The Last Holiday Concert (3 page)

Zack Banks and Alex Neely were Hart's two best friends at Palmer Intermediate. Alex was a little taller than Hart, but not at all athletic.
He loved to read, and he had a quick mind and a sharp sense of humor. He lived near Hart, and they'd gone to Collins Elementary together. Hart called Alex whenever he had a computer issue, or whenever he didn't understand an assignment, or anytime he needed a good laugh. And they still sat together on the bus every morning, just as they had all through grade school. One of their strongest common interests was in the junk collecting department. The trash pickup in Brentbury was early Wednesday morning, and when the weather was right, Hart and Alex rode their bikes around for a Tuesday night treasure hunt.

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.

H
art 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.

Hart 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?”