The Last Holiday Concert Read online

  Hart thought about that, about being elected. He had been elected, and without asking anybody for a single vote. How come the kids elected me? Because I’m popular, that’s how come.

  Hart had always known he was pretty popular. But this election? That proved it. And that made him feel good.

  Then Hart thought, But it was also sort of a joke. Everyone thought it would be funny if I was the chorus director. Especially after that rubber band business. They thought it would be funny.

  Hart smiled and nodded. It was funny.

  Then Hart sat up straight on the bench in the office, sat up so fast that he almost banged his head against the wall. Mr. Meinert … he thinks it’s funny, too! Me, being the director! And me standing up tomorrow and saying I can’t do it—he thinks that’ll be the funniest part of all! I’m squirming, and he’s having a blast! He’s going to be laughing the whole time!

  Hart sat on the bench staring straight ahead, nodding slowly, his eyes bright. The look on his face was so intense that when Mrs. Hood glanced at him, she stood up and said, “Hart, are you all right?”

  Surprised, Hart looked at her blankly for a second. “Me?” he asked.

  Mrs. Hood said, “Yes. Are you okay?”

  Hart nodded, and with a crooked little smile he said, “I’m just fine.”

  Ten

  BRILLIANCE

  On Friday Mr. Meinert called the chorus to order as usual. He took attendance as usual. Then he said, “Hart, it’s all yours.”

  Right away Tim Miller chirped, “Yippee—free period!”

  Before a lot more cheering could break out, Hart stood up and said, “Hold it, everybody. Listen a minute … listen.”

  It got completely quiet. The sudden silence surprised Hart almost as much as it surprised Mr. Meinert.

  Hart froze for a second or two and his face started to get red. But he gulped and said, “I… I know that me … you know, me getting elected and everything? I know it was sort of a joke—and it’s pretty funny.”

  Tim Miller wagged his head and went, “Har, har, har! Haw, haw, haw!” exaggerating a big laugh. The rest of the kids laughed too, but when Hart raised his hand, everyone got quiet.

  Again Hart was amazed by how quickly the kids quieted down for him. And again so was Mr. Meinert.

  Hart said, “It’s funny and all, but the concert’s really got to happen. Like, we’ve really got to stand up in the auditorium in front of everybody for a long time and … and do something.”

  “Hey!” said Tim. “I can dance! Look!” And he jumped out of his chair and started swinging his hips and waving his arms around.

  Hart grinned and nodded, and then he said, “Yeah, but can you do that all by yourself up on the stage for half an hour … and with your grandma watching?” That got a big laugh, and Tim took a bow and sat down.

  Hart said, “So I started thinking last night. And I don’t think we better have any free periods. Because making a concert happen, it won’t be easy.”

  Tim and a few of his pals said, “Hey, no fair!” “Yeah, no fair!” But most of the kids were listening to Hart and nodding, right there with him.

  Mr. Meinert was listening too. This was the part he’d been waiting for.

  Hart said, “So I’ve got a question for Mr. Meinert—a very important question.”

  Mr. Meinert stood up and faced Hart. The music teacher was careful to keep his face under control, to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want to appear too happy about being asked to be the director again. And he wanted to be able to look surprised when Hart asked him.

  Hart cleared his throat. The room went still as a comic strip. Hart said, “I want to know, Mr. Meinert—because, you know how you said we could do anything for our part of the big concert?” Mr. Meinert nodded, and Hart went on, “So what I want to know is—if the chorus’s part of the concert went on for more than thirty minutes, will we get in trouble? ‘Cause I’ve got tons of great ideas about cool stuff we could do, but I don’t know how it can all fit into just half an hour.”

  Before Mr. Meinert could open his mouth, Ed Kenner called out “What kind of stuff, Hart?”

  “Yeah,” said Colleen, “do you mean like costumes? And decorations, like snowflakes, or stars? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about the concert too.”

  Hart nodded, grabbing a clipboard from his backpack. “Yeah, lots of costumes, and stuff like drum solos and maybe karaoke with the audience. And maybe somebody could dress up like Elvis in a Santa suit.”

