My Homework Ate My Homework
Page 1
Other Books by Patrick Jennings
Guinea Dog
Lucky Cap
Invasion of the Dognappers
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2013
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © Patrick Jennings, 2013
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.patrickjennings.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jennings, Patrick.
My homework ate my homework / Patrick Jennings.
p. cm.
Summary: “When Zaritza is assigned to care for her class ferret Bandito over winter break, he escapes and eats her other assignments, leaving her with an unbelievable excuse!”--Provided by publisher.
eISBN: 978-1-60684-288-1 [1. Ferrets as pets–Fiction. 2. Homework--Fiction. 3. Family life--Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.J4298715My 2013
[Fic]--dc23
2012025062
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
v3.1
For Lauren and Lex,
my homework buddies
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. My Homework Ate My Dog
2. My Homework Ate My Brain
3. My Homework Ate My Vacation
4. My Homework Ate My Parka
5. My Homework Ate My Stroopwafels
6. My Homework Ate …
7. … My Homework!
8. My Mother Says It’s My Fault My Homework Ate My Homework
9. My Homework Won’t Eat My Stroopwafels
10. My Homework Ate My Acting Career
11. My Homework Ate My Loyalty to My Teacher and My Faith in My Principal
12. My Homework Tutor Ate My “My Homework Ate My Homework”
13. My Homework Ate My Best Friend’s Homework
14. My Homework Ate My Quality Time with My Father
15. My Homework Ate My Mother’s Trust in Me
16. My Homework Ate My Freedom
17. My “Dog” Ate My Homework
18. My Homework Could Eat My “Dog” That Ate My Homework
19. My Homework Ate My Baby Sister …… Almost
20. My Homework Ate My Name
21. My Homework Ate the Most Glorious, Stupendous Day of My Life
22. My Homework Ate My Audition
23. My Homework Ate My Dignity
24. My Homework Ate My Chance at the Big-Time
25. My Homework Tutor Ate My Starring Role
26. My Starring Role Ate My Homework Tutor
27. My Homework Tutor Ate My Parents’ Respect for Me
28. My Homework Tutor Is Now My Homework
29. My Homework’s Mother Interrupted My Homework’s Homework
30. My Homework’s Homework Scared Her Mother to Death
31. My Starring Role Ate My Homework Tutor
32. My “Dog” Ate My Perfect Taco
33. My Homework Wrecked My Chance to Faux-Offend Her
34. My Homework Ate Up the Applause
35. My Homework Made Her Mother Cry
36. My Homework Sang Me to Sleep
About the Author
“Can I talk to you a minute, Mr. O.?” I say to the mirror. “You’d better sit down.”
I make a face that shows how sorry I would be if what I was saying were true. The sunglasses holding my hair back aren’t working. They make me look too glamorous, and that’s not the look I’m after. I pull them off and my strawberry blonde hair tumbles down over my shoulders. This is worse. I make a mental note to stop washing my hair a few days before returning to school.
“It’s about Bandito,” I say and pause …… dramatically. I love dramatic pauses. They’re very …… dramatic.
“You see …… I can’t seem to find him. I’m sorry.”
I cast my eyes downward. Casting your eyes downward is very effective, especially if you want somebody to think you feel bad about something you did. Even if you don’t.
Casting them upward, by the way, is good if you want to pretend to be thinking, or trying to remember something. For example, I look up when I say, “I’m pretty sure I turned that in, Mr. O.,” even though I know I didn’t do the assignment. Casting your eyes sideways makes you look like you’re making up an excuse, or just plain fibbing. Only do this on purpose and onstage. It’s important to control sideways looks in real life. They can give you away.
Practicing eye-casting is difficult to do in a mirror, so I’m video-recording myself on my mother’s cell phone.
“How did Bandito get out of his cage?” I ask rhetorically. “I don’t know, Mr. O.,” and shrug my shoulders up to my ears. I really look like I don’t know that I left the ferret’s cage door open after I fed him. Which is what happened.
Now I shift from faux-clueless to faux-suspicious. (Faux is French for fake and is pronounced foe, like friend or foe, and makes fake sound fancier.)
“I’m pretty positive my baby sister, Abalina, opened the cage door,” I say, and tighten my lips, like I’m holding back anger. “That girl is always getting into my stuff.”
No. I don’t want to come across as blaming, especially of a baby. A baby isn’t responsible for her actions. Or so my mother keeps telling me. But that’s another story.
I reach up and make an erasing motion with my hand. I’m starting over.
“My baby sister, Abalina, probably opened the cage door, but she’s just a baby and isn’t responsible for her actions, so I’m not angry at her.”
That’s good. I’ll keep that.
“But then something awful happened.”
No, not quite right. I “erase” it.
“But then something terrible happened.”
Better, but still no. Erase.
“But then something HORRIBLE happened!”
Yes, that’s it. Now I swallow loud enough for him to hear, flash a faux-horrified-bordering-on-sick-to-my-stomach face, pause dramatically …… then deliver my well-rehearsed punch line: “My homework ate my dog.”
Bandito is my homework and he is hideous. Sure, he has a shiny brown-and-white fur coat, kind of like a cat’s, but instead of covering an adorable purring kitty, it covers a creepy, wheezy, slithery ferret. Bandito has ratlike toes and ratlike ears, a twitching ratlike nose, and a white face with a raccoonlike black mask. He’s a mustelid, which means he’s cousins with stinky skunks and weasels.
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 m
yself 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.”