My Homework Ate My Homework (9 page)

“The best part is I get to play Calamity Jane in
the play.” I’m talking even louder than before. No one turns me down.

“Can you be quieter in the halls, please?” a voice from behind us says. We turn and see a teacher poking her head out of her classroom.

“We’re very sorry,” Eden says, assuming, I guess, she gets to speak for both of us

“Sorry, ma’am,” I say with a Calam twang. “ ’Spect I’m feelin’ plum rambunctious! Ah’ll try to keep my big yap shut.” And I give a big exaggerated nod.

The teacher frowns and pulls her head back into her classroom. Eden crumples up like someone has pulled out her spine.

“See what I mean?” I say proudly. “I’m a natural Calamity.”

“Yes, I do see that,” she says.

“Fur!” Abalina says when Father and I carry in the cage. She’s thrilled.

Mother isn’t.

“Are you crazy? After what happened last time?”

Why did I bring Bandito home again, even though he kept me up for two weeks with his chattering and his stench, even though he ate my homework? Was it for revenge—so I could sic him on Wormy? That’s what gave me the idea, but that wasn’t why. The real reason was that I felt bad for him having to spend the weekend at school all day by himself. He liked it at my house. He liked Father. Abby liked him. Maybe I was starting to as well.

“I couldn’t help it.” I say. “He loves me.”

“In our defense, we
did
call,” Father says, sounding like Mother is
his
mother, “but it went to voice mail.”

“I was napping with Abby.”

“Oh, good!” He kisses her cheek. “So you caught up on your sleep.”

She growls at him. She growls a lot. I wonder if she might be a werewolf. That would be so cool.

“Come on, Father,” I say musically. “Let’s put this in my room. It’s heavy.”

We leave Mother fuming behind us and set Bandito in my room.

“I better go start dinner,” Father says. “Your mother looked hungry.”

“Yeah—for human flesh.”

“I was thinking trout. Isn’t this Friday?”

Father always cooks fish on Friday. “Mother’s Night Off,” he calls it. In the summer, he grills the fish outside. But when it’s cold, like now, he uses the broiler.

“Can I have some trout for Bandito?” I ask.

“Sure. Broiled or raw?”

We both look at Bandito, who is slithering around his cage like a hairy snake.

“Raw,” we say at the same time.

In the kitchen Father cuts a piece of the bloody trout and sets it on a plate. We look at each other and faux-gag, then I take the fish to my homework.

Bandito gobbles it up.

I open the Ferret Observations notebook and write,
Loves trout
.

I go back to the kitchen.

“He loved it.”

“Oh, I yam zo proud zat zee muskrot eez cone-tent!” he answers. This is his French accent, and it’s better than his Cockney one.

“Can I have another piece?”

“
Oui, oui
, mademoiselle.
Encore
trout for the muskrot!
Toot sweet!
”

He carves another bloody chunk and sets it on the plate, and I head back to my room. I meet Mother in the hall. She’s holding Abby.

“Fur!” Abby says. “Beh!”

“No, the fur is in the cage, Abby, not on the bed.”

“Is that our trout?” Mother asks.

“Just a little piece of it.” I don’t tell her it’s the second little piece of it.

“Didn’t your teacher send ferret food home with you?”

“It’s an experiment.” Which is sort of true.

“Zuzza,” Abby says. “Uppy!”

“Can you take her for a while?” Mother asks. “She can watch you feed the ferret our fish.”

“Nice alliteration, Mother. Come on, Abby.”

I can’t carry her, since that takes both arms, and I have to carry the fish, so I take her chubby hand and she toddles along beside me.

“See that you don’t let the ferret out,” Mother says, wagging her finger at me as she walks away.

The woman needs a vacation.

“Fur!” Abby says when we finally reach my room. (Babies are so slow!) She points at the bed.

“He’s not on the bed, Abby,” I say. “He’s in his—”

But he isn’t.

I let go of Abby’s hand, and she collapses onto
her cushioned butt. I rush to the door and shut it.

“Fur!” Abby says. “Beh!”

She starts crawling for my bed. I scoop her onto my beanbag chair—I don’t want my homework to eat my baby sister—then peek under the bed. I see him hunkering behind whatever all that stuff is under there.

“Give up, mustelid. There’s no way out.”

He clicks at me, then hisses, but stays where he is.

“Come out and I’ll give you another piece of fish,” I say, faux sweetly.

Where did I set it? I don’t remember putting it down.

“Beh!” Abby says.

“Yes, you were right. Congratulations. Now where’s the fish?”

“Fiss,” she says, and points at the plate, which is on the floor behind me. The fish isn’t on it.

“Did he sneak out and take the fish, Abby?”

“Shoo!” Abby says.

This one throws me. Is she telling me to go away?

“Shoo?”

“Fiss. Shoo!”

Is she shooing away the fish? I’ll be glad when she starts speaking in complete sentences.

“Fish shoo?” I ask.

She points at one of my shoes, which is laying nearby. I pick it up. The trout is inside. Gross. How did it get there?

Doesn’t matter. I pluck it out, set it on the plate, then rub the fish juice off my fingers onto the carpet. Fish juice. Gross.

“Here it is,” I say to the fur under my bed. “Here’s the fish. I bet you can smell it. Now come on and get it.” I smile like I’m not furious at him.

He doesn’t come out.

So I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I’m role-modeling patience.

“Do you see how patient Big Sister is being?” I say to Abby.

“No,” she answers.

She obviously didn’t understand the question.

At last, Bandito starts creeping toward me, slowly at first, but then—
zoom!
—he slithers right
at me. I scream and jump back, and he shoots by me.

