The Last Holiday Concert Page 3

  “Make the best of it,” said Mr. Meinert, still facing the windows. “Easy for you to say.”

  “No,” said Mr. Richards, “it’s not easy. We went through this eight years ago, the same thing. And there’s nothing easy about it—not for me, not for anyone.” Mr. Meinert didn’t respond, so the principal added, “If there were anything I could do about this, I’d have done it by now. I’m still hoping the district can come up with the money we need before the end of the year, but that’s a long shot. And if I can help with recommendations as you look for other jobs, you know I’ve got nothing but good things to say about you and your work.”

  Mr. Meinert just sat there, his face turned away.

  After an awkward silence, Mr. Richards said, “Listen, we’ve got a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes, and I’ve got to get ready. So I’ll see you there.”

  The music teacher stood up. “I won’t be at the meeting.”

  Mr. Richards said, “Oh. Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mr. Meinert nodded and walked out of the office.

  Five

  TEMPTATIONS

  Hart’s dad was home in time for dinner, plus he had brought two large pizzas, so everyone was in a pretty good mood.

  As Hart bit into a big slice of pepperoni with extra cheese, he debated whether or not to tell his parents about his detentions. And the rubber band incident. This was the weekend Zack’s dad had promised to take four of the guys to a hockey game at Madison Square Garden—Rangers against the Bruins. It would be a rotten weekend to get grounded.

  So maybe I shouldn’t tell.

  But he had to serve the two detentions, and his mom was always home from work by three thirty, so that was a problem.

  Maybe I could get Kenny Lambert to come over tomorrow after Mom gets home and tell her I had to stay after and do some stuff. Kenny would do that for me. And it wouldn’t be a lie. Then I could just take the late bus home at four thirty.

  Hart felt like he could get away with not telling. He took a long drink of grape soda, burped, and then quickly said, “Excuse me.”

  Then he thought, Except what about the second day? Staying late two days in a row is gonna look fishy. Mom’ll want all the details. And what about Sarah being alone for half an hour both days? Mom won’t like that.

  Hart knew that if he got caught telling anything less than the whole truth, that would mean big trouble. He reached for the sausage-and-mushroom pizza, and he thought, So maybe I should just tell what happened and take my chances.

  Sarah wiped her mouth with her napkin, put it back in her lap, and said, “So Hart—did you have an interesting day at school?”

  Hart almost gagged on a gob of cheese. It was Sarah’s tone of voice. She knew. She knew everything, and she was about to rat on him.

  Hart’s private debate was over.

  He swallowed fast and nodded. “Yeah. Actually, school was a little too interesting today. Because I did something stupid in chorus. I was messing around with a rubber band, and it accidentally hit Mr. Meinert. And now I have to stay after school tomorrow. And Friday.”

  His mom and dad frowned. Sarah smiled.

  Hart shrugged and put on a sheepish face. He said, “Yeah, Mr. Meinert got pretty mad, but the principal knew I’d never try to hit anybody on purpose. But I shouldn’t have been playing with rubber bands. So that’s why I got the detentions. Boy, I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  His mom nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I guess I’ll have to leave work early tomorrow and Friday.”

  His dad said, “Two days after school?”

  Hart said, “I know. It’s a big punishment, but that rubber band hit Mr. Meinert, Dad, and it could have even hit him in the eye. So that’s why Mr. Richards made it two days. And he’s right. I shouldn’t have had those rubber bands at school.”

  His dad nodded. “Sounds like you’ve learned a good lesson.”

  And Hart nodded. “Yeah, I have.”

  Hart knew he was home free. He took a bite of pizza, and glanced sideways at his sister.

  Sarah was frowning.

  On the other side of town Lucy Meinert was talking with her mouth full.

  “You know what I think? I think you should quit.” She stabbed the air with her chopsticks for emphasis. “Right now. Just quit.”

