My Homework Ate My Homework Read online

  I go blank. Not on purpose. I’m not acting. I’m truly devastated.

  I store the feeling away for later use.

  “We do have tutors, you know,” Ms. Tsots says, holding the door open for me.

  Tutors, tutors—that’s all I hear! Tutors won’t do my homework for me.

  Or will they? Hmm.

  “Thank you, Ms. Tsots,” I say, walking past her. “I’ll look into that.”

  Wain, waiting in the office, leaps from his chair.

  “So?”

  I say, “So I need a tutor.”

  I was assigned Eden as a tutor. She’s in Mr. O.’s class, too, though I’ve never said boo to her. She’s really quiet, and I’m really not. She’s also super smart, even smarter than Wain.

  I don’t get why anyone would choose to spend recess in the library helping other students with their math. Even smart kids need fresh air and exercise, right? Does she have something against fun?

  I’m only here because I have no other choice. If I want to star in the play, I have to do my homework. Or get it done for me.

  “Hi, Eden!” I say with a big faux smile.

  “Hi, Zaritza,” she says. It’s like Eden inhales when she talks. She also doesn’t make eye contact. She cast her eyes downward and steals little peeks, like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Even then she doesn’t look me in the eyes. Maybe she’s afraid of people. Doesn’t she know she’s one, too?

  Her not looking at me gives me time to study her. Maybe one day I’ll be cast against type and play a character who is painfully shy. I notice the pinched lips, the curved shoulders, the crossed arms, the hands tugging on the ends of the sleeves of her sweater. All good stuff that might come in handy someday.

  Eden is Asian, by the way, though she speaks perfect English and doesn’t have an accent. I’m pretty sure she was born in America. She has jet-black hair that hangs straight down and looks like she cuts it with a paper cutter. THHHOOOMP! She dresses like an American—no kimono or sari or anything. Every day she wears a leggings-skirt-top ensemble; in cold weather, she adds a sweater. The one she’s wearing now is taupe. Her colors are always drab: brown, gray, beige, taupe. Like a mouse. She’s actually a lot a like a mouse: small, drab, shy, nervous. Are mice smart?

  She doesn’t wear rings, necklaces, or bracelets. Personally, I love bangles and wear so many of them that my biceps are buff. Eden does wear one item of jewelry: earrings. I swear, everyone’s ears are pierced but mine. Even drab, mousy Eden has pierced ears, and she wastes them on plain silver studs.

  She opens her math textbook. “Which assignments do you need help with?”

  “The last eight. Plus today’s.”

  She briefly looks into my eyes, just long enough to show me how shocked she is that I would let myself get so far behind. Then she starts flipping pages in the book.

  “So that would be … let’s see … pages two hundred thirty to … two hundred sixty-two.”

  That’s a lot of pages. More than fifty? Ugh.

  “I did do them, you know,” I say, “but I was caring for Bandito in my home when my baby sister left the cage door open, and Bandito got out and—”

  “Your homework ate your homework?” Eden says with a little grin.

  I can’t believe it. My homework tutor ate my punch line! And her timing was so off. I want to give her the stink eye, but I need her, so I don’t.

  “Yes! Ha! Good one! I didn’t know you were funny.”

  Her face blushes, and when she tries to hide it, she pokes her pencil into her nose.

  “Careful there!” I say with faux concern. She deserved that poke for trampling my line.

  She blushes redder and covers her face with both hands. “So, you did the homework?” Her lips squeeze into a pucker when she talks. “You understood it.”

  “Ummmmm … sure, yeah, of course.”

  She lowers her hands. “Then you don’t need a tutor. You can redo it.”

  “Rrrrrright. Exactly. But who has the time? Not me. My life is so scheduled. Overscheduled, really …”

  “You can work on it right now.” She pivots the book so I can read it. She offers me her pencil, the one that was in her nostril. Yuck. “Since you’ve already figured out the problems, it shouldn’t take long. I find the challenging part of math to be figuring out how to solve problems, not actually solving the problems.”

