My Homework Ate My Homework Page 2

  “Because it isn’t Wormy’s responsibility. It’s yours. You let Bandito out, and you must find him. You can’t shirk your responsibilities, Zaritza. We all have them.…”

  “Oh, really? Abalina has them? And Wormy? What are his responsibilities?”

  “Abby’s a baby—”

  “She’s not a baby,” I cut in. “She’s over a year old now. I know it’s hard for you to face that your favorite little girl is growing up—”

  “—and Wormy’s a dog.”

  “Really? You sure about that?”

  “And you are an eleven-year-old girl who agreed to take care of the class ferret.”

  “Fur!” Abby says.

  “He’s a ferret, Abby,” I tell her, ignoring my mother. “He has fur, but he’s a ferret. Fair. It.”

  “Stop being disrespectful,” my mother says. “Face your responsibilities, and find the ferret.”

  She sets her hand on her hip, pulls in her chin, and gives me the stink eye. This is her end-of-discussion move. I do it pretty well myself. I especially like using it on Abby.

  “Usually, when Bandito gets out of his cage at school, he just goes back in on his own,” I say, though it’s not true. We usually have to trap him or coax him back in. I don’t, of course. I let my classmates do it. I pretend to help when really I’m silently praying they never find him, that he got out of the building and will never be seen again.

  Now, I’m not an animal hater or something. To me a lovable animal is a cat or a real dog, not some dinky yapper or some stinky weasel. That thing really stinks.

  “We’re not at school,” my mother says, which is so obvious I can’t help rolling my eyes. She hates when I roll them. “We’re at home,” she says, raising her voice, though I was hearing her just fine, “and I don’t want a ferret running loose, leaving his scent and chewing things up.”

  “I don’t want that, either, Mother! You think I want that?” I always call her “Mother.” It’s more dramatic than “Mom.” I also call my father “Father.” “Dad” is just silly.

  “Wum!” Abalina says, pointing at the door.

  My mother and I look at the door, but there’s no one there, so we look at the bed and the beanbag chair. No “dog.” There’s growling coming from somewhere. And a clucking sound.

  “Fur!” Abalina says.

  “For the last time, Abalina, Bandito is a ferret!” I say.

  “Don’t yell at her,” Mother yells. “Go find them! Don’t let them fight!”

  I stare at her. “You mean get between them? I don’t want to get between them. I don’t want to go anywhere near either one of them.”

  Mother stomps her foot on the carpet, which is childish.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” I say, and hurry out of the room to search for the animals I never wanted and stop them from killing each other.

  I find Wormy in the living room, ARF-ARF-ARFing at my parka.

  “Shut up, Wormy!” I say, but does he? No.

  ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!

  That’s when I see my parka move.

  “Mother!” I scream. “He’s in my coat! I can’t ever wear it again!”

  Bandito pokes his masked face out of one of my parka sleeves.

  “Fur!” Abby says.

  “He’s probably after my stroopwafels,” I say. “I have a full box in the pocket.”

  Stroopwafels are syrup-filled waffle cookies from Holland that cost a lot of money and are my very favorite treat in the world. I like to set them on a cup of hot tea and let the syrup melt. Yum.

  And now the mustelid is licking them. Yuck.

  “Just get him, will you, Zaritza?” Mother whines. “I’ll deal with Wormy.”

  Wormy is snarling now. I bet he thinks he’s scary. Pathetic.

  “Oh, sure. You take the easy job!”

  “The ferret is your respons—”

  “Okay, Mother, I’ll get him, I’ll get him. Just please don’t say the R-word again.”

  Mother snags the “dog” and locks him in the coat closet, where he whines and scratches at the door. Meanwhile, I tiptoe toward the trembling parka. I bend over slowly and quietly, then grab hold of its furry hem and pull it toward me. It slides easier than I thought it would, considering there’s a mustelid in it. It’s probably because the outside of the parka is made of that material that makes whish-whish sounds when you move your arms.

  I give the parka a quick shake, but Bandito doesn’t come out, so I jerk it hard and yell, “Get out of my coat, fur!”