  The school day was behind him now, and Mr. Meinert was starting to recover his sense of humor. He smiled as he tipped a white cardboard container and reached in for another helping of stir-fried shrimp.

  His wife said, “I’m not kidding, David. I’m making enough money to cover our expenses, and we’ve got some savings, too. You should walk into that office tomorrow and tell little King Richards that you quit, effective immediately. If the taxpayers in this town want to fire music and art teachers, fine. Let them. Let them go ahead and raise a pack of culturally stunted morons. It’ll serve ‘em right!”

  Mr. Meinert’s wife had studied music too, and they had met at college. But Lucy realized she didn’t have the patience to be a teacher, and she didn’t want to try to earn a living as a singer, either. So she’d gotten a job at a computer software company. The skills that made her good at reading and writing music also made her good at reading and writing computer code. Now she was on her way to becoming a software developer, and she had less patience than ever, especially about the way her husband’s school was run.

  After a long drink of water she started in again. “Idiots! I mean, if a company was running low on money, it wouldn’t try to cut costs by firing its most creative people! That’s just stupid. What you do is ask everyone in the company to take a pay cut, and then everyone pulls together, and they think and they work until they find a way to get more money. And if you really have to fire people, then you start near the top. You fire administrators and assistant supervisors and people who don’t do the most important work. If you ask me, that’s what ought to be happening at the schools in Brentbury! And what about the rest of the town government? They could figure out how to find some money if they really believed education was so important. But they’re all too stupid and too selfish, so I say you should quit. Tomorrow. Just walk in there and quit.”

  It was a tempting idea, but Mr. Meinert shook his head and said, “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” said Lucy. “Afraid you won’t get a good recommendation to some other school? What happens at your new school in five or six years when the economy shrinks again? I’ll tell you what’ll happen—they’re going to fire you, just like Brentbury did. Honestly, I don’t see why you want to keep teaching. There’s no future in it.”

  He and his wife had had this conversation before, and David Meinert didn’t want to argue. It was the only thing his wife didn’t quite understand about him.

  He had reasons for wanting to be a teacher, personal reasons.

  Between the ages of five and sixteen, young Dave Meinert had attended nine different schools in seven different states. As his dad’s career advanced, the family had moved to follow the jobs. Dave had spent part of almost every school year as the new kid. During those years the one thing that had always been the same was his music. He had a great voice and perfect pitch, and he was a whiz on the piano. His band and chorus teachers had always made him feel at home. Music had been the one thing Dave could depend on, no matter where they lived.

  Two years ago, when David Meinert had gotten the job teaching music in Brentbury, he was thrilled. The town’s music program was recognized for excellence all over the state—even around the nation. He and his wife bought a small condo in Brentbury, and David Meinert felt like he had finally come home. He wanted to stay put. He wanted to have a family someday and never make his kids have to move. He wanted to be the teacher who knew how to make the new kids feel welcome. He wanted to teach his neighbors’ children and watch them grow up. He wanted to stick around so he could see which kids turned into real musicians, because he knew some of them would. His wife didn’t understand w
hy he went to the concerts at the junior high school. He went because two years ago those children in the eighth grade chorus had been in the sixth grade chorus. They were still his kids. And as soon as there was a staff opening, he hoped to move up to the high school chorus program and begin working with more serious singers and more challenging music.

  But for now, the sixth grade chorus was his home, and it was a good home. Until a month ago, that is.

  Fired. The school district didn’t call it that. They called it a RIF, a “reduction in force.” He hadn’t been fired. He’d been RIFed. It wasn’t personal. They weren’t getting rid of him. They ran out of money, so they got rid of his job. Fired or RIFed, it still amounted to the same thing—they were even the same letters, just rearranged.

  And Mr. Richards had been right this afternoon in his office. Mr. Meinert had been upset ever since he’d gotten the news. And, yes, his reaction to Hart shooting that rubber band today had been way over the top.