  “Really?” Smart people say weird things.

  “You could probably finish at least one assignment each recess, plus a couple during lunch. You could come here after school, too. I bet you’d be done in a couple of days!”

  She’s actually looking at me again. I’m stunned. She stays after school to tutor? Does she not have a life?

  I do.

  “I can’t stay after school. I have too much to do. So many …” (I hate using the R-word, but …) “… responsibilities. You have no idea. Plus I need to prepare for auditions. You know the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe is coming next week, don’t you?”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t. Her life is based on math, not art.

  “Yes, I do, and you don’t need to worry about the auditions.” She tucks her chin, likes she’s embarrassed again. “You’re such a good actress.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say.” I heard a famous actor say that during an interview on an entertainment show. I can’t remember which actor or which show, but I remember the line. That’s very kind of you to say. It’s a good way to sound humble when someone compliments you. “The problem is, I can’t participate in the play unless I finish this homework.”

  “I see,” Eden says, but I don’t think she does. She seems really confused, like she can’t relate to not getting to do something because of homework. She’s so smart she finishes it at school. “So you have nothing to worry about, right? Just do the assignments and turn them in, then you can participate.”

  I lean in and use my this-is-serious-so-really-listen voice. “I. Don’t. Have. The. Time. What I was thinking was you could help me. You could read out the answers and I could write them down. It would go so fast that way.”

  She straightens up and her head tilts to the side, like a chicken’s. Her dark eyebrows gather over her eyes like storm clouds. “I … I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Sure you can. We can start now and probably power through the rest over lunch. So, page two hundred and thirty, problem number one …”

  She’s still in the weird chicken-neck pose—her ear is practically touching her shoulder—only now she is starting to shake her head.

  I jump in with, “Being in this play is the most important thing in the world to me, Eden. It’s everything. Acting is my life.”

  She sucks in the corner of her mouth and chews on it. I can tell she’s asking herself questions, maybe wondering if giving me the answers is cheating. So I repeat, more urgently, “Acting is my life, Eden!”

  She leans forward onto her elbows and gives me a this-is-serious-so-really-listen-especially-since-I’m-very-shy-and-looking-at-you-this-directly-is-difficult-for-me look. Then she looks down at the table.

  “I’m sorry, Zaritza. I can’t give you the answers. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “So you’re sorry then,” I say, and stand up.

  This is called a parting shot. Storming off comes next, and I pull it off perfectly. Each heavy footstep is perfectly stomped. I can feel everyone in the room looking at me, thinking I’m bad for stomping in the library and for getting angry at poor, shy, helpful Eden. I don’t mind one bit. At least they’re looking at me.

  Calamity Jane was always blowin’ her top and hollerin’ and stompin’ off. And slammin’ the door, too. Unfortunately, the library has automatic sliding doors, so all I can do is storm up to them, wait for them to slide open, storm out, then wait for them to slide shut. If I were directing my life, I’d have put real doors there. But I’m not. I’m a kid.

  Still … a good scene.

  �
�Wait—shouldn’t you be doing your math instead of watching a movie?” Wain asks as he points the cursor at a picture of a singing Calamity Jane, dressed up in a fringy, brown buckskin outfit. “Not that I’m against watching a movie.”

  Wain is definitely not against watching movies. He watches them all the time. He’s one of those kids, like Eden, who finishes his homework in a matter of minutes, then reads a book while the rest of us suffer. Because he doesn’t have to do homework after school, he gets to watch movies on his parents’ computer. He calls it research, training for his career as an actor. A supporting actor, that is.

  If you watch a movie with him, he drowns it out telling you all the other movies the actors in it were in before. It’s “Oh, that’s the guy who played the bad guy in Blah Blah Blah” or “That’s the lady who played the queen in Blahbity Blah” or “That kid played the main character’s girlfriend’s little brother in Blahbity Blah 2.” It’s annoying, but I appreciate that there are kids like Wain who will be keeping track of my movies when I start making them. I have to admit, he knows his stuff. I learn a lot listening to him. But I still have to sock him sometimes to shut him up.

