Class Dismissed

by Allan Woodrow

  And he hangs up.

  I stand there, holding the phone. Part of me feels simply terrible for lying to the principal. I feel guilty, awful, and lower than a parasitic earthworm. My knees shake. The principal! You don’t lie to him!

  But part of me also feels giddy, joyous, and elated, as if I’ve just found a new dictionary under the Christmas tree. Principal Klein thought I was Ms. Bryce. He didn’t suspect the truth. He assumed I was in charge.

  And why not? Someone has to be in charge.

  Why not me?

  Maybe, just maybe, I can turn this entire ridiculous adventure to my advantage. My camp counselor last summer told my parents I was a natural-born leader. Ivy League colleges love leaders.

  If I take charge of this class, then that will look impressive on my Harvard application. I’ll make Mom and Dad proud, just you wait and see.

  The other kids might say I’m too serious, but we’re all going to start seriously learning in class again, whether anyone else wants to learn or not.

  I sit at my desk with my pencil, notebook, and a copy of Hamlet, the book I brought to class. A few other kids brought books, but no one reads one.

  I open my book. Hamlet isn’t a book, really, it’s a play by Shakespeare, who most people say was the greatest playwright ever. Shakespeare lived a long time ago, and it’s hard to read his plays because he uses a whole bunch of words I’ve never heard of before.

  I can’t read more than a few lines at a time without my mind swimming in confusion.

  Like this line: “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

  Huh?

  But Shakespeare is supposed to be brilliant, and if I want to be a brilliant writer, I need to read brilliant things, even if they are impossible to understand.

  Meanwhile, around the room, everyone seems bored.

  A group of girls sit in a circle and Madelyn tells a story about her cat. I think it’s the fourth time she’s told the same story. Pieces of familiar conversation float across the room to me.

  Eli made a giant paper-clip chain but has run out of paper clips, so he walks around trying to borrow some from everyone.

  “I don’t have any paper clips,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “It’s important.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  Right in front of me, Adam and Lizzie sit on the floor, doodling on the backs of their chairs. Their desks are completely doodled over, so I suppose they ran out of room on them.

  Adam brushes his arm against Lizzie’s and then pretends it’s an accident. But I don’t think it’s an accident.

  You can get to know people pretty well just from watching them.

  Danny, who sits to my left, rests his head on his desk, yawning widely. Next to him, Jasmine rests her head, too, and snores lightly. Behind them, Kyle takes a break from throwing erasers to feed our room hamster, Soda. I’m glad someone remembered to feed it. He closes the container of hamster food and then hurls an eraser at Jasmine’s head. She lurches up from her nap, annoyed. The eraser sticks in her thick dreadlocks. She doesn’t even bother to remove it, and instead she goes back to sleep.

  That’s the thing about school. We may have hated Ms. Bryce, but at least we had things to do. If you ever yawned or closed your eyes, she’d yell at you.

  But we’re stuck here and we can’t leave, or someone might see us and wonder why we’re not in class. Then our secret would leak for sure.

  A couple of kids brought phones, but since they aren’t allowed in school, most kids didn’t want to risk being caught by their parents sneaking them to class.

  I think Maggie is up to something, though. She sits in front at the teacher’s desk, riffling through Ms. Bryce’s files and old homework papers. Every few seconds she looks up, smiles, and continues browsing.

  Yesterday, I thought Maggie was disappointed about us keeping our incredible secret. Apparently, she’s changed her mind.

  If Maggie is okay with our teacherless class, then I am, too. Maggie’s the most serious girl in school. She wears a sweatshirt that says HARVARD on the front. She always tells everyone that’s where she is going to college, someday.

  That’s a long time from now, though.

  To keep busy, I write. I write a story about a man who has nothing to do, so he sits on a chair all day long, day after day.

  Cobwebs form between his fingers. His beard grows so long it hits the floor.

  But still, he doesn’t move. He has nothing better to do.

  Eventually, demolition crews come to tear down the building where the man lives. The crews don’t know the bored man lurks inside because no one has seen him in years. As the man hears the wrecking ball smash against the concrete walls and debris crumbles down around him, he stands. He wobbles, since he hasn’t stood in a long time, and his muscles have grown saggy. But he staggers across the room and opens the front door. The light of day blinds him. He has forgotten how bright sunlight can be.

