The Last Holiday Concert

by Andrew Clements

  Alex understood that Hart was popular, but he wasn’t impressed—except by the way girls talked to Hart. Right before the Halloween dance Alex had said, “I give you permission to put in a good word about me to Regina. Or maybe Emily. Or Caroline. Or Sue. Or any girl. Please.”

  Zack was a different story. Zack had dark curly hair and a big smile, and he was the best soccer player in Brentbury’s junior league. He was plenty popular on his own, but during the first week of sixth grade Zack had looked around and decided that being friends with Hart would be a smart move. They were in the same homeroom, so it had been pretty easy.

  “You and me, Hart,” Zack said one day with a wink, “we’ve got it made.” And there was some truth to that, and Hart knew it. The difference was that Hart didn’t work at being popular. It came naturally.

  Just this morning, milling around in the crowd outside the auditorium, at least a dozen different kids had smiled or waved at Hart, trying to catch his eye, hoping for something in return. Because if Hart noticed you, it made you feel good. And Hart was generous. He nodded at Lee, and smiled at Steve, and he said, “Hey, Tommy.” And then came a nod to a guy on the other side of the hall, and then “Dan—how’s it goin’? Great shoes—those new?” And it wasn’t a fakey nice. Hart was for real.

  No one was immune to Hart’s good nature, his easy self-confidence. When he apologized as he turned in his first social studies report a day late, Mrs. Moughty had said, “I’m still going to have to lower your grade, Hart.” But she didn’t.

  When Hart got caught swinging on the rope in the gym, Mr. Harvis shouted, “Evans, that’ll be ten laps—after school!” Then, when a smiling Hart Evans showed up at three o’clock sharp, the gym teacher growled, “Go on, catch your bus—but don’t let it happen again.” Hart could have charmed the hairnet off a cafeteria lady.

  It was almost Thanksgiving, but to Hart, it felt like the school year was practically over. The days flipped by, and sixth grade at Palmer Intermediate was turning out to be a breeze. His friends were good, his classes were only a minor disruption in his busy social life, and the homework wasn’t too bad either. In short, school was great. Hart felt like he owned the place.

  Except, that is, on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, right after lunch. Because that was when it was time for chorus. And for Mr. Meinert.

  Hart actually loved music. He had taken two years of piano lessons, and recently he’d also begun to play a band instrument—the coolest one, of course—the drums. Except the sixth grade band already had three other more experienced drummers. And that was why Hart had been put into the chorus.

  He even had a decent singing voice—at least, it sounded good to him when he sang in the shower. So music itself wasn’t the problem. Hart just didn’t like chorus.

  He didn’t like standing up and opening his mouth wide and singing songs that he never would have chosen to sing on his own. Hart liked his music and his songs, and he liked to sing them his way. Not Mr. Meinert’s way.

  And then there were the concerts. They were the worst part of the whole deal. The school year seemed like an endless flow of programs and performances—first it was the “Halloween Spooker,” and then came the holiday concert, and then the “Midwinter Sing-Along,” then the “Spring-Has-Sprung” program, and finally, finally, the “Graduation Celebration.”

  Concerts meant learning new songs, and that meant singing them over and over again. And then there was the whole rigamarole of standing up and sitting down together, and walking on and off the stage, and not fidgeting on the risers, and holding the little folder of sheet music, and wearing the white shirt and the black pants and the black socks and the black shoes.

  Hart was sure that Mr. Meinert had designed the entire chorus experience so it would be as awkward and annoying and uncomfortable as humanly possible. Chorus simply was not cool, not one bit of it, which meant that chorus cramped Hart’s style in the worst possible way.

  Because at one end of the Palmer School universe there was Hart and his slowly rotating galaxy of ultimate coolness. Then way, way down at the other end of time and space, past all the stars and moons and planets, there was Mr. Meinert, singing his head off somewhere inside a very uncool black hole.

  Since it was almost Thanksgiving Mr. Meinert was already doing the big push to get ready for the holiday concert. And it was a push. A one-hour musical extravaganza required a massive effort, and from Mr. Meinert’s point of view, his chorus was the main event of the whole show. For over a week Mr. Meinert hadn’t even tried to tell any jokes. He’d been stiff and grumpy and more demanding than ever.

