The Last Holiday Concert Page 8

  Almost every hand went up.

  Hart said, “Okay. Then let’s get started.”

  The rest of the period was democracy’s finest hour. The nominations came thick and fast, all mixed together—for songs, for special acts, for solo performances—and Mr. Meinert sat at his computer table, typing everything onto a ballot. After about twenty minutes everyone agreed there were enough nominations, and Mr. Meinert printed out one ballot for each kid.

  Then the room was opened up for campaigning.

  Allie Marston stood up and said, “We just have to sing ‘Silent Night.’ I think it’s the best song, because … it’s really about Christmas.”

  James Archer said, “Yeah, but what about where it says ‘the Savior is born’ and stuff—maybe kids from other religions don’t want to sing that.”

  Jenna said, “I’m Jewish, and I don’t care. I think my parents might, but not me. It’s only a song. It’s not like we’re trying to change anybody’s religion. If somebody gets mad we can say it’s just educational, learning about other religions. And we can include something about Islam. And Kwanzaa, too. But what I really wanted to say is that I hope we can sing the dreidel song—mostly because it’s fast and funny.”

  Carl made a pitch for his card trick, Shannon and Olivia talked up their ballet number, and Heather and Jeanie said they still wanted to sing a Korean Christmas carol.

  Ann said, “What about the karaoke idea, where we make people come up from the audience and sing along with the chorus? I still like that idea.”

  Lots of kids made little speeches about their favorite songs, and right near the end Hart said, “And I still think we should do ‘The Little Drummer Boy’—because the drumming stuff could be cool.”

  With about five minutes left in the period, Hart said, “Okay. Time to vote. Everyone pick six things you want to be in the program. I’ll come in after school and count, and Mr. Meinert will check everything. Then tomorrow we can see the results and start rehearsing. So everybody mark your ballots now.”

  The room hushed—only crinkling paper and the scratching of pencils and pens.

  Tim Miller called out, “If I mess up and want to change something, can I just cross it out? ‘Cause I’m using a pen.”

  Hart nodded, and the voting continued.

  When the bell rang, Hart hurried toward the doorway, and said, “Give me your ballots on the way out.”

  Tim Miller shouted, “Me first!” and rushed over to cast his ballot. He had folded his paper into a tiny square lump, and on one side in red marker it said TOP SECRET.

  Hart called out, “And please, only fold your ballot once.”

  On his way through the door Ross said, “Good idea, Hart.”

  Hart said, “Thanks. Yours too.”

  Ed Farley handed over his ballot, and in a voice low enough so only Hart could hear, he said, “If ‘Drummer Boy’ makes it, think I could play too? I had a couple lessons.”

  “Sure,” Hart nodded. “Why not?”

  And as a crowd of girls hurried out, Hart even got half a smile from Shannon Roda.

  When the room was empty, Hart carried the stack of ballots down to the front of the room. “Mr. Meinert, where should I put these?”

  “Over here. I’ve got a big envelope.”

  Hart handed him the ballots. Then he said, “At the beginning of the period? How come you acted like moving the concert to the gym was my idea?”

  Mr. Meinert smiled and said, “How come you didn’t stop me and tell everyone that you had nothing to do with it?”

  Hart grinned. “Because I was dead meat, that’s how come. I needed all the help I could get.”

  Still smiling, Mr. Meinert nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Well, it worked great,” said Hart. “So thanks. A lot.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mr. Meinert paused a moment, and then said, “But next time you need help, remember to ask. I said you could count on me, and I meant it.”

  Hart nodded. “Okay. I’ll remember.” He picked up his backpack and started toward the door.

  Then he stopped and said, “How’d you come up with that idea—moving to the old gym?”

  It was Mr. Meinert’s turn to grin. “Simple. I’ve been learning a lot this past couple weeks. So I just asked myself, ‘If I was as crazy as Hart Evans, what would I do next?’”

  Hart laughed. “Right. So I’ll see you after school… to count,” and he hurried out to get to his next class.

