My Homework Ate My Homework Page 11

  “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.

  How’s that for a surprise twist? Girl meets ferret. Girl hates ferret. Ferret does weasel war dance. Girl loves ferret. Girl does weasel war dance.

  Mr. O. was sure surprised when I asked him after the matinee if I could take Bandito home for the rest of the weekend.

  “But you don’t have any homework to make up,” he said.

  “You said extra credit was only for kids who were all caught up,” I answered. “That’s why I want Bandito. To store up some extra credit, just in case …”

  He bought it, even though it wasn’t the real reason. But I think he knows that I secretly like Bandito.

  I climb out of bed and click on the lamp on my dresser and look into the mirror. I still have a little makeup on my eyelids from tonight’s performance. Our final performance, sadly. I hate it when a show’s run ends.

  I make my face droopy and ashamed. “Bandito escaped, Mr. O. I left the cage door open. I’m terribly sorry. I know he was my responsibility and, believe me, I take my responsibilities very seriously. Just ask my mother. She has taught me the importance of—”

  I pretend to break down here. Then I take a deep, long breath.

  “No, I can’t lie. It wasn’t me. It was my …… sister who opened the door.”

  No. Erase. I can’t blame the baby. That would be unjust.

  “My father loves Bandito, you see, and after a hard day at work—my father’s a public school teacher, too—he likes to take Bandito out of his cage and …”

  Again no. I have to face it. If I’m going to pretend Bandito escaped so that I can keep him forever, I’m going to have to take the blame myself, and face the punishment alone.

  “Mr. O., it was I who left the cage open. It is all my fault, and I will do whatever is required to make it up to you. If you want, I’ll replace him—”

  Wait. How much does a ferret cost? It doesn’t really matter, because I’m broke. I spent my last five dollars on stroopwafels.

  And I can’t exactly keep Bandito and ask my mother for money to replace him, can I? I haven’t even figured out how I’m going to convince her to let me keep him. But I have to keep him. I love him.

  “You see, Mother, everyone at school keeps complaining about how bad the smell is. The kids. The teachers. The parents. Even the principal. No one can think or study or anything with him in the classroom. So Mr. O. said he was going to take him to the animal shelter and have him put down, and, of course, I said, ‘No! You mustn’t! I’ll bring the poor, defenseless, creature home …’ ”

  No. Mother would check with Mr. O. Besides, she hates the smell, too.

  “Guess what, Mother? The health department said we had to get rid of Bandito! He has—”

  No. If the health department said no, so would Mother.

  “Bandito’s gotten really skinny, Mother. He won’t eat. Mr. O. said he wasn’t adapting very well to his surroundings in the classroom, so I said maybe we could adopt him.”

  Hmm. Not bad. Not adapting to his surroundings sounds like a phrase Mr. O. would say. It’s probably where I heard it.

  But wait. Erase. Same problem as before. Mother would check with him first. Why do adults have to do that? Go over kids’ heads, I mean.

  All of a sudden Bandito pops out from under my pillow and starts dook-dook-dook-ing.

  “What’s wrong, Bandy?” That’s what I call him now.

  “Zee?” my mother asks.

  I shriek. Mother is standing there in her old purple robe, her eyes barely open, her hair a disaster. She clicks on the light.

  “You have to stop sneaking up on me like that or you are really going to give me a heart attack!”

  “What are you doing up so late?” she asks in a croaky voice.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Because of Bandito’s chattering?”

  “No. I’m used to that. In fact, I l
ike his noises. And his smell.”

  I put out my hand, and he runs up my arm to my shoulder and nuzzles my neck, like he does to Father.

  “Are you still wound up because of the play?”

  “No. I’m wound down.”

  “You were so good tonight,” she says.

  “You didn’t like the matinee?”

  “You were so good in the matinee, too.”

  “Thanks. Eden was terrific, huh?”

  “Yes, she was. And you were terrific for helping her. You’re a good friend.”

  “Can we keep this from getting corny?”

  “Sorry. So you want a ferret?”

  I look up at her. “You heard that?”

