My Homework Ate My Homework (5 page)

I’m not crazy about the thought of wasting one on a baby who would be just as happy with a Nilla Wafer, so I break one in half. Then I break it in half again and hand her a piece. A quarter of a stroopwafel is more than enough for a baby. She snatches it in her iron grip, stuffs it in her mouth, and starts sucking on it.

I stuff the other quarter through the bars to Bandito. I don’t know why. Maybe to entertain Abby. Maybe because I feel bad that I accused him of stealing from me when I knew he didn’t. If someone did that to me, I would be so mad
and would demand at least a quarter of a stroopwafel.

Bandito creeps cautiously toward it, sniffs it, knocks it around with his paw, then turns and creeps away.

I can’t say I’m disappointed. I prefer he doesn’t like stroopwafels. And I like the way he made Abby and me laugh. Maybe he’s not so hideous after all.

It may be a new year, but it’s the same old
school
year. I’m still in fifth grade, I’m still behind, and Mr. O. is still being difficult.

“I appreciate your taking good care of Bandito,” Mr. O. says, “and I’m sorry he ate your homework, but I can’t give you a passing grade in math without the completed assignments.”

“But it isn’t
my
fault my homework ate my homework!”

“That was amusing the first time you said it, Zaritza,” he says without laughing, or even smiling, “but it doesn’t explain why Bandito was
able
to eat your homework. How did he access it? If he was out of his cage, he should have been with you, under your supervision. How could he
have chewed through pages of math homework without your noticing?”

“He’s fast! He just—
zzzoom!
—got my notebook and before I could stop him—
chomp! chomp! chomp!
—chewed it to bits!”

“If that’s true, why didn’t you simply redo the assignments? Considering you’d already completed them, doing them again should have been a snap.” And he snapped his fingers.

Mr. O.’s a pretty nice teacher, but he gets like this: logical, detail-oriented, nosy. Like a lawyer. Or a mother. He can never just accept what I tell him and leave it at that.

“I didn’t have time! Bandito ate them
yesterday
!” Which isn’t true, but what difference does a day or two make? “Then my baby sister, Abalina, got very ill.
Really
ill.” I almost said “deathly ill,” but stopped myself. I feel bad enough pretending Abby is sick, when she isn’t. “We’re not sure what it is yet. But my sick, crying baby sister definitely affected my ability to concentrate.”

I stare off into the distance. Staring off into the distance is good when you want to look like you’re
really upset about something. It’s like you’re so upset you don’t even notice reality. Actually, I was staring at Bandito, who didn’t seem happy to be back at school. I was with him on that.

“So you don’t have your homework, which you promised to turn in today, because the ferret ate it,” Mr. O. says. “And you didn’t redo it because your sister got sick. Is that your story, Zaritza?”

“No, it’s not my
story
. It’s the truth.” Though it isn’t.

“I’m sorry, then,” he says, shaking his head. “No credit for the homework.”

“Listen,” I say, and lean forward and set my palms on his desk. “Why don’t you just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Your homework,” he says, then he blinks three times. Blinking three times is Mr. O.’s way of saying you knew what he’d say before you asked. “Including the assignments I give you today.”

“I mean,
besides
doing my homework. Can’t I do some extra credit or something?”

“Extra credit is available only to students who have turned in all their work.”

“You were going to let me use watching Bandito over the break as extra credit, and I didn’t have all of my homework turned in.”

I knew when I started that sentence it wasn’t going to work out, but thought I’d see where it led me. In a way, I had him, because he broke his own extra credit rule, but in another way, I didn’t have him, because he broke his own extra credit rule making a deal that was supposed to help me.

“It was only going to be extra credit if you finished your homework, Zaritza, which you didn’t do. But I’ll give you till Friday to turn in your work.
All
your work. The homework you didn’t finish and the new homework. You’ll receive no higher than a passing grade for the past due homework, but you can score higher on the current homework, of course, if you complete it on time. You can work during recess and lunch. I’m happy to find you a tutor if you want. And, of course, you can work on it at home.”

I blinked at him five times, my brand-new way of saying I thought he was crazy.

“I was thinking something more like washing
the whiteboard for a week. You know how much I hate washing the whiteboard.”

I think it’s fun, actually. I just pretend to hate it. That’s called “reverse psychology.” You pretend to hate things you like so the adults will use it as punishment. It doesn’t work very often, but it’s always worth a shot in a desperate situation. Like this one.

“Zaritza, you should know something,” he says, looking at me seriously.

“So that’s a ‘no’ to the whiteboard washing?”

“As you know, the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe is coming to our school to stage a play with our class next week.”

Know? “Of course, I know! I’ve been counting down the days all year. I can’t
wait
to land the lead role in this year’s production. I’ve already watched the movie
Calamity Jane
four times.”

He just nods at me. And that’s when I get what he’s telling me. The horrible thing he’s telling me. I clutch my heart and howl, “No!”

