My Homework Ate My Homework Page 9

  “Javanese,” she says. “Javanese-American, actually.”

  “Oh, cool. So congrats on getting the starring role! You’re doing fantastic.”

  “You really think so?” she says, frowning. “I think I’m terrible.”

  “You’re not!” I say, though she is. But you don’t say that to people, right? Talk about rude. “You know all your lines. Nobody else does, that’s for sure.”

  “You do,” she says. “You’re so good. You should be Calamity Jane. I don’t understand why Josh cast me.”

  “He must see something in you. Raw talent. Charisma.”

  “Charisma? Really?”

  “Look, Josh wouldn’t have given you the lead if he didn’t think you could do it. He has a lot of experience, you know. He’s a professional.”

  “But I can’t be Calamity Jane. I’m not the right type. Besides, I don’t get her. Why did she like shooting guns? Or dressing like a man?”

  “That’s just the way she was. She lived her own way, and made every day an adventure. She loved attention. She loved performing. I think she performed every moment of her life.”

  I really was meant to play her. Alas.

  “See what I mean?” Eden says. “You understand her so well, Zaritza. You should play her.”

  Here’s my chance to offer to tutor her. But before I can, she says, “Would you help me, Zaritza? Would you teach me how to be Calamity? Please?”

  I wanted to be the one to suggest it, but I faux-smile and say, “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  My homework tutor is now my homework.

  “Bigger,” I say.

  “I can’t be bigger,” Eden says.

  We’re in my room, rehearsing. Wain is here, too, and Abby. Wormy is scratching at the door.

  “Wum!” Abby says, pointing.

  How can a person work under such conditions?

  “Everyone can be bigger,” I say to Eden. “You’re just afraid to. You have to be brave.”

  “Like the song you sing,” Wain says. “ ‘Who Doesn’t Want to Be Brave?’ ” And he breaks into it:

  Who would want to be a chicken?

  Or a hermit stuck in a cave?

  Who wants to be panic-stricken?

  Who doesn’t want to be brave?

  “Bray!” Abby says.

  “She’s so cute!” Eden says.

  “I know you’re kind of shy,” I say, trying to keep her on track. “If you want to be a turtle, that’s fine. But onstage you have to come out of your shell.”

  “I don’t want to be a turtle,” she says, shrinking up, which is the opposite of what we want. “Am I a turtle?”

  “Bray!” Abby says.

  Eden laughs. “You’re so lucky to have a little sister, Zaritza. I don’t have any sisters.”

  “Forget the sister,” I say. “And forget the turtle. It’s cornball.” Figures. It was my mother’s idea, not mine. “What are you afraid of anyway? Are you afraid of screwing up?”

  She shrinks more. Bingo.

  “You’re not going to screw up. You’re, like, a genius.”

  She smiles a little.

  “The only mistake you’ll make is being too small. It’s not like the movies. On a stage everybody looks small, so if you act small, you’ll look microscopic. You have to be really big just to look normal-size. You have to be huge.”

  “You!” Abby says.

  “Okay, that does it, Abby. We’re working in here. You’re going to have to stay quiet or you’re going to have to leave.”

  “Aren’t you being a little rough?” Wain asks. “She’s just a baby.”

  “Right. And babies don’t belong in rehearsal. Be a pal, Wain, and take her out of here. Give Eden and me some time to work alone. Oh, and ask my mother to keep the ‘dog’ away.”

  “Okay. Come on, Abby.” He holds out his hand.

  “Way!” she says, and takes it. “Way” is Abby’s version of Wain.

  “Don’t let the ‘dog’ in when you leave,” I say.

  Wain crouches down when he opens the door so Wormy doesn’t sneak between his legs.

  “No, Wormy. You can’t go in there. There’s a rehearsal in progress.”

  He shuts the door behind them.

  “Why do you make finger quotes when you talk about your dog?”

  “Never mind about that. We need to focus. Listen to me now. You need to understand your character. Maybe if you did, you could be bigger. Calamity Jane was tough. She survived the covered wagon trip that killed her ma. She raised her brothers and sister. When she grew up, she didn’t want to be a quiet little lady. She wanted to be a big, loud cowgirl. She didn’t want to wear fancy dresses or go to tea parties. She wanted to ride horses and shoot guns and hunt and fight. People laughed at her and told her she was wrong, but she just laughed back and did it anyway. You get it?”