  The crowd surrounding the building gasps. The man is as pale as a ghost and bone thin. At first, everyone thinks he’s a zombie, but then they realize he’s alive, and human.

  “What have you been doing?” a woman in the crowd asks him.

  “Nothing much,” says the man.

  But it’s too late to stop the demolition. The wrecking ball swings again, and the walls collapse on top of the man. When the crowd finds him, buried in rubble, he’s smiling.

  “Why are you so happy?” a man asks him.

  As the last flicker of life leaves his body, he replies, “Because for the first time in years, I’m not bored.”

  “Isn’t it lunchtime?” asks Eli. He points to the classroom clock.

  I look up from my paper. Lunch? Already? I rest my pencil on my desk and rise from my seat.

  “But who will lead us to lunch?” asks Madelyn, light reflecting from her braces.

  We all exchange confused gazes. No one knows. We always filed behind Ms. Bryce. But there is no Ms. Bryce here to file behind.

  “I didn’t bring a lunch,” complains Cooper. “Maggie told Principal Klein that no one in our class is buying lunch today. So what am I supposed to eat?” Cooper looks like he’s going to cry. No one has an answer for him.

  And then I remember: I didn’t bring my lunch, either. My stomach growls.

  “Calm down,” says Kyle. He frowns and grunts, “If we keep our mouths shut, everything will be fine.”

  “But I’m hungry!” whines Cooper.

  “How about eating a smelly sock?” says Brian with a menacing hiss and a crack of his knuckles.

  Cooper sniffles and chokes back one final sob.

  There’s a sliver of glass between the door and the wall, so I can see the hallway outside. Classes are streaming from their rooms to gather for their lunchroom walks. We need to join them in the hall. Teachers will notice if we’re not in line and ready to go.

  I expect Maggie to stand up and solve our problem. Or even Kyle. But they look as lost as the rest of the class, as if they are in a black tunnel and can’t see the way out. No one takes charge.

  So I clear my throat. “Uh, hey?” I say. A couple of kids glance over, but most ignore me. When you’re usually invisible, it’s hard to become visible again. I clear my throat again, this time louder. “Um, everyone?” My voice cracks. It’s unaccustomed to being loud. It sounds weird to me.

  My classmates notice me now. I hate the stares. I want to hide, but I can’t hide after I’ve called everyone’s attention to me. “Um … I think that we should assign a line leader to take us to lunch. And, um, so.” I can feel my face blushing, but I keep going. “And, um, if you brought a lunch, how about sharing it with someone who didn’t? Then, um, we can all eat something, you know?”

  My face burns from the attention. It’s probably bright red. But then a strange thing happens: No one yells at me to be quiet. No one shoves me or calls me nasty names for sharing lousy ideas.

  Instead, my cla
ssmates nod their heads. They smile. They agree.

  “Good idea,” says Kyle.

  Me! Eric Hill! I spoke up, and it was okay.

  Those who brought lunches volunteer to share with kids who didn’t. Emmy brought peanut butter and jelly and offers to split it with me.

  I don’t like jelly, especially not raspberry jelly, which is the flavor Emmy likes. But I don’t say anything other than, “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Who wants to split my lunch?” asks Lizzie. “I brought ground lamb avocado balls. I made them myself.”

  No one says a word. I can’t imagine anyone would want to eat lamb avocado balls.

  I could write a horror story about lamb avocado balls.

  “I will,” says Adam.

  Lizzie smiles broadly; the freckles on her cheeks stretch in size. Adam smiles back, but his face looks slightly greenish.

  Adam’s holding a sack lunch, but he drops it on the floor so Lizzie can’t see that he brought his lunch today. I think of grabbing it so I don’t have to share Emmy’s sandwich, but Adam kicks it away and I’m guessing it’s sort of ruined.

  “Let’s go!” announces Kyle.

  No one moves. Everyone looks at me.

