My Homework Ate My Homework (2 page)

Although Bandito lives in a cage way in the back corner, he stinks up every inch of my classroom. He smells like a combo of sewage and boiled cabbage. Having to smell him all day long has affected my learning. That’s right: My homework has harmed my young brain.

We get extra credit points if we make notes in the Ferret Observations notebook, so lots of kids who are done with their work sit by Bandito’s cage and record the mustelid’s clicking, wheezing, and slithering. They must have to hold their breath while they do it. I would … if I ever sat there. Which I don’t.

I could use extra credit points, but you can’t get any unless you’ve finished all your work. Doesn’t Mr. O. know that it’s the students who don’t turn in all their work who
need
extra credit? Talk about unjust.

I got pretty far behind in math—mostly because I think math is stupid and don’t like doing it—and I wanted to get a passing grade on my report card, so I suggested to Mr. O. that we make a deal: I’d take Bandito for winter break and write daily notes in the Ferret Observations notebook if he would forget about the math assignments I didn’t finish. This seemed just to me. Just as in the opposite of unjust, I mean.

Shockingly, Mr. O. said no deal, but he did say he’d count watching Bandito as extra credit “if and only if” I returned from the break with the
ferret, the Ferret Observations notebook filled with two weeks of notes,
and
the completed math assignments. Whoa. The guy obviously doesn’t understand what a break is.

I said, “That’s unjust, but okay. Deal.” And we shook on it.

When my mother picked me up at the end of the day and I told her I was ferret-sitting, she got all motherish on me.

“The ferret is
your
responsibility, Zaritza,” she said. “You must keep the cage clean, and feed and water the ferret every day without being told, and
blah blah blahbity blah
 …”

It was a huge mistake bringing Bandito home. He makes my room smell like sewage and boiled cabbage. I have to clean up his nasty mess every day. As a bonus I get to spend nights with a chattering, wheezing mustelid. He’s so creepy that I haven’t slept once during the whole vacation. Or not deeply anyway.

So when I discovered he had escaped, I didn’t bother looking for him. I didn’t want to find him, so why should I look? Besides, finding him would mean I’d have to catch him, which would mean
I’d have to
touch
him, which I will never do as long as I live.

He’s the one who wanted out so bad. Now he’s out, and he can stay out forever for all I care. If he changes his mind and wants back in, fine. I left the cage door open.

Which is how he got out in the first place. Not that I’ll be telling anyone that.

Did my homework (Bandito) eat my “dog”? Maybe. I haven’t checked.

I use finger quotes because Wormy isn’t what I would call a real dog. Wormy isn’t his real name. I named him that. His real name was Sugar, which didn’t suit him at all. My father’s great-aunt Veronica gave him to us when she got sick once and couldn’t take care of him. Which is a decent reason, I guess, to dump a pet on your family. She could have mentioned, though, that Sugar came loaded with intestinal worms.

Then, a week later, my mother found out she (my mother, not Wormy) was expecting Abalina. That’s right, both the “dog” and the baby sister were surprises. I wasn’t, of course. I was planned. Wanted. Not something my parents got stuck with.

Wormy is (was?) a Maltipoo, and extremely hyper and noisy, usually at the same time. He’s always freaking out about nothing and going
ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!
in a high, annoying voice, like one of those remote-control dogs that move around with stiff legs. He’s covered with kinky white fur that feels like doll’s hair, and he has shiny black eyes like black marbles. I really think he isn’t a dog. I think he’s an evil dogdroid monster sent here by Great-Aunt Veronica to drive us all crazy.

So if Bandito did eat Wormy, the only real downside would be that I’ll get in big trouble with my mother and Mr. O., which would be unjust, since the only thing I did wrong was forget to lock the cage after I refilled my homework’s food dish. Yes, I fed him. Big crime. Lock me up and throw away the key. It serves me right for being thoughtful. And how does he repay my thoughtfulness? By escaping and gobbling up my “dog” and getting me in trouble with my mother and my teacher. Talk about ungrateful.

Now I have to pretend I care about him, and about my revolting little “dog,” too. I’ll also have
to lie to my teacher, and maybe frame my baby sister. I don’t have a choice there. I’m certainly not going to take all the blame. That would mean having to listen to my mother talk about responsibility and consequences for the rest of my life. Abalina doesn’t have any responsibilities or consequences, so what difference does it make if I pin the ferret’s escape on her?

“My homework ate my dog, Mr. O.,” I say again to my reflection, punching the words
homework
and
dog
. I don’t finger-quote
dog
this time, because I want Mr. O. to believe that I care about Wormy, which, of course, I do not. I convey shock and horror by opening my eyes wide, then cast them downward to convey regret and grief. I add, “I couldn’t feel worse about it,” choking up on the word
worse
.

Good. That works.

“Wormy is a Maltipoo,” I say to the mirror, “and Maltipoos are tiny little dogs. Tiny enough, I imagine, that a ferret could …”

I let my voice trail off, then make a sick face, like I’m imagining what a ferret could do to a tiny doglike creature like Wormy. I don’t actually imagine it, because the thought of it makes me gag. Hideous eating hideous.

