The Last Holiday Concert (5 page)

But for now, the sixth grade chorus was his home, and it was a good home. Until a month ago, that is.

Fired. The school district didn't call it that. They called it a RIF, a “reduction in force.” He hadn't been fired. He'd been RIFed. It wasn't personal. They weren't getting rid of
him
. They ran out of money, so they got rid of his job. Fired or RIFed, it still amounted to the same thing—they were even the same letters, just rearranged.

And Mr. Richards had been right this afternoon in his office. Mr. Meinert
had
been upset ever since he'd gotten the news. And, yes, his reaction to Hart shooting that rubber band today had been way over the top.

But he couldn't quit. Not that the kids would mind. They'd probably clap and cheer.
This year's chorus was a tough group. Over half of the kids never wanted to work, always resisted every new song. And classroom discipline had never been his best skill anyway.

Still, quitting wasn't an option. It just wouldn't be right.

Lucy was encouraged by her husband's silence. “Really, David, think about it. You put in all those extra hours to find new music. You plan the field trip to the Metropolitan Opera rehearsal every year. You organize the parent volunteers to make programs and decorations for every concert. You tutor kids; you have that new sight-reading group; you spend extra time with the kids who have solos; plus you lend a hand with the sixth grade band, and the orchestra, too. You even write new arrangements—all on your own time. I know you love your work, but you put in at least ten hours of overtime every week. Your salary is pitiful, there's no extra pay for the extra hours, and to show how grateful they are for all this hard work, the school board fires you right in the middle of the school year. It just stinks. And I'm not kidding. You should really think about quitting.
Or at least cutting back. They're just walking all over you. You shouldn't do one bit more than they pay you for.”

Mr. Meinert reached across the table and took his wife's hand. “But it's my job. And as long as that's true, then I have to give it my best. I know that sounds stupid to you, but I can't help it. It's just the way I am.”

Lucy smiled and shook her head. “I know. And if you were more like me, I probably never would have married you.”

It was the best moment of Mr. Meinert's whole day.

I
t was quieter than usual as Mr. Meinert walked into the chorus room on Thursday afternoon. The kids seemed a little tense, a little uncertain.

Mr. Meinert liked it. It was a nice change. As a young man starting his second year of teaching, he was the one who usually felt tense and uncertain. He thought,
Maybe I should explode more often
.

As he took attendance he avoided looking at Hart Evans. Even if he had, their eyes would not have met. Hart was also being careful not to look at Mr. Meinert. He had decided it was a good day to keep a low profile.

The teacher tossed his grade book back onto his desk and said, “Let's start off today with our new Hanukkah song.”

A low groan rumbled through the room. Mr. Meinert ignored it. “We're going to have to work on some Hebrew words. Everyone please
stand up in front of your desks.”

There was more grumbling as the kids stood up. Again, Mr. Meinert ignored it. “We'll start with an easy one—I'm sure you already know it. Take a deep breath, and let me hear everyone say ‘Shalom.”

The word that came back at him sounded a little like “salami.”

Mr. Meinert shook his head. “No. No. Listen: Sha-
lom
. Say it.”

Again the class made a sound.

Again Mr. Meinert shook his head. “No. Not ‘Shiloom.' Sha-
lom
. That's a long
o
sound, like ‘home.' Say it clearly with me. One, two, three: Sh—”

Halfway into the first syllable Karen Baker pointed at the windows and yelped, “Look! It's snowing!”

The Hebrew lesson screeched to a stop. Everyone turned to look. “Hey! Snow! Look! It is—it's snowing!”

Tim Miller shouted, “Maybe tomorrow will be a snow day!”

A spontaneous cheer burst out, and the kids rushed toward the long wall of windows.

The music teacher felt the anger rise up in his chest, just as it had yesterday. He wanted to scream and shake his fist at the class. But he resisted.

He walked slowly over to his desk. On his way Mr. Meinert noticed with some satisfaction that one kid had stayed at his seat: Hart Evans.

Mr. Meinert forced himself to sit down behind his desk. He opened a copy of
Music Educator
magazine. He flipped to an article about teaching the music of Bach to high school students. He made himself sit still and stare at the page.

He read the first sentence of the article, and then he read it again, and then a third time. He clenched his teeth and felt his jaw muscles getting tighter and tighter. He said to himself,
I'm not going to yell. I will not lose my temper. The kids know that what they're doing isn't right, and they will stop it. Then we'll begin again. I will sit here and read until everyone sits down and the room is quiet
.

It didn't happen. The kids at the windows stayed there. Ed Kenner opened one and stuck
his hand out to try to catch snowflakes. In five seconds all the windows were open.

Around the room small groups of children formed, and kids started talking and laughing. Some of them leaned against the folding desks, and some sat down in clusters on the floor.

Even though he didn't look up from his magazine, Mr. Meinert could tell kids were sneaking quick looks at him. As three minutes crawled by, Mr. Meinert realized that since he didn't look mad, didn't look like a threat, the kids were perfectly happy to pretend he wasn't there. He had ceased to exist. Everyone was perfectly happy to do nothing. Apparently, doing nothing was a lot more fun than singing in the sixth grade chorus.

Mr. Meinert did not normally do things on the spur of the moment. He liked to plan. He liked to make lists. He liked to organize his thoughts. He liked to think, and then think again.

Not this time.