  But he couldn’t quit. Not that the kids would mind. They’d probably clap and cheer. This year’s chorus was a tough group. Over half of the kids never wanted to work, always resisted every new song. And classroom discipline had never been his best skill anyway.

  Still, quitting wasn’t an option. It just wouldn’t be right.

  Lucy was encouraged by her husband’s silence. “Really, David, think about it. You put in all those extra hours to find new music. You plan the field trip to the Metropolitan Opera rehearsal every year. You organize the parent volunteers to make programs and decorations for every concert. You tutor kids; you have that new sight-reading group; you spend extra time with the kids who have solos; plus you lend a hand with the sixth grade band, and the orchestra, too. You even write new arrangements—all on your own time. I know you love your work, but you put in at least ten hours of overtime every week. Your salary is pitiful, there’s no extra pay for the extra hours, and to show how grateful they are for all this hard work, the school board fires you right in the middle of the school year. It just stinks. And I’m not kidding. You should really think about quitting. Or at least cutting back. They’re just walking all over you. You shouldn’t do one bit more than they pay you for.”

  Mr. Meinert reached across the table and took his wife’s hand. “But it’s my job. And as long as that’s true, then I have to give it my best. I know that sounds stupid to you, but I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.”

  Lucy smiled and shook her head. “I know. And if you were more like me, I probably never would have married you.”

  It was the best moment of Mr. Meinert’s whole day.

  Six

  SNAP

  It was quieter than usual as Mr. Meinert walked into the chorus room on Thursday afternoon. The kids seemed a little tense, a little uncertain.

  Mr. Meinert liked it. It was a nice change. As a young man starting his second year of teaching, he was the one who usually felt tense and uncertain. He thought, Maybe I should explode more often.

  As he took attendance he avoided looking at Hart Evans. Even if he had, their eyes would not have met. Hart was also being careful not to look at Mr. Meinert. He had decided it was a good day to keep a low profile.

  The teacher tossed his grade book back onto his desk and said, “Let’s start off today with our new Hanukkah song.”

  A low groan rumbled through the room. Mr. Meinert ignored it. “We’re going to have to work on some Hebrew words. Everyone please stand up in front of your desks.”

  There was more grumbling as the kids stood up. Again, Mr. Meinert ignored it. “We’ll start with an easy one—I’m sure you already know it. Take a deep breath, and let me hear everyone say ‘Shalom.”

  The word that came back at him sounded a little like “salami.”

  Mr. Meinert shook his head. “No. No. Listen: Sha-lom. Say it.”

  Again the class made a sound.

  Again Mr. Meinert shook his head. “No. Not ‘Shiloom.’ Sha-lom. That’s a long o sound, like ‘home.’ Say it clearly with me. One, two, three: Sh—”

  Halfway into the first syllable Karen Baker pointed at the windows and yelped, “Look! It’s snowing!”

  The Hebrew lesson screeched to a stop. Everyone turned to look. “Hey! Snow! Look! It is—it’s snowing!”

  Tim Miller shouted, “Maybe tomorrow will be a snow day!”

  A spontaneous cheer burst out, and the kids rushed toward the long wall of windows.

  The music teacher felt the anger rise up in his chest, just as it had yesterday. He wanted to scream and shake his fist at the class. But he resisted.

  He walked slowly over to his desk. On his way Mr. Meinert noticed with some satisfaction that one kid had stayed at his seat: Hart Evans.

  Mr. Meinert forced himself to sit down behind his desk. He opened a copy of Music Educator magazine. He flipped to an article about teaching the music of Bach to high school students. He made himself sit still and stare at the page.

  He read the first sentence of the article, and then he read it again, and then a third time. He clenched his teeth and felt his jaw muscles getting tighter and tighter. He said to himself, I’m not going to yell. I will not lose my temper. The kids know that what they’re doing isn’t right, and they will stop it. Then we’ll begin again. I will sit here and read until everyone sits down and the room is quiet.