  “Just to pass the time away …”

  The last song of the morning assembly was “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and the performers asked all the kids to stand up and sing along. The banjo player kept stopping the song to shout, “Can’t you kids sing louder than that?” By the third time he’d done it, they were all screaming the words at the tops of their lungs, and when the song ended, the applause was so loud and went on so long that Mr. Richards the principal had to get up on the stage and make everyone be quiet.

  As the kids began leaving the auditorium, Hart caught a glimpse of Mr. Meinert at the side of the stage, thanking the performers.

  Hart smiled, and he thought, See you after lunch, Mr. Meinert.

  Today, for the first time all year, Hart was pretty sure that chorus was going to be fun.

  Three

  MISFIRE

  Hart knew he was taking a risk. He didn’t care. By his calculation, chorus was ten times more annoying than anything else at school—which was saying a lot. Hart felt like chorus needed some excitement—and the risk? Well, that was part of the fun.

  The sixth grade chorus was trying to learn “Up on the Housetop.” Each boy and girl stood in front of a folding desk, and each of them held an old songbook. The music room was shaped like a half circle, and the four stair-stepped levels made it look like the kids were standing on risers.

  The altos kept murdering their harmony part, so Mr. Meinert was making everyone sing the first verse and the refrain again and again and again. Standing down at the front of the room behind an electric piano, he played the melody with his right hand, swung his left arm through the air to keep the rhythm, and sang out the alto part at the top of his lungs, trying to pound the notes into the heads of about thirty sixth-grade girls. He kept having to push his dark hair up off his forehead. His brown eyes flashed warning after warning, and his face got redder and redder. Anyone could see that Mr. Meinert was in no mood for messing around.

  Hart had chosen the classic Number 16 rubber band for today’s raid. Before stretching, a Number 16 rubber band measures 1/16 of an inch thick and 2 1/2 inches from end to end. It has an effective range of about twenty feet. In the hands of an expert, a Number 16 is almost silent and remarkably accurate.

  Hart stood at the left side of the room with most of the other boys. His voice was pretty deep, so he wasn’t up in the front row, and that was good. Keeping his eyes on Mr. Meinert, Hart pulled a fresh Number 16 out of his front pocket. He looped one end around the top corner of the stiff cover of his music book. He stretched the rubber band back about four inches, and then pressed it against the edge of the book with his index finger.

  He was loaded and ready.

  Hart raised the music book and shifted his weight so he had a clear launch path between Jimmy Lohman and Bill Ralston. He felt his hands begin to sweat. As they sang “Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn’t go?” Mr. Meinert turned to face the girls, just as he had before. And Hart lifted his finger.

  The rubber band zipped past Jimmy’s right ear, traced a graceful arc in front of the rolling blackboard, bounced once on Mr. Meinert’s slanted music stand, and then stuck on the front of his sweater—a little tan circle on the dark green wool.

  Mr. Meinert didn’t notice it. He did notice a flutter of giggles in the room, but he stopped them with a shake of his head. The song went on.

  H
art should have stopped while he was ahead. But he didn’t. He pulled out a fresh rubber band and before he loaded it onto the edge of the music book, Hart twisted it into a double loop to give it extra force. He was going to put this one up into the fluorescent lights above Mr. Meinert’s head. He pulled back the doubled rubber band, adjusted his aim, and at the next “Up on the housetop, click, click, click,” Hart released shot number two.

  Maybe his finger slipped. Maybe Hart had stretched the band too far. Or maybe he shouldn’t have used the double loop. Because the rubber band flew straight and fast and hard, and it snapped smack into the side of Mr. Meinert’s neck.

  The piano stopped as Mr. Meinert jerked his head like he’d been stung by a bee. He slapped at his neck and ducked his head, looking around quickly to try to spot a hornet or a wasp. Some of the kids laughed, and Mr. Meinert knew he must have looked silly. He smiled and held his hands up to quiet everyone down. He said, “Okay, show’s over. Let’s take it from the beginning of the refrain again.”

  He looked down at his piano, and that’s when he saw the rubber bands—one on the keyboard, and the other hanging on his sweater.

