My Homework Ate My Homework by Patrick Jennings Page A

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 asbreathing, 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