’d learned our lines—but not many others had. Josh tried to get three run-throughs in before lunch and we almost made it. He really worked us hard, but the hardest thing for me was having to sit on the floor and watch others perform. If I’d been the star, none of this would have been hard. It would have been the best day ever.

I did get to be an extra in some of the crowd scenes, and sing in the chorus during the big numbers. The playwright obviously tried to keep everybody involved as much as possible, probably to keep us from fooling around as much as possible.

Josh has been patient and supportive with Eden but has to know by now that he picked the wrong girl. That’s nothing against Eden. She just can’t do Calam. Josh tried to get her to be gutsier and brasher all day, but nothing worked. Why doesn’t he just put me in instead? That’s what Eden wants. I heard her tell him so once.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” he answered. “You’ll be a great Calamity Jane. I have total confidence in you.”

That’s why she and I are here at Eden’s house—to rehearse, but first we’re having graham crackers and milk in her kitchen with her mother.

“You’re lucky you don’t have a little sister,” I say to Eden. “Or a dog.”

She and her mother look at each other, then look down at their plates. What did I say? Did Eden once have a sister or a dog that died tragically?

I dunk my cracker in my milk and it immediately gets soggy and breaks. Half of it sinks to the bottom of my glass.

“I meant to do that,” I say. “I like it when
the milk gets all sludgy.” Which I definitely don’t.

“So, Zaritza,” Eden’s mother says, “what’s your favorite subject?”

“Theater.”

“I mean academic subjects. Like math or reading.”

“I don’t care for either of those. Eden really bailed me out with my math.”

“Yes,” her mother says, “though I think she could work harder at it.”

She glances at her daughter, and Eden squirms.

“I don’t think she could!” I say. “She works at it all the time. Even during recess and lunch.”

Melissa shifts in her seat. “I have high hopes for Eden.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. I don’t like uncomfortable silences. I don’t even like comfortable ones.

“I do like science,” I say, though I definitely do not. “Right now, I’m conducting an experiment on the effects of cow’s milk on graham crackers.”

Eden snickers, and milk comes out her nose.

“Oh, Eden!” her mother says, and hands her a napkin.

I must remember to never be a mother. Instead I’m going to lead a life of excitement and glamour in a totally napkinless, little-sisterless, Maltipooless, getting-totally-worked-up-over-nothing-less world.

I drain my milk. The cracker sludge slides down the glass and lands on my nose.

“Look at this!” I say, the glass still in my mouth, the goop still on my schnoz. “Fetch the Graham Cracker Observations notebook!
Quick!
”

Eden snorts up more milk. I wonder if she’s having the most fun she’s ever had. It’s the most fun I’ve ever seen her have.

The fun continues in Eden’s room, where I suggest an acting game.

“Let’s run lines,” I say, “only let’s pretend the play isn’t a stage musical. Let’s pretend it’s a … scary movie!”

“Huh?” Eden says. “How?”

“Just read your lines, only pretend that you’re
in a scary movie, where there’s always something
lurking
”—I act spooked—“in the
closet
”—I peek into her closet, then act relieved—“or under the
bed
!” I start to peek under it, then whirl on her and yell, “Boo!”

She jumps and makes a little
Eep!
sound.

“Really? That’s your scream?”

She shrugs.

“Let’s do the covered wagon scene, before Ma kicks the bucket. Page two, start with ‘Pa, we’re all …’ ”

“ ‘Pa, we’re all outta water,’ ” she reads.

“No, like you’re scared, remember? Say it in a creepy voice. Open your eyes wide. Jerk your head side to side.”

She bugs her eyes and pivots her head, and moans,
“ ‘P-a-a-a-a-a-a! We-e-e-e’re a-a-a-all out-ta-a-a w-a-a-a-ter!’ ”

It’s about as scary as a soggy graham cracker, but I tremble and clutch her arm, then read Pa’s line: “ ‘Well, we should’ ”—I stop and check behind me—“ ‘hit Rapid’ ”—I stop and look again—“ ‘City a’fore … 
sundown
!’ ” I shiver, then scream.

She jumps again, then laughs.

“I want you to scream,” I say.

“What?” she whispers.

“Scream. You know. Like something terrifying just happened? Like, say, you failed a quiz?”

“I can’t scream.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. Not in … here.”

“You can’t scream in your own room? Where can you—in the library?”

“My mom …”

“Scream, Eden. Scream your head off. Give me your best shot.” This was what this whole exercise was about. I wanted to hear her really let go, to holler like Calamity Jane.

“Go on, do it,” I say. “That’s an order from your acting coach. Scream.”

“Eeee!” she says, her straight white teeth showing.

I sigh loudly on purpose.

“That was pathetic.”

“Oh,” she says, and frowns.

“Try again, only this time try opening your mouth. Wide.”

She tries. “Aaaaaa!”

“I’m not the dentist! Scream!”

“I
can’t
, Zee.” She starts nibbling her thumb. “I just can’t.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Eden?” her mother says. “Are you okay? I’m hearing strange noises.”

“It’s okay, Mom!” Eden says, stiffening up. She’s so tense, a sudden breeze could snap her in two. “We’re fine. We’re just rehears—”

I lunge at her suddenly and scream real snarly, like a leopard.

And she shrieks. It’s loud, and piercing, and long. It’s good.

Her mother frantically pushes open the door and rushes in. “Eden? Are you all right? What is it? What happened?”

“I … I told you,” Eden says, gripping her heart. “We’re acting.”

She looks at me with a grin.

I give her a thumbs-up.

Today is Day Five, the day of our dress rehearsal. My costume is a frilly, poufy, lacy, pink, full-length dress and a very wide-brimmed sun hat with a big purple bow attached. Eden’s is a buckskin outfit with fringe. She carries a pistol; I carry a parasol. I’m so jealous I could lock her in a closet till after the play closes. But I don’t.

We spent Day Four rehearsing scenes, singing songs, learning our entrances and exits, our cues and marks (where we’re supposed to stand when we’re onstage). Josh says we’re ready to do the whole show. During dress rehearsal, we can’t stop if we mess up. We’re supposed to treat it like the real thing.

So everyone’s pretty jittery and fidgety, but Eden is the jitteriest and fidgetiest. I can barely
stand to look at her. Her eyes are swollen and red, like she’s been crying or not sleeping or both. Probably both. She’s been nervous as a cat during our after-school rehearsals. Her teeth are actually chattering. The girl’s a mess.

“I can’t do it, Zee!” she cries into the sleeve of my frilly, poufy, lacy, pink, full-length dress. “You have to play Calam. You
have
to!”