  Mr. Meinert’s eyes narrowed. His lips twitched and slowly twisted into an angry frown. There was a hushed moment of calm, and then the storm.

  “WHO?” he boomed. “WHO DID THIS?” Eyes flashing, he snatched up the rubber bands. Pinching them between his thumb and forefinger, he shook them out in front of his face.

  “WHO?” he shouted again. “Who shot these?” He stalked out from behind his piano. “Who? Tell me right now!”

  A man who gets hopping mad, who gets so angry that he sputters and spits and stomps around, all red in the face with his eyes bugging out and his teeth showing—in a comedy movie or a TV show, that can be very funny. In real life, it’s not.

  Realizing that the shots must have come from his right, Mr. Meinert spun to face the boys. “NOW!” he bellowed. “Tell me now! Who did this?” Mr. Meinert looked quickly from face to face, and when he locked eyes with Hart, he knew.

  “You!” He pointed at Hart’s face. “It was you, right? RIGHT? Answer me!”

  Hart couldn’t think. He’d never seen a teacher this angry before. All his coolness melted. Hart gave a guilty little nod.

  In a flash Mr. Meinert had hold of Hart’s arm, steering him toward the door. They were out of the room and down the hall to the office in fifteen seconds. The man walked so fast Hart had to trot to keep from being dragged along. Breathing hard, Mr. Meinert’s face was still twisted with anger. Through clenched teeth he kept saying, “Very funny! Very funny!”

  The door to the principal’s office was closed, and Mr. Meinert knocked and pushed it open in one move. Mr. Richards looked up from the papers on his desk as Mr. Meinert shouted, “This … this young man thought it would be funny to shoot me in the neck with a rubber band!”

  The principal looked from Mr. Meinert’s bright red face to Hart’s pale one.

  He nodded at Mr. Meinert and said, “You can let go of his arm. He’s not going to run away.”

  Mr. Meinert dropped Hart’s arm. Then he held up a rubber band and said, “This is the one that hit me in the neck.”

  Mr. Richards looked at Hart. “Is that right, Hart? Did you shoot that rubber band?”

  Hart gulped and found his voice. “I … I did shoot it, but I wasn’t aiming it at him. Honest. And I’m sorry. I was aiming way above him, at the lights. Really.”

  “Oh, sure!” said Mr. Meinert, shouting again. “And it just happens to hit me right in the neck.” Holding up the other rubber band, he said, “And what about this one, the one that stuck on my sweater? I suppose you were aiming this one at the lights too?”

  The principal stood up. “Mr. Meinert, please. There’s no need to shout. I’d like you to go back to your classroom now. Is anyone there supervising the children?”

  “Well, no,” said Mr. Meinert, “but … but this was … it was an attack. It was an emergency.”

  Mr. Richards nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, and we’ll get it all sorted out. But you need to get back to your classroom. I’ll deal with Hart.”

  Mr. Meinert turned, gave Hart a last angry look, and stomped out of the office.

  Mr. Richards sat back down in his chair. Hart looked across the desk at him. “Really, I didn’t mean to hit him. And that first shot? I aimed it at his music stand, and then the rubber band bounced onto his sweater. It just bounced. That’s the way it happened, I swear. I wasn’t trying to hit anybody.”

  Mr. Richards looked at Hart a long moment and then said, “I believe you—that hitting him was an accident. But there’s no excuse for shooting rubber bands in the first place. If that rubber band had hit Mr. Meinert in the eye, we’d be looking at a big problem here. Do you have any more?”

  Hart dug into his pocket and then dumped the rubber bands onto the desk.

  “How about in your locker?”

  Hart shook his head. “No, that’s all I have.”

  Mr. Richards said, “I’m keeping you after school today. And tomorrow. Come here to the office, and I expect you to bring homework or a book to read. Is that clear?”

  Hart nodded. Then he said, “Um … can I call my mom? She doesn’t get home until a half hour after I do, and she doesn’t like my little sister to be alone after school.”

  Mr. Richards glanced at his watch. “Hmm … I see. In that case, you can serve your detentions starting tomorrow. Tell your parents that you’ll be staying after school for one hour both tomorrow and Friday. And tell them why. And no more rubber bands at school. Understood?”