  Like now.

  “Ow!” he says, rubbing his arm. “What was that for?”

  “For asking me that. You know I don’t need to know math to be a great actor. I need to study this film so I can nail the audition and play the lead in Calamity Jane.”

  “But if you don’t make up your math assignments, you won’t get to audition,” Wain says.

  I sock his other arm.

  “Stop it!”

  “Then shut up. The movie’s starting.”

  “My mom says you’re not supposed to hit me,” Wain says, crossing his arms in front of him so he can rub both sore spots at once.

  “You’re right,” I say, casting my eyes downward. “I’m sure sorry, Wain. It’s just …” Just what? I don’t know. Dramatic pauses are also good for stalling till you think of an excuse. “I’m just sorry. Start the movie.”

  He scowls at me but does what I ask.

  The movie starts with Calam (that’s what her friends call her) singing from on top of a stagecoach that’s flying across the prairie. When they get back to Deadwood, where Calam lives, she goes into the saloon and orders up a sasparilly.

  I stand up, hook my thumbs under my armpits, straighten my spine and my neck into one long stick, swivel my head quick like a bird, and say, “Barkeep! A sasparilly!”

  Wain gives me a thumbs-up, then says, “The guy who plays Wild Bill Hickok was in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, remember? Howard Keel. He was in Kiss Me, Kate, too, which was based on Shakespeare’s …”

  “Shhh! I cain’t hear the pi’cher!”

  “I think I’ll try out for Wild Bill,” Wain says, looking a bit wounded.

  Wain play Wild Bill? He’s not the Wild Bill type. Wild Wain Wexler? Nah. More like Plain Wain Wexler.

  Even though that’s not a bad joke, I don’t say it. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Wain’s pretty sensitive.

  “Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”

  Luckily, Calam runs at her horse from behind and springs up onto its back. What an amazing woman. What an amazing character.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, I was born to play Calamity Jane.”

  “I agree.”

  “No, I need to play this part, Wain. This part will make me a star.” I give him a serious look. “Where’s your math notebook?”

  “You want to copy my homework?”

  “I don’t see any other way.”

  He nods, like he sees I’m right, but I can tell he doesn’t want to do it.

  “You don’t have to,” I say. Though I’m really hoping he will.

  He pauses the movie.

  “If I let you, it’s just this one time,” he says. “And it’s just so you can audition.”

  “Of course, of course,” I say. “I’ve totally learned my lesson. I’ll never need to ask again.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out real slow. His conscience might ruin this for me.

  “Never mind,” I say, and set my hand on his shoulder. “I understand.” I’m not sure if he’ll buy this, but sometimes pretending to give up makes someone give in.

  Sure enough, he digs his notebook out of his backpack.

  “Here,” he says, not looking at me. “Today’s is in there, too.”

  “Nine assignments to copy? Are you kidding me? My homework will give me carpal tunnel!”

  I won’t do all the homework at once because, one, it hurts my wrist too much, and two, Mr. O. might think I cheated if I showed up tomorrow with it all finished. He might even test me to see if I really knew how to do it. I have a few days before I have to turn it in, so I’ll pace myself, turn in the homework a little at a time. That will help my wrist, too. I’ll need it to play Calam: to snap reins and twirl pistols. I might even need to throw faux punches. You can’t do any of that with a bad wrist.

  “So how’s it going with the math?” my father asks at the dinner table.

  “Fine,” I say.

  He faux-furrows his brow. “Can you be more vague?”

  “I’ve done two assignments. Only seven to go …”

  “Don’t forget, you’ll be getting new homework each day,” Mother adds. “So you’ll have ten due by Friday.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” I push my plate away. “I just lost my appetite.”

  “You need to work on it tonight,” she goes on. “Right after dinner. Nothing but math till bedtime.”

  “But that’s not fair!” I bang my fist on the table. “All I do is math. It just isn’t my thing. Drama is my thing!”