  “I doubt you can keep your class’s pet, but you could ask Mr. O., see what he says.…”

  “What if he says no?”

  She shrugs. “We could maybe look for another one?”

  I push myself away from her. “Really? You’d get me one?”

  “Maybe. But, really, Zee, you don’t have to make up these elaborate schemes to get what you want, or to get out of what you’ve done.” She tilts her head and gives me a knowing look. “Just be honest.”

  “I want Bandito,” I say.

  “It would make things pretty crowded around here.”

  “Why don’t we get rid of Wormy? Eden likes him—”

  “Wormy stays. He’s our—”

  “No R-word, please.”

  “Sorry. But if we get a ferret, it would be your … R-word.”

  “That’s fine! So can we get one?”

  “Maybe. There’s something you need to know first.”

  “Whether Mr. O. will let me have Bandito? I’ll ask him on Monday.”

  “No, not that.” She pauses. Dramatically. “…… You’re going to have a brother.”

  “What? You’re not talking about the ferret, now, are you? Because that’s weird if you are …”

  “No, I mean a brother. A human brother. I’m three months pregnant.”

  “Really?” I lay my hand on her belly through her purple robe. Pregnant? I wonder if that’s what has been making her so crabby. “There’s a baby in there? You’re not very fat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who’s going to stay home and take care of this one? Me?”

  “I’m due in June during summer vacation. I’ll stay home for a while, but then I’ll be going back to work. Your father will take care of the baby, but he’ll need your help. He’ll have a lot on his plate. The baby, Abalina, Wormy … you.”

  “And Bandy. Hopefully.”

  At this moment, he’s down the back of my outside pajama top. I wear two when he sleeps with me so he doesn’t scratch my skin. He likes slinking around between them.

  “Only if you promise to help out around here. To be … R-word.”

  I think this over.

  “If I help Father with the brother and the sister and the pets, can I get my ears pierced? Maybe for my birthday?” Which is August sixteenth.

  “I’ll tell you what. Start wearing your glasses every day, and you can get your earrings now.”

  She grins at me like she knows I didn’t lose them. Did she find where I hid them? That’s impossible. Unless maybe Wormy dug them up.…

  “Deal,” I say, and stick out my hand to shake on it. As she takes it I add, “But I get contacts as soon as possible, right? An actor can’t wear glasses.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she says. “Now, let’s get some sleep. Wain and Eden and their families are coming over for brunch in the morning.”

  “Yeah! We’re going to do some improv. You said we could record it on your phone, remember?”

  She nods as she nudges me toward my bed, then sits beside me after I slip under the covers. Bandy dives down between the sheets to my feet.

  Mother strokes my hair real gently, which gives me the chills. It always does. The sleeve of her purple robe tickles my nose. Her robe really smells like her. In fact, I think it smells more like her than she does.

  “You’re still my little girl, you know,” she says, and her eyes get all misty.

  “No, Mother, Abby is your little girl. I’m the big one.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl.”

  “Cor. Ny.”

  “You’re right. You are big. Acting onstage in front of a whole room of people. I could never do that. You were so good tonight.”

  “You already said that,” I mumble. I’m starting to drift off.

  She kisses my forehead and stands up.

  “Good night, Mother,” I say, yawning.

  “Good night, Zee,” she says, and clicks off the light.

  Bandy slithers back in between my pajama tops.

  “Good night, fur,” I say.

  I fall asleep listening to him chatter.

  is the author of many popular novels for middle-schoolers, including Guinea Dog, Lucky Cap, We Can’t All Be Rattlesnakes, Faith and the Electric Dogs, and Invasion of the Dognappers. He won the 2011 Washington State Scandiuzzi Children’s Book Award for Guinea Dog, which is also nominated for the following state lists: Massachusetts 2012–2013 Children’s Book Award, Florida 2012–2013 Sunshine Readers Book Award, Colorado 2011–2012 Children’s Book Award, New Hampshire 2011–2012 Great Stone Face Book Award, and the Kansas 2012–2013 William Allen White Children’s Book Award. He lives in a small seaport town in Washington State.

  You can visit him online at www.patrickjennings.com.