  Mr. Meinert sat at his desk and opened the big drawer. From a file labeled LARGE ENVELOPES he pulled one out and began stuffing the ballots into it, slowly shaking his head, a smile still on his face.

  A few short weeks ago he had hoped Hart Evans would fall flat on his face. He had wanted the kid to hand the concert back, sit down, and shut up. Earlier today as he had talked with the principal, and then with the gym teachers and the custodians, Mr. Meinert had realized how important this concert had become to him. He wanted it to be a success.

  None of this was about him—Mr. Meinert could see that now. In two weeks, this wouldn’t even be his school anymore. But after those two weeks, the kids—including Hart Evans—they would still be his students.

  And this concert was their concert.

  Seventeen

  ACCOUNTING

  On Friday, December 10—countdown day number nine—Hart delivered the election results to the rest of the voters.

  The thirty-six nominated songs and activities had faced the popular vote. Democracy itself had worked perfectly. So democracy wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was math.

  With seventy-four kids casting 6 votes each, there had been a total of 444 votes. If each of the thirty-six different ballot choices had been equally popular, then they would have gotten an equal number of votes—a little more than 12 votes each. But, of course, it hadn’t worked that way.

  The three biggest winners—“Frosty the Snowman,” “Deck the Halls,” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem”—had been extremely popular, and all together had taken 181 votes.

  The next three winners—“Jingle Bells,” “I Have a Little Dreidel,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”—had been quite popular too, taking another 96 votes. So after the top six items had drawn 277 votes, the thirty other possible choices were left to split up the remaining votes: 167.

  If each of the thirty remaining ballot choices had been equally popular, then each would have gotten between 5 and 6 votes—and this is the interesting part: Most of them did. And since most of them did, that meant that the last two highest vote getters didn’t have to get very many votes to win—one got only 11 votes and one got just 9 votes. And the last two winners were the Nutcracker ballet number and Carl Preston’s card trick.

  There was nothing to argue about. Democracy had run its course and the numbers told the truth. But numbers don’t account for feelings.

  Carl Preston, and Shannon and Olivia, and the friends who had voted for them were happy—so about fifteen kids were thrilled with the results.

  The rest of the kids in the chorus weren’t sure how they felt.

  Except for Tom Denby. He was sure. He stood up and said, “I move that we have another election. Nobody wants to see some lame card trick. What Hart said yesterday, about this not being a talent show? That’s right. And that stupid dancing? That stuff makes me gag. So I say we vote again!”

  Shannon spun around in her desk. “Only idiots don’t like ballet! So let’s take a vote on that. Everyone who thinks Tommy’s an idiot raise your hand and say ‘Idiot’!”

  A dozen girls waved their arms and screeched, “Idiot!”

  The room exploded like a grease fire.

  The girls began chanting, “Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot!”

  “Nuh-uh—you’re the idiots! And even if you had talent, ballet would still rot!”

  “Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot!”

  Almost having to shout, Allison said, “Do we really want to have a card trick? As part
of the concert? A card trick?”

  “I’m with you,” called Ed. “Card tricks are for losers!”

  “Says who!” That was Carl.

  “Says me!”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Make me!”

  “Shut up!”

  “No, you shut up!”

  “Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot! Id-i-ot!”

  “Shut up!”

  And above the snapping flames, Tim Miller was trying to get Hart’s attention. “Hart! Elvis is still in the show, right? Hey, Hart! Hart! Elvis? Elvis is okay, right? Right? Hart? Hart!”

  Hart was paralyzed. The election had been completely fair. And now this. Anything he said would only make people angrier. The noise in the room made it impossible to think.

  Hart looked over at Mr. Meinert and … he couldn’t believe it. The guy was sitting on his desk, calmly looking out at the madness in his classroom. It seemed like he didn’t have a care in the world. Hart even thought he saw a slight smile.

  Mr. Meinert turned and caught Hart’s glance. The teacher smiled and shrugged.