  Eden shrunk even smaller.

  “You don’t have to be her, Eden. You just have to act like her. When the play’s over, you can be Eden again, and the play only lasts about an hour. You can be big and loud for that long, can’t you?”

  She shakes her head. She looks more terrified than ever.

  It’s funny. To me, acting is as easy as breathing, like math is for her. She stuck with me when I was buried in math I couldn’t do. She was patient. She waited till I dug myself out. I would be patient, too.

  “Say the line, only say it bigger this time. Not huge. Just a little bit bigger. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just us. You can’t possibly mess up, and if you do, I swear I’ll never tell a soul. Ever.”

  She still looks uncomfortable.

  “Do it with your eyes closed,” I say. “That might help.”

  She closes her eyes, then opens one and peeks at me, then closes it.

  “I’m here. Say the line. Say it big. Rattle the windows.”

  She takes a deep breath, then says, “ ‘I ain’t never seen such a lily-livered bunch a’ no-good yellow varmints in all my born days!’ ”

  It ain’t Calamity Jane. More like Calm Jane. Bigger, but too polite.

  “Better,” I say. “But it could be a lot bigger. And madder. Do it again.”

  She says the line again, but it barely grows in size. So I tell her to do it again. Then again. And again. Boy, am I being patient. I don’t like being patient. A funny thing starts happening: instead of getting bigger each time, she starts getting smaller. I think it’s because she’s getting discouraged.

  I don’t know what to do. How can I help her? What is she so afraid of?

  A knock on the door startles both of us.

  “Who is it?” I snap.

  “It’s your mothers,” Mother says, and opens the door.

  “Time to go, honey,” Eden’s mother says in a tiny, polite voice.

  She sounds like Eden, but she doesn’t look like her. I mean, she doesn’t look Asian—or Javanese, or whatever. She has strawberry blonde hair, like me, and blue eyes. Was Eden adopted?

  “Okay, Mama,” Eden says, and gets her backpack and coat.

  “We’ve been rehearsing,” I say to her mother. “For the play. You’re coming right, Eden’s mother?” I don’t know her name. Eden’s last name is Sumarta—which sounds kind of like smarter—but since not everybody’s parents have the same name as their kids, I don’t call her Ms. Sumarta.

  “You can call me Melissa,” her mother says, rubbing her hands together, like they’re cold. “Yes, I’ll be attending the play. Come on now, Eden. We have errands to run.”

  “I’m ready,” Eden says.

  “Have you ever acted onstage, Melissa?” I ask.

  She shakes her head really fast but really small, like the idea of acting frightens her.

  Hmm.

  “We really appreciate all the help Eden gave Zaritza with her math,” Mother says to both Eden and her mother, then smiles awkwardly. It’s awkward in here. I don’t know why.

  Melissa looks at Eden, her eyebrows pinched together.

  “Oh,” Eden s
ays, then says to my mother, “You’re welcome.”

  “Can Eden come back tomorrow to rehearse more?” I ask Melissa. She makes an expression like she smells something bad all of a sudden but doesn’t want anyone to know she smelled it.

  “Eden’s really getting good,” I lie. “Can we show you one of the scenes we’ve been working on?”

  This freaks both of them out. Honestly, their eyes practically pop out of their sockets.

  “Sorry, we really must be going,” Melissa says.

  Eden jumps up and rushes to her. “Bye, Zaritza. Thanks.”

  “Yes, thank you for helping her,” her mother says. “And thank you, Naomi, for having Eden over.”

  “Come by any time,” Mother says.

  Melissa nods then hustles Eden away.

  “Wow,” Mother says when they’re gone. “That might explain some of Eden’s shyness.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It explains a lot of things.”

  Day Three came and went. Eden, Wain, and I had gotten off-book—which means we’d learned our lines—but not many others had. Josh tried to get three run-throughs in before lunch and we almost made it. He really worked us hard, but the hardest thing for me was having to sit on the floor and watch others perform. If I’d been the star, none of this would have been hard. It would have been the best day ever.