  Hart nodded. Then he said, “So … so I can go now?”

  Mr. Richards nodded. “Yes, you may go.”

  Hart left the principal’s office, but as he reached the door to the hallway, Mr. Richards called, “Wait a second, Hart.” Hart stopped and turned back.

  Mr. Richards said, “Did you leave any belongings in the music room?”

  Hart shook his head. “No. My book bag’s in my locker.”

  Mr. Richards pointed at the long bench against the wall of the main office. “Then I want you to sit right there until this period is over.”

  Hart said, “Okay,” and he walked over and sat down.

  After Mr. Richards shut his door, Hart turned and looked up over his shoulder until he could see the clock above him. It was one forty-four. That meant he had nine minutes to wait. And think.

  At first all Hart could think about was the crazed, angry look on Mr. Meinert’s face. The guy had totally flipped out. Considering everything, Hart felt like he’d gotten off easy. And he felt like Mr. Richards was a pretty good guy. He felt like the principal had saved him from Mr. Meinert.

  The principal was smart, too. Because Hart understood why the man had told him to wait in the office until the period was over. Mr. Richards didn’t think it would be a good idea for Hart and Mr. Meinert to be in the same room again, at least not right away.

  And Hart agreed. Completely.

  Four

  BAD BEHAVIOR

  At seven minutes after three Mr. Meinert stormed into the principal’s office.

  “Please, please tell me I didn’t just see that Evans kid getting on a bus to go home, out there laughing and joking around with all his buddies. Tell me I’m seeing things—like a kid who shoots a teacher with a rubber band going home instead of staying after school! Tell me I’m blind. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me something, anything!”

  Mr. Richards got up and closed his door. “David, this is the second time today I’ve had to ask you not to shout in my office. Please, sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down!”

  Mr. Richards glared at him. He pointed at one of the blue plastic chairs in front of his desk. “David, sit.”

  The principal sat in the other blue chair. “Yes, that was Hart, and you saw him getting on that bus because both his parents work, and his mom expects him to be at home with his younger sister after school. It
would have been difficult for the parents if Hart had stayed for detention today. If a boy misbehaves, we punish the boy, not his parents. So relax. Starting tomorrow Hart will be staying after school for the next two days.”

  Mr. Meinert popped up halfway out of his chair. “Two days!? Only two days?”

  Mr. Richards nodded. “That’s right, two days detention. I don’t believe Hart hit you on purpose, and he’s staying after school two days for shooting rubber bands at school. That’s fair, and that’s the end of it. So let it go, David. Do you understand me? Let it go.”

  “Or what?” asked Mr. Meinert. “You can’t fire me twice.”

  Mr. Richards paused. He’d had a feeling this was going to come up. In a gentler voice he said, “You haven’t been fired, David, and you know it. It’s a town budget crisis. All the schools are cutting staff. I told you that a month ago. And I had nothing to do with deciding that the art and music teachers would be the first ones to go. I know that losing your job is upsetting, but you cannot let your personal situation affect your behavior at school.”

  “My behavior!” Mr. Meinert made it all the way to his feet on that one. “What do you mean, my behavior?”

  “David, sit down. I’m talking about this afternoon, with Hart. You overreacted. And I had to ask you to let go of the boy’s arm. Do you have any idea how big a problem that could have been? … for you and for this school district? What if you had made bruises on Hart’s arm? What if you had hurt his shoulder? That could have been on the evening news today—and for all we know, it still might be. The kind of anger you displayed today was completely unprofessional. So that’s the behavior I’m talking about.”

  Mr. Meinert turned and looked out the windows. The last two buses were pulling away.

  The principal kept talking. “I’m sorry about the town’s money problems, and I’m very sorry your job will end on January first. You have a right to be upset about that—it’s a rotten Christmas present. You’re a terrific music teacher, David, and I hate losing you. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I did get the school board to keep your names out of the local news until the Christmas vacation begins, and I understand why you and the other teachers made that request. It’d be even worse with everyone walking around feeling sorry for you. So … we all just have to make the best of a bad situation.”