  My mother says, “Pick up the parka with him inside and take it to your room and transfer him to his cage.”

  “Transfer him? Does that mean cram the stupid weasel in, then go wash my hands with acid to get the smell off?”

  “Put the parka sleeve through the cage door, then close off the other openings. He’ll have to come out eventually.”

  It’s not a bad idea. I just wish someone else would carry it out.

  “Okay, here goes.” I scoop up my coat and feel a hideous, muscular wriggling inside it, like I’ve captured a giant fish. The fish hisses. I want to scream and drop it on the floor, but I don’t. Mother would just make me chase it down again. I grit my teeth, and hustle down the hallway to my room.

  My mother, with Abalina in her arms, comes in behind me. “That’s it. Now slip him into the cage.”

  “I’m going to shove the whole parka in!” I scream. I don’t know why I’m screaming. Probably because I’m freaking out. “He can use it for a bed. I’m never wearing it again anyway. It stinks like ferret.”

  “Fur!” Abalina says.

  “Ferret, Abby! Ferret, ferret, ferret!”

  I’m glad I left the cage door open. I try to shove the parka in, but it’s too puffy. Bandito panics and starts scrambling. I feel his claws through the parka.

  “I can’t hold him!”

  Mother rushes toward me, but since she’s still holding Abalina, she can’t do anything.

  Bandito slips out of the parka and disappears the second he hits the floor. His claws scratch at the carpet as he scurries away.

  Mother starts to freak. “Where’d he go? Where’d he go? Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  Abby points under my bed. “Fur,” she says.

  My mother sets Abby on the bed, then she and I kneel down and peek under it. No mustelid. He must have slipped out.

  “Where’s the fur, Abby?” I ask.

  She points a chubby finger at the door.

  “He’s out again,” Mother groans.

  “Well, why didn’t you close the door?”

  She glares at me, her face all red and wrinkly. I guess that’s what happens to your face when you have a second kid at thirty-seven. My mother’s a doctor. She should have known better. I have no idea why some people are never satisfied with what they have.

  She mouths, Find the ferret.

  “Okay, okay! It’s always me! ‘Find the ferret!’ ‘Pick up the ferret!’ ‘Transfer the ferret!’ ”

  “Fur!” Abby says.

  I whirl around to correct her again. but, with an innocent face, she says, “Uppy!”

  “Can’t right now, Abby,” I say. “I have a fur to trap.”

  That’s when I notice the crumbs in my parka pocket.

  “My homework ate my stroopwafels!”

  We search under the couch, chairs, and tables, in the shower and tub, behind the stove and fridge. No weasel.

  “Shut up, Wormy!” I yell every time I go by the coat closet. I also bang on the door with my fist.

  “It’s not his fault,” my mother tells me. “Maybe Bandito went back to your room.” Her eyes shifted side to side. This doesn’t mean she’s guilty. Casting your eyes sideways can also read “scared.” She’s afraid of the ferret.

  “We already checked there and you shut the door after we left, right?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “You did shut it a
fter we left, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t think I did,” she says, raising her shoulders.

  “When are you going to learn to close doors?”

  “Just be glad I haven’t locked myself in the car till this thing is caught.”

  In my room, I say in a heavy, parent-style voice, “Close the door behind you, please.”

  She does.

  “Thank you. Now everybody be quiet. I know this creature. He keeps me awake every night. He’s never quiet. Ever. So shhhh!”

  In the silence I hear Wormy whining in the coat closet. I hear a car door slam.

  “Duh!” Abby squeals.

  I hiss for her to shut up.

  “Duh,” she whispers.

  “I know Father’s home,” I say to her. “Mother, don’t let him in. He’ll make too much noise. Stand in front of the door.”

  She does.

  The front door slams and my father calls out, “Hello? Anyone home? The man of the house has returned! Where are my pipe and slippers? Wormy? Fetch my newspaper, boy! Well, not my newspaper boy. We don’t even have a newspaper boy. Ha! Are you listening, family? Family?”