He stops in the middle of the room and starts prancing around, his claws making little ripping sounds on the carpet. He’s not running away. He’s not attacking. I think he’s playing. Performing. Putting on a show. He bends his long back, then snaps himself open, which propels him forward, like a Slinky pull toy. I’m afraid Abby might choke from all her giggling. I’m laughing, too, mostly because of Bandito’s huffing and wheezing. It sounds like laughter. Either that or asthma. I’m pretty sure we are witnessing the weasel war dance. Probably because of the fish.

He darts under my rolltop desk and then out and under my nightstand and out and under my chairs and out and back under the desk. He’s gone crazy. He falls over a lot as he scrambles around, but he just barrel-rolls himself back upright. He’s acting a lot like a kitten, and I really like kittens. They’re cute and frisky. I’ve only seen Bandito in his cage, or hiding in my parka, or in my desk, or being held by someone. With a little room, he’s, well … kind of adorable. And dramatic!

When he finally calms down, he comes over to me and sniffs at the plate. Then he peeks up at me, like he’s asking for the fish. Politely.

“It’s all yours, fur,” I say.

He picks it up with his pink fingers and starts chewing on it, like a squirrel eating a nut.

I sure have a lot to enter into the Ferret Observations notebook.

“They’re here!” I shout. A white van is parked in the lot. On its side, in colorful, sparkly, fancy letters, are the words
LARAMIE TRAVELING CHILDREN’S THEATER TROUPE
.

“Just one van?” Wain asks. “It all fits in one van? The directors, the sets, the costumes?”

“There’s probably more coming.” I’m a little annoyed at his negativity on a such a positive day, the day, in fact, I’ve been waiting for all my life. If I’d known he was going to act this way, I wouldn’t have suggested we pick him up on the way to school. I would have let him walk.

We get out of the car, and Father calls out, “Your caged beast, m’lady?”

He means Bandito. I really had fun with that
silly mustelid over the weekend. I’m actually a little sad I have to bring him back.

“Help my father with the cage, will you, Wain? I need to get inside.”

“Uh … sure,” he says.

“Actually, Your Ladyship?” Father calls after me. “I was rather hoping you and your manservant, Wain, might tote the cage inside, if it’s not too much bother, as I must away to duties on another campus.”

“Oh, all right!” I suppose even the biggest stars must sometimes perform normal, human tasks, even on the most important day of their lives.

When Wain, Bandito, and I enter our classroom, there are two young strangers standing with Mr. O., a man and a woman. It’s obvious they are not from Bridge’s Creek, that they’re from Laramie, that they’re professional theater people. I drop my end of the cage onto a stray desk and head over to them.

“Hey!” Wain gripes behind me.

“Howdy! I’m Zaritza!” I say with as much Calamity Jane spunk as I can muster. I stick out my hand to shake. When they stare blankly at me, I add, “Welcome, thespians!”—which is a fancy
word for
actors
. This isn’t very Calamity-like, but I’ve been rehearsing it for months and can’t not say it.

The lady speaks first. She’s wearing glasses with lime-green frames, a plaid jumper over a white blouse with puffy short sleeves, and neon pink kneesocks. Her head is tangled into spiky red dreads. She’s definitely an artist. I mean, she’s not even wearing makeup. And her blouse is wrinkly, like she slept in it.

“You have a ferret,” she says with a faux smile, then yawns. “Did she sleep well last night? Is it show-and-tell today?”

“Is that what it is?” the man says. “A ferret? I thought it was a skinny possum.”

He’s shorter than the lady but is better dressed. He’s wearing a dark green blazer and black pants, and shiny black leather shoes, though they’re scuffed. Under his blazer he’s wearing a red T-shirt with the same logo that was on the van. I can see it because his jacket is unbuttoned and his stomach is a bit rounded. He has a little pointy beard, though no mustache for some reason.

Doesn’t a beard make it hard to play different
characters? Dreads, too, I bet. Maybe these two aren’t actors. Maybe they’re directors. Or
casting
directors. Maybe they’re just the ones who’ll be auditioning us.

“Please take a seat, Zaritza,” Mr. O. says. “We’ll have introductions after the announcements. It’s going to be a full day.”

“Yes!” I say. “A day filled with drama and comedy and tragedy! Of
theater
!” I rehearsed that line, too.

“Sit down, Zaritza,” Mr. O. says again.

What a buzzkill he is. But at least he said my name. Twice. That should help them remember it.

“Okay, Mr. O.,” I say, then, as an aside to the theater pros, I add, “We’ll talk later.” I part with a finger-gun-shot and a hard wink.

They laugh a little. They get me.

Sitting through the Pledge and the announcements is misery, way worse than usual. Then, at long last, things get started.

“As you all know, this week we are delighted to have the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe with us—”

Loud cheers erupt, mostly from me.

“—who will be guiding you through the step-by-step process of putting on a stage play.”

“A
musical
stage play,” the Laramie guy adds.

“Right,” Mr. O. says. “This project will take place each morning till first lunch, which means normal morning activities will be canceled—”

Really loud cheers erupt, and hooting, too. I love to hoot.

“I thought you’d like that,” Mr. O. says with a grin. He probably likes it, too: it means he gets a break from us. “We will still meet here after lunch, of course. Remember, you are not required to participate in the play. If you don’t wish to, I will find something for you to do here in the classroom.”

Right. Like who would choose not to participate?

“Those of you who do choose to participate, I expect you to be attentive, courteous, respectful …” And
blah, blah, blah
until at last … “And so please let me introduce you to your directors, Josh and Hannah.”