  Hart did not see the humor in the situation. Mr. Meinert saw that, and immediately adjusted the expression on his face.

  Hart kept looking at him. And then Hart raised his eyebrows and moved his lips, forming a silent word.

  And Mr. Meinert got the message.

  The word was, Help!

  Eighteen

  JUST AN IDEA

  Mr. Meinert got up and walked over until he stood in front of Hart, almost bumping up against the kids sitting in the first row of folding desks. He raised one hand over his head and waited.

  Mr. Meinert doing anything was unusual these days, so everyone noticed him right away. In less than fifteen seconds all the shouting stopped and the kids settled into their desks.

  Bringing his hand down, Mr. Meinert said, “Thanks. I just wanted to ask a question. Where did the name ‘Winterhope’ come from?”

  Colleen raised her hand. Mr. Meinert pointed and she said, “From Allison. She made it up. Because when Cirque du Soleil makes a new show, they always give it a special name. So that’s what Allison did. And we all liked it and decided to call the concert Winterhope.”

  “But the name itself,” said Mr. Meinert. “What does it mean? Winterhope—hope for what?”

  Allison raised her hand and said, “For peace. That’s what I was thinking. A holiday concert could be about hoping for peace. And the holidays always come in the winter. So, Winter-hope.”

  Mr. Meinert wrote P-E-A-C-E on the chalkboard in big letters. Then he stood back and pointed at it. “You know what that is? It’s a theme, one big idea. If you have a theme you can build a program around it. You’ve all had so many good ideas over these last few weeks. And voting to solve your problems? Just great. But if you want to pull a program together, you might want to think about Allison’s idea of peace. That could really help. Anybody else have a thought about this?”

  Carl raised his hand and said, “So what you’re really saying is, I can’t do my card trick, right?”

  Mr. Meinert shook his head. “I’m not saying that at all. And it’s not my concert. It’s up to all of you. I’m just asking if anyone else thinks Allison’s idea could be a theme. You’ve all come up with so many creative ideas. I hate to see any of them not get used—except that’s probably impossible. But with a theme like peace, a concert could tell a story. Maybe about the search for peace. Or about the need for peace. About the kinds of things people have time for when they’re not fighting and killing each other. Like ballet and magic acts. And maybe a concert with a theme could use more of your ideas. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Less than a month ago, before The Chorus According to Hart, Mr. Meinert would have kept going. He would have started barking orders, giving directions, getting things organized, pushing a plan forward. Not today. He looked around at all the faces in the quiet room and said, “It’s just an idea.” Then he walked back over to his desk and sat down.

  It was exactly the right amount of help, and the right kind, too.

  Hart got it.

  Peace. The theme was a like a lens, and in Hart’s mind ideas began snapping into focus. Before the room got noisy again, Hart said, “Allison’s idea is great, don’t you think? I mean, we can do a million things with that! Don’t you think?”

  Hart wasn’t the only one who got it. Heads were nodding all around the room. Carolyn raised her hand and said, “How about if we had a narrator, sort of telling a story, like Mr. Meinert said. We’ve read plays like that in drama club sometimes.”

  Ross said, “We’d have to write all that out, so someone could read it—the narration, I mean.”

  “Right,” said Hart, “only it doesn’t have to be real long. But it’s going to take some work. Still, I think it’s a good idea, don’t you? Anybody here who’s not in favor of peace?”

  Olivia raised her hand. Hart knew what was coming, and he was ready.

  She said, “What about the election yesterday? Was all that just a joke?”

  Hart shook his head. “No. That election was fair and square. So all the things that won have to be part of the concert now … unless we all decide otherwise. We just have to figure out a way to make everything work together. And … and that’s the whole idea of peace, anyway, to make everything get along together. With no fighting.”

  Mr. Meinert felt the mood of the room begin to change. It was like a midwinter thaw, a warm front sweeping across the group, one kid at a time.