  I don’t have much time before he gets here. I close my eyes and listen. I hear my father’s footsteps in the hall. I hear the furnace shutting off, and the warm air stops puffing out of the grate on the wall. I hear paper being crumpled. No, not crumpled. Chewed.

  I creep toward the sound, which is coming from my rolltop desk, the one Grandpa Jack gave me. The rolltop is open slightly. Mr. O. says that ferrets can squeeze through surprisingly small openings. Hunters use them to “ferret” rabbits out of their hiding places. What is Bandito ferreting out of my desk? I do have more stroopwafels in there.…

  “Is he in there?” my mother whispers behind me.

  “Just keep Father out,” I whisper back.

  There’s a musical knocking on the door. “Jingle Bells,” I think.

  “Santa’s here!” my father says in a deep, jolly voice. “Ho, ho, ho!”

  He turns the handle, but Mother leans hard on the door.

  “Not now, Paul,” she whispers through the keyhole. “Keep quiet for a minute, please.”

  “Okay,” he whispers. “Girl stuff, eh? I’ll leave you to it.”

  I flash my mother a thumbs-up, then move closer to the desk. I peek through the crack. Should I slam the rolltop shut, trapping him inside? I don’t really want him trapped in my desk. He’s already eating something. And then there’s the opposite end of that: I don’t want to find ferret droppings in there.

  The other option is to pull open the rolltop, but that would mean I’d have to grab the squirming, hissing mustelid and wrestle him into his cage. I don’t want to do that.

  I don’t see another way, unfortunately. Sometimes you just have to man up and get ’er done. Am I right?

  No, that’s just dialogue from some stupid action movie I saw. I’m no action hero.

  But … I am an actor, just like the guy who read that line. I can play the part. I can act like I’m brave. Acting is what I do best.

  “Okay,” I say to my mother, my eyes all squinty like a movie cowboy. “Keep the child back. I’m going in.”

  I stand up straight and take a fearless step toward my desk. I hook my fingers under the rolltop and fling it open. The ferret is in there, cowering under the little cubbies. He’s feasting on one of my notebooks. It’s my math notebook.

  “Oh, no!” I shriek in horror. “My homework ate my ……”

  (Did I mention I love dramatic pauses?)

  “My homework ate my homework!” I exclaim.

  “Don’t yell! Get it! Grab him!”

  “Here now, what’s all the screaming about?” my father says in a deep voice. “Everything all right in there? Back away from the door. I’m going to break it down.”

  He doesn’t mean it. My father’s an actor, too. A drama king.

  “Let him in,” I say to my mother. “We’ll let the big, strong man catch the wild beast.”

  Mother opens the door wide enough for Father to slip inside. He’s wearing casual clothes, not school clothes, since it’s vacation. He’s got on blue jeans and his T-shirt that says MY BIKE TIRE IS Ь on the front and I MUST HAVE RUN OVER SOMETHING # on the back. When there’s school he wears a short-sleeve, button-up shirt, usually in a pastel color, with a tie. His ties usually have a musical theme, like notes, or clefs, or piano keys. Father studied theater in college and has acted in a lot of plays, a few of them in Seattle, in fact, but he’s also a singer and a musical genius. He’s taught choir at the high school since I started first grade.

  “Father, Father!” I say with faux dread. “Please save your womenfolk from this savage beast!” I lay the back of my hand on my forehead, as if I’m about to faint.

  He swoops into the room and steps between me and the ferret. “Stand back, fair lass. This is the job for …… a choir director!”

  I get my love for dramatic pauses from him.

  “The beast has devoured all of my hard labor, kind sir,” I say, and sob into my sleeve.

  “Fie on the fiend! Hard labor is what he’ll soon know, for I shall dispatch the vile badger to the nearest penitentiary.”

  “Duh!” Abalina squeals.

  “The child is cute, but please remove it from this perilous place,” Father says to Mother. “Perhaps you might go yonder and release the hounds. Or hound, as the case may be. It is howling like a banshee.”

  Mother groans, “Just get the badger back in its cage, Paul,” and carries Abby out.