  I did get to be an extra in some of the crowd scenes, and sing in the chorus during the big numbers. The playwright obviously tried to keep everybody involved as much as possible, probably to keep us from fooling around as much as possible.

  Josh has been patient and supportive with Eden but has to know by now that he picked the wrong girl. That’s nothing against Eden. She just can’t do Calam. Josh tried to get her to be gutsier and brasher all day, but nothing worked. Why doesn’t he just put me in instead? That’s what Eden wants. I heard her tell him so once.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” he answered. “You’ll be a great Calamity Jane. I have total confidence in you.”

  That’s why she and I are here at Eden’s house—to rehearse, but first we’re having graham crackers and milk in her kitchen with her mother.

  “You’re lucky you don’t have a little sister,” I say to Eden. “Or a dog.”

  She and her mother look at each other, then look down at their plates. What did I say? Did Eden once have a sister or a dog that died tragically?

  I dunk my cracker in my milk and it immediately gets soggy and breaks. Half of it sinks to the bottom of my glass.

  “I meant to do that,” I say. “I like it when the milk gets all sludgy.” Which I definitely don’t.

  “So, Zaritza,” Eden’s mother says, “what’s your favorite subject?”

  “Theater.”

  “I mean academic subjects. Like math or reading.”

  “I don’t care for either of those. Eden really bailed me out with my math.”

  “Yes,” her mother says, “though I think she could work harder at it.”

  She glances at her daughter, and Eden squirms.

  “I don’t think she could!” I say. “She works at it all the time. Even during recess and lunch.”

  Melissa shifts in her seat. “I have high hopes for Eden.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. I don’t like uncomfortable silences. I don’t even like comfortable ones.

  “I do like science,” I say, though I definitely do not. “Right now, I’m conducting an experiment on the effects of cow’s milk on graham crackers.”

  Eden snickers, and milk comes out her nose.

  “Oh, Eden!” her mother says, and hands her a napkin.

  I must remember to never be a mother. Instead I’m going to lead a life of excitement and glamour in a totally napkinless, little-sisterless, Maltipooless, getting-totally-worked-up-over-nothing-less world.

  I drain my milk. The cracker sludge slides down the glass and lands on my nose.

  “Look at this!” I say, the glass still in my mouth, the goop still on my schnoz. “Fetch the Graham Cracker Observations notebook! Quick!”

  Eden snorts up more milk. I wonder if she’s having the most fun she’s ever had. It’s the most fun I’ve ever seen her have.

  The fun continues in Eden’s room, where I suggest an acting game.

  “Let’s run lines,” I say, “only let’s pretend the play isn’t a stage musical. Let’s pretend it’s a … scary movie!”

  “Huh?” Eden says. “How?”

  “Just read your lines, only pretend that you’re in a scary movie, where there’s always something lurking”—I act spooked—“in the closet”—I peek into her closet, then act relieved—“or under the bed!” I start to peek under it, then whirl on her and yell, “Boo!”

  She jumps and makes a little Eep! sound.

  “Really? That’s your scream?”

  She shrugs.

  “Let’s do the covered wagon scene, before Ma kicks the bucket. Page two, start with ‘Pa, we’re all …’ ”

  “ ‘Pa, we’re all outta water,’ ” she reads.

  “No, like you’re scared, remember? Say it in a creepy voice. Open your eyes wide. Jerk your head side to side.”

  She bugs her eyes and pivots her head, and moans, “ ‘P-a-a-a-a-a-a! We-e-e-e’re a-a-a-all out-ta-a-a w-a-a-a-ter!’ ”

  It’s about as scary as a soggy graham cracker, but I tremble and clutch her arm, then read Pa’s line: “ ‘Well, we should’ ”—I stop and check behind me—“ ‘hit Rapid’ ”—I stop and look again—“ ‘City a’fore … sundown!’ ” I shiver, then scream.

  She jumps again, then laughs.

  “I want you to scream,” I say.

  “What?” she whispers.