  “Me!” yelled Tim. “Me! I can be a perfect Elvis!” And he got up and started dancing again.

  Jenna waved both hands. “Hart! Hart! At home we’ve got these two dreidel costumes my aunt made—like you spin around in them and you get all dizzy and fall down, but it’s okay because they’re made of this soft rubber stuff. They’re really funny—could we use them do you think?”

  “Sure, sounds great!” said Hart. “There’s a ton of stuff we could do!”

  The room began buzzing, and six or seven other kids were trying to get Hart’s attention. But he held up his hand and turned back to Mr. Meinert. Again it got quiet, and Hart said, “So what do you think, Mr. Meinert? Can our part of the concert go a little longer?”

  Mr. Meinert was having trouble with his face. It would not behave. His mouth was smiling—almost smiling. But not his eyes. No smile there at all. His voice wasn’t much better. He growled, “Well … it’s not good to go on too long.”

  “But everybody’s coming to see us, right?” asked Hart. “Like you said?”

  Mr. Meinert nodded slightly.

  “So,” said Hart, “it ought to be okay as long as we don’t go way too long, right?”

  Mr. Meinert’s face was in big trouble now. No smile at all. “Yes … I guess so.”

  “Great!” said Hart. He turned back to the class. “Now, we’ve really got to get serious, okay? So Colleen, could you be sort of like the stage director? I know you could do a really great job.” Colleen smiled and nodded, and Hart said, “And could you maybe get some kids together and come up with ideas about decorations? And costumes, too? Because we can do whatever we want. It doesn’t have to look like a regular old concert. And then we can all talk about the ideas on Monday. And does anybody have one of those karaoke computer programs?”

  Ann and Lee raised their hands. Hart nodded and said, “Great… over the weekend you should both look at them and see if there are any Christmas type songs. ‘Cause that could really be fun. And listen, everybody, listen. We should probably sing some regular concert songs too, because, you know, like, we’re the chorus. So everyone should make a list of some songs that might be good, and then we can write them all on the board on Monday and decide which ones to sing. And if anyone wants to sing a solo, that’d be great … but no one has to. Now, how many kids here know how to play an instrument?”

  Completely ignored, Mr. Meinert walked over and sat down at his desk. He tried to act like he wasn’t interested. But he was. He also tried to act like his feelings weren’t hurt. But they were. And he was still having plenty of trouble with his face.

  But more than that, his mind was spinning. He could not believe what he’d just seen. Four minutes! It had taken Hart Evans only four minutes to get the whole group excited about working together. And not only that—everyone had practically cheered about doing more than they had to.

  Watching out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Meinert saw Hart hurry over to Ross, heard Hart use a good loud voice as he said, “Hey, do you think you could be in charge of organizing all the music on Monday? Can I count on you?” Ross smiled and nodded, excited, honored that Hart would give him such an important job.

  Brilliant! The word jumped into Mr. Meinert’s mind. The kid’s already got Colleen and Ross working for him. Brilliant! And he’s even got Tim Miller focused—still wacky, but focused. Amazing!

  As if to prove the point, Tim ran over to Mr. Meinert’s desk, panting and bobbing from side to side. “Mr. Meinert? Mr. Meinert?
You know that thing Elvis does when he sings, you know, like with his upper lip? Is it sort of like … like this?” And Tim pushed his face into a sneer.

  Mr. Meinert smiled and nodded. “Almost. Rent an Elvis movie this weekend, maybe Blue Hawaii. You’ll get it.”

  “Cool!” said Tim, and he spun off into orbit again, playing an air guitar.

  Over the next thirty-five minutes the music room did not plunge into chaos. Instead, small groups formed up, some sitting on the floor, some around the tables down front, and some at desks pulled into the corners. There was a lot of loud talking, a lot of moving around, and some arguing and shouting—laughing, too. There was plenty of noise, but most of it had a purpose.

  And whenever Mr. Meinert glanced up, there was Hart in the thick of it all, walking from cluster to cluster with his clipboard, making notes, making jokes, making friends, pulling the whole chorus together. And smiling.

  Because Hart Evans was not having any trouble with his face. No trouble at all.