  “And close the door behind you this time!” I say.

  She does.

  “Let’s snag that beast!” Father says.

  “Pray, will not the creature harm you?” I clasp my hands together tightly, and pretend to bite a knuckle. This would work better if I were wearing dainty white gloves, but you have to work with what you have. We actors call this “improvising,” or, for short, “improv.”

  “It will surely do its best, but I am not wholly inexperienced in these matters, my dear. Why, once, when I was no bigger than you, I tangled with a rampaging snow leopard—”

  “Forgive the interruption, sir, but maybe we can save your tales of heroism for a later time?”

  He pretends to be embarrassed. “No, forgive me, miss! You are absolutely right!”

  He inches toward the desk, crouched like a wrestler. Bandito quits hissing and starts making happy clucking sounds. He likes my father. Maybe it’s because Father likes him. Father likes everyone. Even mustelids. Before you know it, Bandito is climbing Father’s arm to his shoulder and starts nuzzling his neck. It’s almost cute.

  Almost.

  “The savage beast has been tamed!” Father proclaims. “Say, that tickles, savage beast.” He faux-giggles.

  “Please put him back in his cage,” I say. “I want to see how much damage he did to my homework. He already ate my stroopwafels.”

  “The scoundrel,” Father says as he locks Bandito up. “We’ll add theft to the charges of attempted escape and wanton destruction of property.”

  “Just look at my homework! Ruined! All that hard work gone to waste!”

  Actually, I’d barely started it. I have eight math assignments to make up, but every time I think about starting them, I stop breathing. My body knows it’s unfair to ask it to do math on vacation. One time I did stick it out and got through two problems before collapsing onto the floor, gasping for air. And now those problems are in shreds!

  I slam the rolltop shut, almost on my father’s fingers.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just …… can’t bear to look at it!”

  “I understand, cupcake.”

  “I was almost finished.” I start tightening my face muscles, flattening my nose, visualizing huge gold hoop earrings.

  “I guess you’ll have to redo them then.” He gives me a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

  “Redo them?” I twist away from him, and tears actually fly from my
eyes. Excellent! “I can’t possibly redo them. School starts back up on Tuesday. Tuesday! That’s only”—I count on my fingers—“only three days! And I have to take care of the beast. And record his behavior. I don’t have time. I just don’t have t-t-t- …”

  I fling myself at him and faux-bawl.

  “Oh, now, now … is it really worth all that?” Father coos, patting my back. “We’ll work it out. You’ll see. Everything’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

  I smile. There will be no homework for me.

  “Good! The ferret’s back in the cage,” Mother says, coming back into the room.

  “Fur!” Abalina says.

  “Yes,” Father says, “the fur is back in the cage, but, sadly, not before he chewed up our scholarly eldest daughter’s mathematics homework.”

  My mother looks at me. I do my best to look devastated.

  “Well, you’ll have to redo it,” she says.

  I gasp. “Redo it? I can’t redo it! School starts on—”

  “We’ve been down this road, Mother,” Father says. “Apparently, Zaritza is overwhelmed with other work.”

  I let him take care of this.

  “No, no, no,” Mother says. “Zaritza volunteered to watch the ferret, and she let him escape. It’s her own fault he ruined her homework.”

  “Can we talk about this without blaming?” I ask. I’ve overheard her say that to father when they argue.

  “This is not about blame. This is about natural consequences.”

  “Duh!” Abby says, looking like she’s about to cry. She doesn’t like the arguing.

  “Now look what you did,” I say to my mother. “Now the baby’s crying!”

  “I thought we weren’t blaming?”

  “Why don’t I take our younger daughter into the other room?” Father says, and takes Abby from my mother and heads for the door.

  “Father!” I call after him, but he’s already out of the room and shutting the door behind him. The coward.

  “Sit down with me, Zaritza,” Mother says, and pats the bed.

  “Why? Are we going to have a talk?”

  “Sit,” she says more sternly.

  I sit.

  “Zaritza, how many times do I have to remind you that when you neglect your responsibilities you must face the consequences?”