  “Aren’t you our line leader, Eric?” Jade asks, twirling her silky brown hair around her finger. She stares at me, waiting, her pale green eyes popping against her deep brown skin.

  I hesitate. “Um. Me?” I’ve never been line leader before. I’ve never wanted to be. But someone has to, and how hard can it be? “Uh, sure.” Adam and Lizzie get behind me, followed by Maggie and the brains. We walk out to the hall.

  I lead. The others follow, single file.

  It feels strange to be followed.

  In the hallway, I stand next to the lockers, checking that everyone is lined up behind me. We look like we always do, except that we don’t have a teacher in front.

  In line, about fifteen kids back, Brian pushes Kyle. Kyle shoves Seth. Seth bangs into Madelyn. She gives a short yelp and backs into Gavin, stepping on one of his high-top sneakers.

  Gavin, who’s tall, toddles back and into Trevor. Trevor is short, so Gavin’s elbow bumps into Trevor’s chin. “Watch it,” snaps Trevor, who pushes Gavin forward and into Madelyn, who then knocks into Seth.

  Seth shoves her back into Gavin. It’s like a nasty game of pinball.

  Closer to me, Danny pushes Paige and giggles. Paige was holding a notebook, and it falls to the ground. She stumbles out of our line and into the hallway. “Stop it,” she hisses to Danny, who is now pushing Jasmine.

  “Leave me alone,” complains Jasmine.

  Danny snickers.

  “What’s going on here?” The booming voice of Principal Klein immediately halts the pushing and talking and snickering. Pushing and talking and snickering are against a hundred lunch-line rules. When we had rules.

  Everyone stands straight, at attention. We’re suddenly a well-trained army unit without an arm or leg out of line. We all stare ahead, at Ms. Bryce, if she were standing here.

  “Where’s your teacher?” asks Principal Klein. It sounds more like a demand than a question.

  Our principal is a large man, and even though he wears orange cardigan sweaters, he’s a little scary. Maybe it’s the size of his hands. They are huge.

  When he talks, I always stare at his hands.

  I want to hide, but there’s nowhere to run. In back of me, a few kids cough. None of us moves a muscle or says a word.

  “I asked, where’s Ms. Bryce?” our principal demands. His hands clench.

  Again, no one says anything.

  I answer softly, “She’s in the bathroom.”

  I expect Principal Klein to accuse me of lying, jabbing his giant fingers into my chest, twisting my ear, and marching me to his office. Everyone will laugh at me.

  Instead, Principal Klein says, “All right. But stop goofing off in the halls. You know better.”

  I can’t believe we weren’t busted. My heart is pounding as Mr. Klein heads back toward the front office. Once he’s around the corner, I stumble forward and we’re on our way down the hall.

  Still, I’m so nervous, I can’t breathe. I exhale only when I’m halfway down the hall.

  When we get to the cafeteria, we all sit at our regular lunchroom table. Emmy gives me half of her peanut-butter-and-raspberry-jelly sandwich. I hoped there would be just a small dab of jelly over a thick spread of peanut butter. Instead, the sandwich is caked with gobs of jelly and just a small peanut-butter layer. Emmy also brought four cookies and gives me two of them. I think they are chocolate chip cookies, but I am extremely disappointed to discover they’re oatmeal raisin.

  I don’t like raisins much, but I keep silent.

  Around me, kids share their lunches without arguing. We can’t misbehave or we’ll be caught, so no one pushes anyone or starts a food fight, although there’s some commotion at the other end, near the Big Goofs. Still, we’ve lasted more than twenty minutes with the rest of the fifth grade and no one has discovered our incredible secret.

  But I just know this can’t last for long.

  I reach across the lunchroom table and think:

  Grab a cookie from Danny, a brownie from Trevor,

  With no teachers around, it’s the best lunchtime ever.

  Maggie frowns at me. “Stop being a bully.”

  “Stop being annoying,” I say, but I give Trevor back his brownie.

  Just because I like dessert doesn’t make me a bully, does it? She calls me a bully because I’m big, but I can’t help it that I’m bigger than just about everyone else. Small kids are never called bullies.

  After lunch we all head out to the playground for recess. The kickball gang runs off to play kickball. The four-square group gathers around the four-square grids. Monkey bar hangers hurry to hang out from their favorite perches.