  It didn’t happen. The kids at the windows stayed there. Ed Kenner opened one and stuck his hand out to try to catch snowflakes. In five seconds all the windows were open.

  Around the room small groups of children formed, and kids started talking and laughing. Some of them leaned against the folding desks, and some sat down in clusters on the floor.

  Even though he didn’t look up from his magazine, Mr. Meinert could tell kids were sneaking quick looks at him. As three minutes crawled by, Mr. Meinert realized that since he didn’t look mad, didn’t look like a threat, the kids were perfectly happy to pretend he wasn’t there. He had ceased to exist. Everyone was perfectly happy to do nothing. Apparently, doing nothing was a lot more fun than singing in the sixth grade chorus.

  Mr. Meinert did not normally do things on the spur of the moment. He liked to plan. He liked to make lists. He liked to organize his thoughts. He liked to think, and then think again.

  Not this time.

  It was partly because of what had happened the day before—the rubber band incident. It was partly because of everything his wife had said to him at dinner yesterday. It was partly because he hadn’t slept well last night and had been feeling lousy all day. And it was partly because Mr. Meinert was sick and tired of trying to make this mob of kids sing when most of them clearly did not want to.

  For a dozen different reasons, in Mr. Meinert’s mind something snapped. He jumped to his feet, grabbed a piece of chalk, and began writing on the board.

  Kids turned to watch.

  In tall letters he wrote HOL—but he pressed so hard and wrote so fast that the chalk broke. Mr. Meinert threw the yellow stub to the floor, snatched another piece, and kept pushing until he had written these words on the chalkboard:

  HOLIDAY CONCERT

  December 22, 7 PM

  Quiet spread across the room like an oil spill. Kids began tiptoeing back to their seats. His shoulders tense and his jaw still clenched, Mr. Meinert kept writing.

  Sixth Grade Orchestra–20 minutes

  Sixth Grade Band–20 minutes

  Sixth Grade Chorus–30 minutes

  Mr. Meinert underlined the bottom words three times, and each time the chalk made a sound that would have made a dog run out of the room.

  Then he turned to look at the class. Each child was seated, every eye was on his face.

  Mr. Meinert spoke slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. “Thirty minutes. That’s how long the chorus will perform during the holiday concert. All your parents will be there. Grandparents will be there. Probably brothers and sisters. It’s the biggest concert of the year. Well, guess what?” He slowly raised his righ
t arm and with his fingers stretched out, palm down, he swept his hand from side to side, pointing at the whole chorus. “This holiday concert, this thirty-minute performance? It’s all yours.”

  Someone let out a nervous laugh.

  Mr. Meinert spun toward the sound. “Think this is funny? Well, just wait until December twenty-second, a little after seven thirty. That’s when the real fun begins. You see, no one’s coming to that concert to see me. I’m just the music teacher. Everyone is coming to see you, to listen to you. To watch the wonderful program. So that’s when things will start to get fun. Because from this moment on, the holiday concert is all up to you. To you. Not me. It’s not my concert. It’s your concert. You don’t like the songs I’ve picked? Fine. Pick your own. You don’t like the way I run the rehearsals? No problem. Run them yourselves. You don’t want to sing at all? Then you can just stand up in front of your parents and the rest of the school for half an hour and do nothing. Who knows what will happen on December twenty-second? Not me. Right now, there is only one thing that I’m sure of. On December twenty-second a little after seven thirty in the evening, I will make sure that all of you are on that stage in the auditorium. What happens once you’re there … that’s all up to you.”

  Mr. Meinert turned around, looked at the wall calendar, then picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

  23 DAYS

  “Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Counting today, there are twenty-three class periods left before the day of your concert. There won’t be any after-school rehearsals like we had for the Halloween concert, no dress rehearsal the night before. You have only these twenty-three class periods. You’ve learned four songs so far. But of course, you might want to toss them out and choose different songs. All that is now up to you. So. Have a nice concert.”