  Eleven

  FEELINGS

  At three fifteen on Friday Mr. Meinert sat alone in the music room. He slumped in his chair, staring at the wall. A couple of nights ago his wife had told him what he ought to do. And now he agreed with her. He wanted to quit—just quit.

  Oh, yeah, he thought, I’m a great teacher! What was I thinking? All that grandstanding. “The whole concert is up to you now, kids.” And when Hart steps up to the challenge and it starts looking like they might actually pull something together, what do I do? I get all mad—and then I sit around with my feelings hurt like a big baby. I am such a loser! I… I give up!

  At this same moment Hart sat alone on the long bench in the office. He was dealing with some feelings of his own. Part of him wanted to grin and cheer about what he’d pulled off in chorus today. The scene had played out perfectly. Mr. Meinert had been expecting one thing, and he had done the opposite. He had sprung a perfect trap. And Mr. Meinert knew that he’d done it on purpose. That look on Mr. Meinert’s face when he’d popped the surprises about the concert? Priceless! The guy had tried to hide it. Didn’t work. The anger was right there for anybody to see.

  But along with the anger, Hart had seen something else—just a glimpse before it was hidden. Hart had seen some sadness in Mr. Meinert’s eyes. Some hurt. And part of Hart didn’t feel so good about that.

  Still, Hart said to himself, Mr. Meinert had it coming. All I did was what he was trying to do to me. I just did it better, that’s all. And if he’s mad about it… well, too bad.

  Hart tried to let that be the end of it, tried to do some math homework. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Ten minutes later Mr. Meinert had his coat on. He grabbed his briefcase, picked up a small stack of mail from his desk, locked the music room door, and headed for the office.

  Mr. Meinert had one hand on the office door before he saw Hart, sitting there on the bench below the clock. Mr. Meinert stopped, turned quickly, and hurried down the hall toward the parking lot. He shoved the envelopes into his coat pocket. The mail could wait. He’d had enough of Hart Evans for one day.

  He was almost at the double doors when he heard, “Hey! Mr. Meinert!”

  It was Hart.

  Mr. Meinert turned around. Acting surprised, he said, “Oh, it’s you. I’m sort of in a hurry. Can this wait till Monday?”

  Hart trotted down the hall until he stood right in front of the music teacher. He did his best to smile, a little out of breath. He panted harder than he needed to and fanned his face, stalling for time. Hart wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Mr. Meinert. But he felt like he ought to say something—anything. So he just started talking.

  “Um … I just wanted to say … well, what I did in chorus today? I know it wasn’t what we talked about yesterday. And I think it kind of made you mad. And I’m sorry about that. ’Cause I guess I knew it would … make you mad, I mean.” Hart gulped, and made himself keep talking, his mind barely half a step ahead of his words. “But … but if I made you mad today … that means you weren’t just sort of willing to do the concert, right? I mean, you got mad because … because you still really want to run the concert, right?”

  Mr. Meinert did not want to be having this conversation. He didn’t want to answer Hart’s question. He was tempted to turn his back and go out the door.

  But he didn’t walk away from the question. Instead Mr. Meinert did what he’d learned to do all his life: He told the truth.

  He nodded slightly. “Yes, that’s true, Hart. I would have been happy to take charge of the chorus again.”

  Hart said, “Really?” Then, thinking fast, he said, “That’s … that’s great! I am so glad to hear you say that! Because I think we could put on some kind of a concert—just the kids, I mean—but I don’t really know much about music. None of us does, not like you. So … so if we get in trouble, like with the music, will you help us? I mean, can I count on you?”

  Mr. Meinert remembered what he’d seen during chorus earlier today, remembered Hart’s talk with Ross. And he thought, Hart Evans is recruiting me! He’s inviting me to be on his team, just like he did with Ross! The music teacher stood there with his mouth open, amazed at the nerve of this kid.

  Still, it felt like an honest invitation, so he gave Hart an honest answer. “Yes,” Mr. Meinert said. “Yes, you can. You can count on me.”

