Read Online My Homework Ate My Homework by Patrick Jennings - Free Book Online

both arms, and I have to carry the fish, so I take her chubby hand and she toddles along beside me.
    “See that you don’t let the ferret out,” Mother says, wagging her finger at me as she walks away.
    The woman needs a vacation.
    “Fur!” Abby says when we finally reach my room. (Babies are so slow!) She points at the bed.
    “He’s not on the bed, Abby,” I say. “He’s in his—”
    But he isn’t.
    I let go of Abby’s hand, and she collapses ontoher cushioned butt. I rush to the door and shut it.
    “Fur!” Abby says. “Beh!”
    She starts crawling for my bed. I scoop her onto my beanbag chair—I don’t want my homework to eat my baby sister—then peek under the bed. I see him hunkering behind whatever all that stuff is under there.
    “Give up, mustelid. There’s no way out.”
    He clicks at me, then hisses, but stays where he is.
    “Come out and I’ll give you another piece of fish,” I say, faux sweetly.
    Where did I set it? I don’t remember putting it down.
    “Beh!” Abby says.
    “Yes, you were right. Congratulations. Now where’s the fish?”
    “Fiss,” she says, and points at the plate, which is on the floor behind me. The fish isn’t on it.
    “Did he sneak out and take the fish, Abby?”
    “Shoo!” Abby says.
    This one throws me. Is she telling me to go away?
    “Shoo?”
    “Fiss. Shoo!”
    Is she shooing away the fish? I’ll be glad when she starts speaking in complete sentences.
    “Fish shoo?” I ask.
    She points at one of my shoes, which is laying nearby. I pick it up. The trout is inside. Gross. How did it get there?
    Doesn’t matter. I pluck it out, set it on the plate, then rub the fish juice off my fingers onto the carpet. Fish juice. Gross.
    “Here it is,” I say to the fur under my bed. “Here’s the fish. I bet you can smell it. Now come on and get it.” I smile like I’m not furious at him.
    He doesn’t come out.
    So I wait.
    And wait.
    And wait.
    I’m role-modeling patience.
    “Do you see how patient Big Sister is being?” I say to Abby.
    “No,” she answers.
    She obviously didn’t understand the question.
    At last, Bandito starts creeping toward me, slowly at first, but then—
zoom!
—he slithers rightat me. I scream and jump back, and he shoots by me.
    He stops in the middle of the room and starts prancing around, his claws making little ripping sounds on the carpet. He’s not running away. He’s not attacking. I think he’s playing. Performing. Putting on a show. He bends his long back, then snaps himself open, which propels him forward, like a Slinky pull toy. I’m afraid Abby might choke from all her giggling. I’m laughing, too, mostly because of Bandito’s huffing and wheezing. It sounds like laughter. Either that or asthma. I’m pretty sure we are witnessing the weasel war dance. Probably because of the fish.
    He darts under my rolltop desk and then out and under my nightstand and out and under my chairs and out and back under the desk. He’s gone crazy. He falls over a lot as he scrambles around, but he just barrel-rolls himself back upright. He’s acting a lot like a kitten, and I really like kittens. They’re cute and frisky. I’ve only seen Bandito in his cage, or hiding in my parka, or in my desk, or being held by someone. With a little room, he’s, well … kind of adorable. And dramatic!
    When he finally calms down, he comes over to me and sniffs at the plate. Then he peeks up at me, like he’s asking for the fish. Politely.
    “It’s all yours, fur,” I say.
    He picks it up with his pink fingers and starts chewing on it, like a squirrel eating a nut.
    I sure have a lot to enter into the Ferret Observations notebook.

“They’re here!” I shout. A white van is parked in the lot. On its side, in colorful, sparkly, fancy letters, are the words LARAMIE TRAVELING CHILDREN’S THEATER TROUPE .
    “Just one van?” Wain asks. “It all fits in one van? The directors, the sets, the costumes?”
    “There’s probably more