My Homework Ate My Homework (4 page)

“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?”

“And how many times do I have to tell
you
that I don’t like responsibilities, or consequences?” I pinch my eyebrows together, which I know wrinkles my forehead, making me look filled with despair.

“But you are showing so much more independence these days,” Mother says. “You help in the kitchen, and you clean your room.…”

That’s true. I don’t mind helping in the kitchen when it means chopping or mixing or stirring. But I don’t like the washing or drying or putting away. I do
not
like taking out garbage or compost. And I guess I do keep my room pretty clean. It doesn’t look like an earthquake hit it, like my friend Wain’s does, that’s for sure. But then I don’t do a lot in here except rehearse in the mirror and sleep. I have a lot of costumes, but I have a big trunk to stuff them into.

“For the most part, you’re being a good role model for Abby,” she goes on.

“For the most part? Don’t I brush my teeth and make my bed? She doesn’t even
have
teeth. Or a bed! She doesn’t have to do anything. She doesn’t even go to the bathroom by herself!”

“She really looks up to you, Zee. I’d like her not to make excuses when she loses something, or blame other people. Like your glasses, or the necklace you borrowed from me?”

It’s the old bait and switch. She hooks me with compliments, then starts complaining.

“I’m sorry about the necklace.” I cast my eyes down. “I left it in the bathroom. Someone else probably knocked it into the sink. And I’ve been looking everywhere for the glasses.”

“They were very expensive, Zee. We bought them because you need them.”

“I know,” I say, and slouch. I do feel a little bad about this, even though I know exactly where they are. They aren’t lost; they’re hidden. I don’t want to wear glasses. Actors only wear them onstage, as part of a costume.

“Here’s the thing. Bandito already ruined my vacation. Now he ruined my math homework, and I don’t want to spend the little time I have
left doing math. I want to enjoy my time off. I deserve it.”

“But—” she starts to say. I cut her off.

“I’m sure Mr. O. will understand. I’m sure he’ll count the homework even though I can’t turn it in. What matters is that I did it, right? That I understand it?” Of course, I didn’t do it or understand it.

I pause, awaiting Mother’s verdict. She musses my hair, a good sign, then stands up.

“You can take it up with Mr. O. after the break if you like. But if you don’t get a passing grade this semester, there will be—”

“Consequences. So I’ve heard.”

Mother leaves and, because she doesn’t close the door behind her again, Abalina crawls in.

“Zuzza!” she says. “Zuzza! Fur!”

“He’s not—oh, never mind. Come here.”

I hold my arms out, and she crawls to me across the carpet. Then she rolls back onto her huge, diapered butt. She wobbles when she sits, like she’s a gigantic egg turned up on its end. I reach out for her fat little hands and she latches onto my thumbs. The kid has an iron grip.

“Okay, Abalina, stand up,” I say, and tug a little. “Uppy.”

She pulls my thumbs and rises up to her feet. She’s wearing a pale yellow onesie with a picture of a bright red ladybug on it.
CUTE AS A BUG
it
reads in curly letters. Her fat thighs stick out of the leg holes. How will her little feet ever hold up so much weight?

“It’s time you learned to walk,” I say, and start slowly pulling my thumbs free.

She giggles, then her body folds in the middle. Her diaper swings forward, but, before it hits me, she straightens up and the diaper swings back.

“Dah!” she says.

This is her idea of dancing.

“Yeah, dancing. But I’m going to let go now, Abby, so stop dancing.”

She doesn’t. She probably only heard the word
dancing
and thinks I’m encouraging her.

“Look, kid, I’m your role model. You’ve seen me walk, right? Now you do it. It’s easy. Ready?
Walk!
”

“Wah!”

“No, with a
K
at the end, Abby—
Walk
!”

“Wah!”

“Fine, have it your way. I’m going to let go. Ready? Wah!”

Instead of letting go, she grips my thumbs tighter. I try a different tactic.

“Clap, Abby!”

She claps, which, of course, means she lets go of my thumbs. I tricked her into standing up by herself. If I tell her she’s standing, she’ll freak out and fall right on her huge butt. That’s what she always does.

But I can’t help myself.

“You’re standing!” I say, and applaud.

She stops laughing and stands there a second, staring at me with her gooey mouth open. Then she looks down at the floor, and down she goes. Air puffs out of her big diaper.

I clap louder. “Yay, Abby! You stood up!”

She smiles and claps back. “Uppy!”

“Yeah!” I say. “You stood uppy! All by yourself! Want to do it again?”

She stops smiling and points at Bandito’s cage. “Fur!” She’s changing the subject. She doesn’t want to stand up anymore.

“You want to see the fur? Okay, come on.”

I hoist her off the ground, stagger over to my desk, and plop her into my chair. She loves riding in my desk chair, so I give her some zigzags and spins on the way to the cage.

“Fur!” she says.

Bandito clucks.

This makes her totally crack up. Her giggling sounds like a machine gun in a bubble bath:
HUH GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH!
[big breath]
HUH GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH!
It cracks me up, too.

When we’ve calmed down, I roll her over to my rolltop desk and take out a box of stroopwafels from a cubby.

“Key! Key!” Abby says.

“I keep telling you they’re not cookies. They’re stroopwafels.”

I hand her the box, then roll her back to the cage.

“I know you didn’t eat my stroopwafels,” I say to Bandito, as I pull one out of the box. “I know there was nothing left in my pocket but crumbs.”

“Key!” Abby says with her hand out. Her arms are so short. They barely reach over her head.

“I don’t know about giving you a cookie. It’s close to dinnertime.”

She tilts her head and makes a little pout.

Maybe I’m her role model after all.

“Peas?” she asks. That’s her
please
.

“Okay, but only one.”

Now, like I said, stroopwafels are expensive, almost a dollar each, which is why my parents won’t buy them for me. I have to buy them myself, with my own money. I don’t get an allowance, so I have to rely on money I rake in from relatives on my birthday and Christmas and stuff. My mother makes me put most of that in a bank account for college, but she does graciously allow me to keep a tiny bit of my own money to buy things I need, like stroopwafels.