  “Scream. You know. Like something terrifying just happened? Like, say, you failed a quiz?”

  “I can’t scream.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. Not in … here.”

  “You can’t scream in your own room? Where can you—in the library?”

  “My mom …”

  “Scream, Eden. Scream your head off. Give me your best shot.” This was what this whole exercise was about. I wanted to hear her really let go, to holler like Calamity Jane.

  “Go on, do it,” I say. “That’s an order from your acting coach. Scream.”

  “Eeee!” she says, her straight white teeth showing.

  I sigh loudly on purpose.

  “That was pathetic.”

  “Oh,” she says, and frowns.

  “Try again, only this time try opening your mouth. Wide.”

  She tries. “Aaaaaa!”

  “I’m not the dentist! Scream!”

  “I can’t, Zee.” She starts nibbling her thumb. “I just can’t.”

  There’s a knock at the door. “Eden?” her mother says. “Are you okay? I’m hearing strange noises.”

  “It’s okay, Mom!” Eden says, stiffening up. She’s so tense, a sudden breeze could snap her in two. “We’re fine. We’re just rehears—”

  I lunge at her suddenly and scream real snarly, like a leopard.

  And she shrieks. It’s loud, and piercing, and long. It’s good.

  Her mother frantically pushes open the door and rushes in. “Eden? Are you all right? What is it? What happened?”

  “I … I told you,” Eden says, gripping her heart. “We’re acting.”

  She looks at me with a grin.

  I give her a thumbs-up.

  Today is Day Five, the day of our dress rehearsal. My costume is a frilly, poufy, lacy, pink, full-length dress and a very wide-brimmed sun hat with a big purple bow attached. Eden’s is a buckskin outfit with fringe. She carries a pistol; I carry a parasol. I’m so jealous I could lock her in a closet till after the play closes. But I don’t.

  We spent Day Four rehearsing scenes, singing songs, learning our entrances and exits, our cues and marks (where we’re supposed to stand when we’re onstage). Josh says we’re ready to do the whole show. During dress rehearsal, we can’t stop
if we mess up. We’re supposed to treat it like the real thing.

  So everyone’s pretty jittery and fidgety, but Eden is the jitteriest and fidgetiest. I can barely stand to look at her. Her eyes are swollen and red, like she’s been crying or not sleeping or both. Probably both. She’s been nervous as a cat during our after-school rehearsals. Her teeth are actually chattering. The girl’s a mess.

  “I can’t do it, Zee!” she cries into the sleeve of my frilly, poufy, lacy, pink, full-length dress. “You have to play Calam. You have to!”

  I give her a hug. She sure is tiny. “It’s normal to be freaked out. You know the lines. You know your cues. You look great. Now just get out there and do it.”

  She swipes her face with her fingers. “Can you tell I’ve been crying?”

  “Yes,” I say, and chase her away. Then I sashay in my enormous pink dress over to my place backstage.

  The buckskin jumpsuit is too big on her. It would fit me better. I know her lines. I know her cues and marks. I bet we could convince Josh to let us swap roles. But that wouldn’t be right. It’s Josh’s call.

  “All right,” Josh says, then pauses for silence. When he has it, he yells “Action!” and runs out onstage.

  He’s wearing a buckskin outfit, too, and a wig of long curly brown hair He’s not wearing his glasses. He must have contacts. The first scene is all his.

  “ ‘Ladies and gentleman, my name is James Butler Hickok, but my friends call me Wild Bill. This ain’t the tale of the legendary Wild Bill Hickok, though, as interestin’ and deservin’ of a delightful musical play as my life is. No, this here play is the tale of one Martha Jane Canary. You probably know her as Calamity Jane. We begin when she was jus’ thirteen years old, crossin’ the prairie in a covered wagon with her family. They’d left behind their home in Princeton, Missouri, and were headin’ to Virginia City, Montana, over a thousand miles away, which is an awful long way when you’re travelin’ by stagecoach with a sick mama through treacherous territory.’ ”

  This is the cue for the covered wagon to be pushed out. The actors playing the Canary family pretend to bump along in it.

  “ ‘Are we there yet, Ma?’ ” Lije Canary (Cooper) says.