It would serve Wormy right if the skunk-rat ate him. The “dog” and the skunk-rat ruined my vacation. Not to mention I didn’t get what I wanted for Christmas, which was my ears pierced. My mother said maybe I’ll be old enough next year, and I said, “You do understand that I am eleven now, right?”

Her reply? “Please don’t speak that way to me.”

In other words, she changed the subject. Which is just so unjust.

What did I get instead? Clothes, books, and a pink calculator. A calculator! This was from my not-great-in-the-slightest great-aunt Veronica, the one who dumped the “dog” on us. I wish my grandpa never had a sister, either.

Sisters. Who needs them?

I bet my mother put Great-Aunt Veronica up to the calculator, probably because I don’t do my math. I don’t need a calculator
or
math. What I need are holes in my earlobes. I’ve explained to my mother that an actor must be able to wear earrings. Then I had a meltdown, and my mother called me a drama queen. Which is true. I am an actor, and a queen. I take it as a compliment.

I’ve acted in lots of plays. I was the lead in my kindergarten’s production of
The Marshmallow and the Frog
. I was the marshmallow. In first grade, I was the straw-house pig in the charming musical comedy
Little Pig! Little Pig!
I played a fairy in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, which
is Shakespeare and was performed outside. Shakespeare in the Park, they call it. I didn’t have any lines, but I stole the show.

I hope to play the starring role in
Calamity Jane
, which the Laramie Traveling Children’s Theater Troupe is bringing to our school in January. I’ve watched the movie four times and have been rehearsing the part. I feel pretty good that I’ll get it.

So, yeah, I’m a drama queen. Unfortunately, I’m a drama queen with unpierced ears.

Where was I?

Oh, right. My homework ate my “dog.”

“I’m very sorry that Bandito got away,” I say to my reflection, “but I hope you will consider that I am grieving, too.”

I pause here so he can feel bad for me, but also because Wormy has just entered my room, without permission, and is now curling up in my purple beanbag chair. The squeaking of his nails on the vinyl makes my skin crawl.

I guess my homework didn’t eat my “dog” after all. Pity.

This is actually the first time Wormy has come
into my room since I brought Bandito home with me, and that’s because Wormy is terrified of Bandito. This has been the one good thing about ferret-sitting: no “dog” in my room. Now that Bandito’s gone, in trots Wormy the annoying little bot-hound. I just can’t win.

Bandito wasn’t afraid of Wormy, of course. Who would be? Mr. O. told us ferrets hiss or scream when they’re scared, but Bandito didn’t hiss or scream when he met Wormy. He did the “weasel war dance.” He hopped around, clucking
Dook! Dook! Dook!
It sounded like he was laughing. Ferrets do the weasel war dance when they’re happy, and usually what makes them happy is finding something to eat. I think that’s why I got the idea that Bandito might like to eat Wormy.

But he didn’t eat him.

I go back to the mirror.

“Bandito did the weasel war dance when he saw Wormy,” I say. “You said ferrets do that when they’re excited, and that hunters use ferrets to help them kill small animals, like rabbits and stuff. Well”—I gulp—“Wormy isn’t much bigger than most rabbits.”

I choke myself up and work on producing some tears. I do this by flaring my nostrils and tightening my face muscles. I feel a mist gathering behind my eyes and my tear ducts tingle. I learned in theater camp last summer that, if you want to make yourself cry, it helps to visualize something heartbreaking. So I visualize gold hoop earrings. That does the trick. I blink and a tear squirts out.

“I accept”—I sob—“full responsibility, Mr. O., for letting Bandito escape.” The tear streams down my cheek, over my lip, and into my mouth. Mmmm, salty.

“The ferret escaped?” my mother shrieks from behind me.

I jump out of my skin.

“You scared me to death!” I say, clutching my heart. “What happened to knocking?”

My mother is standing in my doorway holding Abalina in her arms. Abby can walk. She’s been doing it for quite some time now. A whole month, I think. She just doesn’t want to. All she ever says is, “Uppy! Uppy!” What’s the point of having legs if you don’t use them?

“Zuzza!” she says.

Yeah, she talks now, too. But she still cries and screams when she wants something. I think she’s pretending. She knows how to talk and walk, but she gets more attention when she doesn’t.

Wormy wakes up and starts his battery-operated barking:
ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!

“The ferret didn’t really eat Wormy, I see,” my mother says.

“You heard that?”

She reaches over and swings the open cage door back and forth.

“You need to find him, Zaritza,” she says.

“Why me? I didn’t let him out. It was probably Abalina. She’s always getting into my stuff, and you never get mad at
her
!”

“Abalina just got up from a three-hour nap,” my mother says, and, on cue, Abby yawns. This is no innocent baby girl.

“Oh,” I say, then turn my blame on the yapping “dog.” “Shut up, Wormy! You woke the baby!”

“No, he didn’t,” my mother says. “He was in here with you, remember? Abalina woke up on her own.”

“Why don’t we have Wormy find Bandito? He’s a ‘dog,’ so to speak.”

“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.