  Hart smiled and stuck out his hand, and after a half second’s hesitation, Mr. Meinert shook it, surprised by the strength he felt there, the energy and the sincerity.

  “Great!” said Hart. “Well … I’ve got to go back to detention. So … see you Monday.”

  Mr. Meinert nodded, turned, and walked out the door, heading toward his car.

  As he pulled in a deep breath of cold November air, he had to smile. And just as it had earlier, one word jumped into his mind: Brilliant!

  Twelve

  AS VIEWED FROM ABOVE

  The chorus room was not the only part of Palmer Intermediate School that was buzzing with fresh activity. Hart had been elected sixth grade chorus director at approximately 1:30 on Thursday, November 18. At 3:30 that same afternoon Mr. Richards had gotten a phone call.

  “Mr. Richards?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Melanie Baker. I’m Karen Baker’s mom, and she’s in the chorus this year. Well, today after school Karen told me that a boy named … is it Hart? Or maybe it’s Bart … well, anyway, some sixth grade boy is the director of the chorus now. And she said that the music teacher just lets the kids go wild. Have you heard anything about this?”

  He had not heard, but Mr. Richards didn’t say that. He said, “Mr. Meinert is the chorus director, and he’s an exceptional teacher. I know the chorus is working hard to prepare for the holiday concert these days, and if Mr. Meinert has asked the students to take part in planning the concert, then the room might be a little more active than usual. Is your daughter upset about this?”

  Mrs. Baker laughed. “Who, Karen? She’d die if she knew I was calling you. She loves how crazy it is, and she told me that tomorrow she’s taking her CD player and some little speakers so she and her friend can practice dancing. It’s me, I’m the one who’s worried. It just sounds a little out of control.”

  The principal assured Mrs. Baker that no part of the intermediate school was out of control at any time, and that he would keep a close eye on the progress of the chorus.

  The second phone call was waiting on hold before Mrs. Baker had said good-bye.

  “Hi, Mr. Richards, it’s Maureen Kendall. If we can, I’d like to request a schedule change for my son, Thomas. He’d like to switch to a study hall after lunch, maybe in the library? Right now he has chorus during that period, but from what he’s told me about that class, I think he’d do better if he could have a quiet study time instead.”

  The principal explained that midyear schedule changes were not possible, and then he assured Mrs. Kendall that chorus was the right place for Thomas, and that any conf
usion in that room was only a temporary condition.

  By the time he left for the day, the principal had spoken with two other parents about the situation in the sixth grade chorus.

  Mr. Richards was not a naturally nosy person. But he was responsible for the quality of learning and the daily safety of every student, and if there was a problem in the chorus room, or in any room, he needed to know about it. So he decided that the next day he would do a little snooping.

  Friday after lunch, instead of heading straight back to the office from the cafeteria, Mr. Richards walked outside across the playground, back inside through the gym door, down the hallway past the media center, into the auditorium, across the stage, and out the door on the other side. He was headed toward the chorus room.

  He heard the class the second he turned the corner into the long hallway, and the noise increased with each step he took. And when the principal peeked through the window of the closed door, it didn’t look good. Kids were sitting around on the floor, chairs and tables were pulled into disorganized groups all over the place, the noise was far above any acceptable level, and one boy was running around the room acting like he was playing a guitar. And in the midst of this mess, there was Mr. Meinert, sitting calmly at his desk, reading. This was not right, not at all.

  Mr. Richards put a hand on the doorknob, but then his eye happened to stop on Hart Evans. The boy was half hidden, squatting next to some girls who were sitting on the floor. Hart nodded as one girl talked, and he looked from face to face as the others commented, and he took careful notes on a clipboard.

  Then Hart stood up, walked to a group of three boys who were arguing, listened for a minute, and then said something. The boys listened, nodded, Hart made a few notes, and then he moved on.

  Mr. Richards knew what he was watching. He’d been involved with work like this most of his professional life. This was committee work. And Hart Evans was clearly the chairperson. Yes, it was noisy, and somebody should be sitting on that boy who was dancing around the room. But the situation wasn’t dangerous, and it was not out of control. He’d have to keep an eye on things, but that was all in a day’s work.