Everybody looks up at me.

“I’m afraid students with non-passing grades are not allowed to participate,” Mr. O. whispers.
“And without the math homework, you won’t pass.”

“You don’t mean it! You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking!”

He blinks three times.

“Doesn’t he know the show will flop without you?” Wain asks.

“Apparently not,” I say. “I ask you, what does math have to do with theater?”

Wain shrugs sympathetically. He sits next to me in class and is a big fan of my work. He sees himself as an actor, too, but knows that one day I will be a big star of stage and screen and that, at best, he’ll play supporting roles.

I don’t mean to be mean. Wain is just pretty ordinary. He has ordinary short brown hair, and an ordinary face, and an ordinary voice, and ordinary charisma. He even dresses ordinarily.
About the only thing unordinary about him is his name, Wainwright, but, of course, he goes by the more ordinary Wain.

“You
must
be in the play,” he whispers, his eyes shiny with devotion.

I consider asking him to let me copy his homework, but Mr. O would see right through that old trick. Wain’s penmanship is tiny and perfect, while mine is bold and sweeping, like me, and the movie
Titanic
.

Besides, it would mean having to write out all the answers for all the assignments. That’s a lot of answers. Plus I’d have to show my work—or, in this case, Wain’s work.

“No, we’ll have to come up with something else.”

“So what do I do?” I ask.

“How about we go over Mr. O.’s head? Take it up with Ms. Tsots. She loves the arts.”

Ms. Tsots is pretty arty for a principal. She wears sparkly cat’s-eye glasses and colorful vintage dresses. She has a bumper sticker that says
ART SAVES LIVES
, which I don’t really get. I mean, exactly how does it do that?

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say.

“Come in, Zaritza!” Ms. Tsots says like I’m her niece and she hasn’t seen me in ten years. She’s like that with everyone. Perky and positive in an over-the-top way. I think it’s a performance. No one’s like that in real life.

“Thank you!” I say, just as perky.

“So how can I help you today, Zaritza!” she says with this huge smile. She has a really big mouth, filled with really big teeth, which I’m pretty sure she had whitened. They’re as shiny and white as our toilet at home. That’s a pretty gross simile, but it’s true.

She sits down behind her desk and gestures for me to sit in one of the guest chairs. I do, then go into my pitch.

“I came to tell you how super excited I am about the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe coming next week, and to say thank you so much for inviting them!”

“You came here to celebrate?” She gasps like adults usually do when I do something
good, like it’s a big shock to them. “Thank
you
, Zaritza Dalrymple! Thank you! It’s so refreshing and gratifying to have a student come in here just to applaud one of our programs! Especially one of our arts programs! You know what an enthusiastic supporter I am of the arts!”

“Art saves lives!” I say.

“Exactly! It certainly does!
Thank
you, Zaritza!” She pops out of her chair and walks around her desk to me. “Now please forgive me, sweetheart, but I’ve got an exceptionally busy schedule this morning, so I’m going to have to scoot you on your way. But, again, thank you
so
much for dropping in to say ‘Yay!’ ”

“There
is
another
teeny
matter I wanted to discuss with you, Ms. Tsots. It won’t take a
teeny
second.”

“Oh?” She glances at her watch. “Okay, but be quick.” She leans back and sits on the very edge of her desk.

I swallow hard, like what I’m about to say is so painful that even speaking about it is difficult.

“It’s too bad ……” I hang my head. “… that
I …… won’t be able to participate in the play.” I bury my face in my hands.

“Oh, no!” she says. “What a pity. I remember you in
Little Pig! Little Pig!
You have great talent.”

“Thank you,” I say into my hands. Her compliment sends electricity through me—I
love
praise!—but I hide it. I’m playing grief-stricken here and must stay in character. “You see, I’m … well … a bit behind in my math right now … and so Mr. O. has decided I can’t participate in this once-in-a-lifetime theatrical event if I don’t catch up.” I peek up at her, pitifully.

“I’m certain Mr. Osojnicki made his decision fairly. He’s a fine teacher. And classwork does comes before special programs.…”

“I offered to do extra credit. I took care of the class pet all during my winter break. And I really did my best to make up the work. Really, I did! Unfortunately, Bandito—he’s our class pet, a ferret—well, he …” I choke up. “… he chewed up my math homework!”

I try producing faux tears, but I feel too rushed,
so I consider trying the my-homework-ate-my-homework line on her. It didn’t go over so well with Mr. O. It sounded rehearsed, which made it sound like an excuse. A lie.

I glance up at Ms. Tsots. She’s showing signs of ending this discussion and leaving. I decide to give it a shot. It can’t hurt.

“That’s right,” I say, shaking my head with faux disbelief. “My homework ate my homework!” Then I sell it with an exaggerated, palms-up shrug.

“HA!” she blasts so loud I almost swallow my tongue. “You are too much, Zaritza Dalrymple! Too … much!”