My Homework Ate My Homework (16 page)

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:

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.

“Yes, you could have. But thanks.”

“Magnificent job, everybody!” Josh is saying as he comes over. “And you, Calamity
Eden
, I knew you had it in you. Sometimes it takes a packed house to bring it out.”

Exactly what I thought! And I don’t have the years of experience he has. Not bad, huh?

I do have to hand it to him, though. I thought he was nuts, but picking Eden for the lead was good casting. I mean, he should have picked
me
, but he didn’t make the horrible mistake I thought he did.

“You killed them out there, Lady Number Three,” he says to me. “You’ve got great comic chops, Ferret Girl. You had them eating out of your hand!”

“Thanks, Josh!” I gush, like I’m five or something. And I’m not acting. It was a really nice thing to say.

I run to get out of my costume and makeup so I can go tell my parents the nice thing Josh said.

Eden’s mother is standing with my family and Wain’s when the three of us come out. I don’t know where Eden’s father is. She never talks about him, actually.

“Zuzza!” Abby says, and everybody laughs.

“Did you hear her from the stage?” my mother asks, her face looks worn out from smiling. Which is so great. She hasn’t been smiling enough.

I take Abby from her. “Yes, I heard you, baby sister. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to yell out the actor’s name during a performance? Huh?”

I tickle her ribs, and she giggles and wriggles. I’m making light of it, but, really—she shouldn’t yell out.

My mother uses her empty arms to give Eden a big hug. “You were fabulous, Eden!”

Fabulous?
I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word come out of her mouth before.

“You were indeed!” Father adds. “You were a supreme delight.
Brava! Brava!
” And he gave a quick, crisp
clap-clap-clap
.

“How about me?” I say, acting a little hurt, but feeling … well … a little hurt. “Wasn’t I fabulous? Wasn’t I a supreme delight?”

“You were a fabulous, delightful
marvel
, my dear,” Father says, and takes my face in his hands and kisses one cheek then the other. “A
brilliant
musical/comedian with
expert
timing. And inimitable panache. How’s that?”

“Better,” I say, though I’m not sure I understood that last part.

Wain’s parents make a fuss about Eden, too, and me, and Wain, and my parents make a fuss about Wain, who really was excellent in his sturdy supporting role. In other words, it was a praisefest. A hugfest. Only one person held back, and it was like we all noticed it at the same time.

“You must be so proud of Eden,” Wain’s father says to Melissa. “She’s acted before, yes?”

Wain doesn’t keep his father in the loop much.

Eden walks over to her mother and leans against her, like she’s trying to make this easier for her. Why is it so hard?

“No,” Melissa says, and then chokes up a little. She tries to hide it by twisting Eden’s hair with her fingers. “This is her first …” She chokes up again. Maybe there are too many people. I think of how difficult it is for Eden to speak in groups—when she’s not mad at me, that is.

“I’m really proud …” she gets out, but then she has a major choke-up. She covers her face with her hands, and Eden squeezes her around the middle.

“It’s okay, Mom,” she says softly.

“What do you say, everyone—ice cream?” Father says, coming to Melissa’s rescue. “When I was a kid I loved the stuff. Do kids still like ice cream, Wain?”

“We do!” Wain answers.

Melissa smiles, and a tear streaks down her
face. She swipes it away with her finger and says, “That would be nice.”

It’s raw. It’s real. I must store it away for later use.

It’s after midnight. I can’t sleep. Bandito’s burrowed under my pillow, making his chattery night noises, but that’s not what’s keeping me awake. I’ve gotten used to them. I like them, in fact. The room felt too quiet all week when he wasn’t here. I’m used to his stink, too, as crazy as that sounds. No, what’s keeping me awake is trying to think of a way for me to keep the mustelid for good.