  “No kidding,” Mother says under her breath.

  Abalina grunts, then bangs her fist on the table. It hits her spoon, which sends the peas in it flying. One lands in my milk.

  My father cups his hands around his mouth, making a megaphone, and announces, “Step right up! Step right up! Try your luck at games of skill! That’s right—games of skill!”

  “One pea in a glass wins!” I chime in.

  My mother leans her head onto her hand and wilts.

  “Mother, why don’t you go in and rest?” Father says. “You’ve had a trying day. Our eldest daughter and I will clean up in here. Right, eldest daughter?”

  “We will?”

  Father elbows me.

  “I mean, we will!”

  Mother nods, then climbs slowly to her feet.

  “That’s it!” Father says as she plods out of the room. “You go in and lie down and leave everything to us.”

  “You’re welcome, Mother!” I call after her.

  “It’s not easy being a stay-at-home parent,” Father whispers to me after Mother is gone. “I know. I stayed home with you.”

  Which is probably why I’m fun and a good actor, and not a grump like Mother.

  Poor Abby.

  She’s sitting in what we call her director’s chair, which attaches to the table. It’s like a real director’s chair, only it’s small and doesn’t have legs. When Abby sits in it, she looks like she’s floating above the ground. It used to be mine when I was little. I bet it was fun to sit in it. Now I’m too big, and my feet reach the floor.

  Father stands up and starts clearing the table, so I help. I don’t even wait till he asks me, like I do with my mother. It’s more fun cleaning up with him. He makes it fun.

  “After we clean up d’is mess, we gotta set up ten tables,” he says with a New York accent, like the cab drivers in movies. He faux-chews a wad of gum. “Big convention in town. Extoyminatahs, I hear.”

  “I heard it was teachahs,” I say, getting into the act.

  “Heh. What’s duh diff’rence?”

  We faux-guffaw.

  “When we’re done heeah, I can help you with d’at homework a’ yuhs. I’m not too shabby at math. I got all the way up to the t’oid grade, you know.”

  “I was t’inkin’ mebbe we could watch a movie tuhgedda tonight
. Whaddya say?” I nudge him. “I’ll buy ya a box a’ popcorn. I hear Calamity Jane is playin’ in da livin’ room.”

  “Gee, d’at would be swell! But is it suitable for a baby? Ain’t d’ere a lotta shootin’ an’ guns an’ whatnot?”

  “D’ere is. It prolly ain’t appropriate fer young’uns.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll put d’is one to bed while you finish up in here. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  He leaves with Abby, and I go back to the table for more dishes.

  That’s when my mother walks in.

  “No movie,” she says. “Not till your math is done.”

  “But I did my math, Mother! Remember? All day!”

  “No movies till you’re caught up. Responsibilities before fun.”

  “Watching Calamity Jane isn’t fun. I need to watch it to prepare for my role in the play. It’s research. It’s homework!”

  “No movie,” Mother says. “Math.” And she leaves the room.

  I sit down at the table, fuming. I know she’s going to go talk to Father. He’ll listen to her, too. We won’t watch the movie. I’ll spend the night copying Wain’s homework instead.

  I can’t wait till I’m famous. Then I’ll write my memoirs and tell the world all about how my mother tried to sabotage my career. I’ll make her the villain in my life story. That’ll show her.

  Father comes into the kitchen, his head hung low, like he’s about to tell me bad news. He faux-punches my arm. “Rain check on duh movie?”

  The popcorn Father made for me is gone except for some unpopped kernels. I lick my finger and mop up the rest of the salty butter at the bottom of the bowl. Then it’s gone. There’s nothing to do now but my homework.

  I sigh and look at the next problem.

  I know how to do it. I just don’t know why I should to do it. Don’t most normal people use a calculator for problems like this? Who even subtracts numbers like this in real life?

  “I put in a hundred ninety-one thousand, three hundred and forty-nine kernels of popcorn into the popper. A hundred and forty-four thousand, six hundred and seventy-two popped. How many didn’t?”