  No teachers or supervisors seem to notice that Ms. Bryce isn’t sitting on the bench, like usual, watching us.

  Most of the teachers stay indoors during recess, except Ms. Bryce always said she liked to keep an eye on us. But not now.

  Now, this will be the best recess of all time.

  Thunder rumbles overhead. It’s a cloudy day, and it’ll probably rain soon. For now, it’s dry and anything goes.

  I’m by the chain-link fence at the far end of the playground, between the swing sets and a few trees. Brian hurls a rock and nails a tree right in the center of the trunk. Seth does the same. I look down to find my own stone when something smashes into my shoulder. I feel a twinge of pain, although it quickly fades away. Brian laughs as a rock skips on the ground next to my feet.

  “Whoops!” says Brian with a snort.

  I bend down and scoop up a handful of small stones. Brian ducks behind a tree for shelter. I let a few of them fly, but they bounce off the bark. “Get out from there!” I yell, and fling another stone at the tree. It misses completely, and instead hits Seth’s back.

  “Watch it!” he hollers. He throws a stone back at me, but it smacks into a branch.

  I look around. Normally, Ms. Bryce would be running over to yell at us by now. She saw everything, no matter where you stood or what you did. But not today. There is no Ms. Bryce anymore.

  No one tells us to stop what we’re doing. No one has noticed us.

  Eli stands under one of the trees nearby. He huddles with Carl, a tall, lanky kid in Mr. Foley’s fifth-grade class. The shadows from the leaves hide them. Their meeting reminds me of a scene from a spy movie.

  They’re whispering. Eli probably thinks he’s out of earshot, but he’s a loud whisperer.

  “You’re not going to believe what happened in our class yesterday,” says Eli. “Ms. Bryce was our teacher, but then she—”

  That’s as far as he gets before Brian pops out from the tree he’s been hiding behind, grabs Eli’s arm, and yanks him backward. “What about your promise? Do you hate socks? Do you stink like a sock?” he hisses.

  “I love socks!” shrieks Eli. “I mean
, I love regular socks, not smelly socks. I’m not really sure if I understand the whole smelly sock thing, actually, but whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, I think you hate socks, but you love smelly ones,” says Brian, looking as confused as Eli. Then he sniffs the air and says, “I think we’ll call you Smelly Sock Eli.” Brian is about twice Eli’s size, and he keeps his hand clutched on the smaller kid’s arm, squeezing tightly.

  “What about you?” Brian snarls to Carl, towering over him.

  “I don’t smell like anything or think about socks or whatever, dude,” he says. He holds his hands up and steps away.

  I laugh because the whole thing is pretty ridiculous to watch. But then I think of Maggie’s words at lunch. She called me a bully, but I’m not. At least I don’t think I am. I stride over to Brian and clap my hand on his back. I know it’s fun to pick on smaller kids, but I suppose they can’t help being smaller.

  “Leave him alone. He won’t squeal, right?” I say. “Eli doesn’t smell like a sock.”

  Brian maintains his grip on Eli, sniffing the air. “I smell something.”

  “That’s just your own stinky breath,” I say, giving Brian a friendly punch on the arm.

  Brian releases Eli’s arm. “What’s wrong with my breath?”

  I smile. “I’m just kidding.” I’m probably the only one who can tease Brian without fearing for his life. “Come on. Let’s throw rocks at Seth.”

  As Brian and I step away, Eli shakes his head, but his legs are shaking just as much. He looks as if he’s escaped a car wreck, unharmed. I hear Carl ask him, “What was that about, dude?”

  “Nothing,” says Eli.

  It seems to me that when people say something is “nothing,” it usually is a pretty big something.

  Brian and I bend over to collect stones. So does Seth. We all pick trees to duck behind. But I only have time to throw a couple of rocks, missing badly each time, when the school bell rings, announcing the end of recess.

  Teachers stand near the main door waiting for their students to gather. Kids run to get in line, single file, waiting to be escorted back to their rooms.

  The three of us drop our rocks and start heading toward the school to go inside and get in line, too.