  Hart felt it too, and he kept talking. “I know we can do this. And peace is a huge idea. It’s really important. We all have to think and work together until we figure it out. For the concert. We can do this. We really can.”

  Everyone bought in. The kids didn’t just believe Hart. They trusted him. And they also trusted themselves.

  Nineteen

  CRUNCH TIME

  The earth kept turning, and every time it did, December 22 got one day closer. Hart kept one eye on the calendar, and the other on the frantic preparations.

  Anyone else observing the chorus during those last eleven days would have had a tough time guessing the theme of the concert. Not one of the remaining class periods, not one of the hours before and after school spent working on decorations, not one of the long weekend sessions practicing new songs and preparing the old gym—nothing even remotely resembled peace.

  It took real work to keep the theme in view. To Hart, those eleven days often looked more like a major military operation—and sometimes it was all out war.

  There were battles about which songs worked with the theme and which ones didn’t. There was open conflict about which nonmusical events could be included, and once that was settled, there were heated disputes about the order of the program.

  There were clashes about who should write the narration, and then disagreement about what the narration should be, followed by controversies over who should read which parts. Alliances and coalitions developed, ruled the world for a day or so, and then splintered into rival factions and collapsed. There were tussles and scuffles, quarrels and spats, tiffs and squabbles.

  The road to peace wasn’t easy. But thankfully, all the conflict happened within the framework of a fragile, but miraculously effective, sixth grade democracy.

  And amid the wrangling and bickering, Hart also saw progress, hour by hour, day by day.

  School concerts rarely happen without help from parents. This one was no exception, and when the parent brigade began to work side by side with the kids, Hart felt certain for the first time that this concert was actually going to happen. True, it might still end up being a huge embarrassment, but it was definitely going to happen.

  At least a dozen moms and dads began helping Colleen and her decorating crew, some directly, and some just donating materials. Cardboard and Styrofoam and paint and glue and glitter and string and wire began to pile up so much that the whole decorating operation
had to be moved from the chorus room to the stage in the old gym.

  One mom brought a portable sewing machine and stitched three king-size sheets together. Under Allison’s direction three other parents helped a group of kids paint the huge banner. Then they began working on several smaller banners and signs.

  On the Sunday before the Wednesday concert, six moms and four dads showed up to help hang the decorations and adjust the sound system and set up the folding chairs in the pattern that Jim Barker had designed. There weren’t going to be any raised platforms, and the lighting wasn’t going to remind anyone of a TV show, but Jim had presented some creative ideas, and the chorus had voted and approved.

  Lisa Morton’s dad had decided not to spend twelve thousand dollars on wiring and harnesses so his little girl could fly like an angel, but he and Lisa had come up with something else almost as dramatic. And on that last Sunday afternoon they were both hard at work in the old gym.

  Mr. Meinert kept to the background, but he was hard at work too. He was the one convincing the P. E. teachers to double up their classes and stay out of the old gym for a few days. He was the one convincing teachers with lunch duty to take the kids to the playground instead of the old gym on these blustery December days. He was the one assuring the principal that he hadn’t lost his mind and that he wasn’t trying to give the school a black eye by letting sixth graders run their own concert. He was the one showing up at school early, and working with the soloists during his lunch period, and staying late almost every evening. He was the one making sure the doors of the old gym were open on Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon, and then locked again after everyone else had gone home.

  Mr. Meinert was the one who also had to try to find some peace in his own home. The extra time he spent at school was not helping him find a new job. His wife was not happy about the long hours, and Lucy Meinert had plenty to say about it.

  “You told me that you’d thrown this whole holiday concert mess back at those ungrateful kids, and what did I do? I applauded. I praised you. I thought, ‘My wonderful husband is finally getting smart. He’s finally getting fed up with the way that miserable school system has been treating him.’ And now this. Honestly, David. You know what? It’s a good thing you’re getting fired, that’s what. Because if you weren’t, I don’t know if I could just stand by and watch someone I love struggle so hard to keep on teaching when he knows his whole career is swirling away down the drain!”