It was partly because of what had happened the day before—the rubber band incident. It was partly because of everything his wife had
said to him at dinner yesterday. It was partly because he hadn't slept well last night and had been feeling lousy all day. And it was partly because Mr. Meinert was sick and tired of trying to make this mob of kids sing when most of them clearly did not want to.

For a dozen different reasons, in Mr. Meinert's mind something snapped. He jumped to his feet, grabbed a piece of chalk, and began writing on the board.

Kids turned to watch.

In tall letters he wrote
HOL
—but he pressed so hard and wrote so fast that the chalk broke. Mr. Meinert threw the yellow stub to the floor, snatched another piece, and kept pushing until he had written these words on the chalkboard:

 

HOLIDAY CONCERT

December 22, 7 PM

 

Quiet spread across the room like an oil spill. Kids began tiptoeing back to their seats. His shoulders tense and his jaw still clenched, Mr. Meinert kept writing.

Sixth Grade Orchestra–20 minutes

Sixth Grade Band–20 minutes

Sixth Grade Chorus–30 minutes

 

Mr. Meinert underlined the bottom words three times, and each time the chalk made a sound that would have made a dog run out of the room.

Then he turned to look at the class. Each child was seated, every eye was on his face.

Mr. Meinert spoke slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. “Thirty minutes. That's how long the chorus will perform during the holiday concert. All your parents will be there. Grandparents will be there. Probably brothers and sisters. It's the biggest concert of the year. Well, guess what?” He slowly raised his right arm and with his fingers stretched out, palm down, he swept his hand from side to side, pointing at the whole chorus. “This holiday concert, this thirty-minute performance? It's all
yours
.”

Someone let out a nervous laugh.

Mr. Meinert spun toward the sound. “Think
this
is funny? Well, just wait until December
twenty-second, a little after seven thirty. That's when the
real
fun begins. You see, no one's coming to that concert to see me. I'm just the music teacher. Everyone is coming to see
you
, to listen to you. To watch the wonderful program. So
that's
when things will start to get fun. Because from this moment on, the holiday concert is all up to you. To
you
. Not me. It's not my concert. It's
your
concert. You don't like the songs I've picked? Fine. Pick your own. You don't like the way I run the rehearsals? No problem. Run them yourselves. You don't want to sing at all? Then you can just stand up in front of your parents and the rest of the school for half an hour and do nothing. Who knows what will happen on December twenty-second? Not me. Right now, there is only one thing that I'm sure of. On December twenty-second a little after seven thirty in the evening, I will make sure that all of you are on that stage in the auditorium. What happens once you're there … that's all up to
you
.”

Mr. Meinert turned around, looked at the wall calendar, then picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

 

23 DAYS

 

“Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Counting today, there are twenty-three class periods left before the day of
your
concert. There won't be any after-school rehearsals like we had for the Halloween concert, no dress rehearsal the night before. You have only these twenty-three class periods. You've learned four songs so far. But of course, you might want to toss them out and choose different songs. All that is now up to you. So. Have a nice concert.”

Mr. Meinert turned and took three quick steps to his desk. He leaned over and pushed. The metal legs screeched on the floor as he slid the desk to the far right side of the room and then spun it around to face the wall. He walked back, rolled his chair over to the desk and sat down, his back to the class. He picked up his
Music Educator
magazine and began to read the article about teaching Bach.

For the first time in more than a month, Mr. Meinert felt great.

H
art sat still, hands folded in front of him. But his eyes darted around the music room, looking for clues, watching for danger, trying to see what was coming next.

The room was silent. Mr. Meinert had been reading at his desk for almost four minutes. Hart studied the back of the man's head, looking for anger in his neck and shoulders, examining the way he held his magazine. If another storm was coming, Hart wanted to see it in time to duck for cover.

Hart didn't trust the quiet. Mr. Meinert was a funnel cloud. Any second now he might whip around and start ripping things apart. Hart wasn't about to put himself in the path of another tornado. Yesterday's direct hit had been plenty.

Off to his right Hart heard a trickle of whispers.

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I don't know. I guess just sit here.”

“Is he serious?”

“I … I think so.”

“He said we can do anything we want. So can we?”

“I don't know. Now be quiet!”

It got quiet again, but silent children are like a rising river. Sooner or later the water spills over the banks.

More whispers. They grew louder, and then came the low talking.

Still Mr. Meinert sat and read his magazine. He wanted to leap from his chair. The urge to take charge of his classroom was almost overpowering. But he forced himself to sit and read.

As the low talking spread, a few kids kept saying, “Shhh … SHHHH,” but the shushing couldn't hold back the flow.

Then, on the other side of the room, someone must have said something funny. Two kids started laughing, and the flood broke loose.

The noise level in the room rose so fast it took Mr. Meinert's breath away. And as more kids talked and laughed, others had to talk still
louder and louder in order to be heard above the rising clamor. For a moment Mr. Meinert was sure that the whole sixth grade was packed into the room. He wanted to spin his chair around and give the kids his most withering stare, but he made himself sit still, made himself keep reading.

After three minutes the noise was deafening. The room wasn't out of control, but it was close. Three or four guys had started playing baseball, with some wadded up paper for a ball and a music book for a bat. A cell phone tweedled, and a girl on one side of the room pulled it out of her purse, jammed it to her ear, and then spun around and waved at her friend who had called from thirty feet away. A few groups of kids had gone back to the windows to watch the snow come down. Four girls sat on the floor and began playing Rock, Paper, Scissors—dangerously close to the three guys kicking a Hacky Sack. Everyone else was just milling around, talking and laughing.