The Last Holiday Concert (7 page)

But the feeling that he'd been poked in the ribs wouldn't go away. It almost felt like Mr. Meinert had tricked him. But how? Hart couldn't figure it out.

The idea that everything would just go back to normal in chorus—that part of the deal seemed fine. Better than fine … wonderful.
Hart knew he did
not
want to be in charge of this concert. Or any concert, ever. No way. He wanted to hide in the back row of the chorus and mumble through the songs like he always did.

And all he had to do was stand up in class tomorrow and tell everyone that organizing the concert was impossible. And then ask Mr. Meinert to take charge again. Not so bad. He knew he could do that, and he knew he could get the class to go along, too. But something still didn't feel quite right to Hart. His thoughts went round and round.

Thinking back to the class period, Hart remembered what had happened after he said Colleen or Ross should be the director. Mr. Meinert had said, “They weren't elected.
You
were.”

Hart thought about that, about being elected. He had been elected, and without asking anybody for a single vote.
How come the kids elected me? Because I'm popular, that's how come
.

Hart had always known he was pretty popular. But this election? That proved it. And that made him feel good.

Then Hart thought,
But it was also sort of a joke. Everyone thought it would be funny if I was the chorus director. Especially after that rubber band business. They thought it would be funny
.

Hart smiled and nodded. It
was
funny.

Then Hart sat up straight on the bench in the office, sat up so fast that he almost banged his head against the wall.
Mr. Meinert
… he
thinks it's funny, too! Me, being the director! And me standing up tomorrow and saying I can't do it—he thinks that'll be the funniest part of all! I'm squirming, and he's having a blast! He's going to be laughing the whole time!

Hart sat on the bench staring straight ahead, nodding slowly, his eyes bright. The look on his face was so intense that when Mrs. Hood glanced at him, she stood up and said, “Hart, are you all right?”

Surprised, Hart looked at her blankly for a second. “Me?” he asked.

Mrs. Hood said, “Yes. Are you okay?”

Hart nodded, and with a crooked little smile he said, “I'm just
fine
.”

O
n Friday Mr. Meinert called the chorus to order as usual. He took attendance as usual. Then he said, “Hart, it's all yours.”

Right away Tim Miller chirped, “Yippee—free period!”

Before a lot more cheering could break out, Hart stood up and said, “Hold it, everybody. Listen a minute … listen.”

It got completely quiet. The sudden silence surprised Hart almost as much as it surprised Mr. Meinert.

Hart froze for a second or two and his face started to get red. But he gulped and said, “I… I know that me … you know, me getting elected and everything? I know it was sort of a joke—and it's pretty funny.”

Tim Miller wagged his head and went, “Har, har, har! Haw, haw, haw!” exaggerating a big laugh. The rest of the kids laughed too, but when Hart raised his hand, everyone got quiet.

Again Hart was amazed by how quickly the kids quieted down for him. And again so was Mr. Meinert.

Hart said, “It's funny and all, but the concert's really got to happen. Like, we've really got to stand up in the auditorium in front of everybody for a long time and … and do something.”

“Hey!” said Tim. “I can dance! Look!” And he jumped out of his chair and started swinging his hips and waving his arms around.

Hart grinned and nodded, and then he said, “Yeah, but can you do that all by yourself up on the stage for half an hour … and with your grandma watching?” That got a big laugh, and Tim took a bow and sat down.

Hart said, “So I started thinking last night. And I don't think we better have any free periods. Because making a concert happen, it won't be easy.”

Tim and a few of his pals said, “Hey, no fair!” “Yeah, no fair!” But most of the kids were listening to Hart and nodding, right there with him.

Mr. Meinert was listening too. This was the part he'd been waiting for.

Hart said, “So I've got a question for Mr. Meinert—a very important question.”

Mr. Meinert stood up and faced Hart. The music teacher was careful to keep his face under control, to keep his expression neutral. He didn't want to appear too happy about being asked to be the director again. And he wanted to be able to look surprised when Hart asked him.

Hart cleared his throat. The room went still as a comic strip. Hart said, “I want to know, Mr. Meinert—because, you know how you said we could do anything for our part of the big concert?” Mr. Meinert nodded, and Hart went on, “So what I want to know is—if the chorus's part of the concert went on for
more
than thirty minutes, will we get in trouble? ‘Cause I've got tons of great ideas about cool stuff we could do, but I don't know how it can all fit into just half an hour.”

Before Mr. Meinert could open his mouth, Ed Kenner called out “What kind of stuff, Hart?”

“Yeah,” said Colleen, “do you mean like costumes? And decorations, like snowflakes, or stars? ‘Cause I've been thinking about the concert too.”

Hart nodded, grabbing a clipboard from his backpack. “Yeah, lots of costumes, and stuff like drum solos and maybe karaoke with the audience. And maybe somebody could dress up like Elvis in a Santa suit.”

“Me!” yelled Tim. “Me! I can be a perfect Elvis!” And he got up and started dancing again.

Jenna waved both hands. “Hart! Hart! At home we've got these two dreidel costumes my aunt made—like you spin around in them and you get all dizzy and fall down, but it's okay because they're made of this soft rubber stuff. They're really funny—could we use them do you think?”

“Sure, sounds great!” said Hart. “There's a
ton
of stuff we could do!”

The room began buzzing, and six or seven other kids were trying to get Hart's attention. But he held up his hand and turned back to Mr. Meinert. Again it got quiet, and Hart said, “So what do you think, Mr. Meinert? Can our part of the concert go a little longer?”

Mr. Meinert was having trouble with his face. It would not behave. His mouth was
smiling—almost smiling. But not his eyes. No smile there at all. His voice wasn't much better. He growled, “Well … it's not good to go on too long.”

“But everybody's coming to see
us
, right?” asked Hart. “Like you said?”

Mr. Meinert nodded slightly.

“So,” said Hart, “it ought to be okay as long as we don't go
way
too long, right?”

Mr. Meinert's face was in big trouble now. No smile at all. “Yes … I guess so.”

“Great!” said Hart. He turned back to the class. “Now, we've really got to get serious, okay? So Colleen, could you be sort of like the stage director? I know you could do a really great job.” Colleen smiled and nodded, and Hart said, “And could you maybe get some kids together and come up with ideas about decorations? And costumes, too? Because we can do whatever we want. It doesn't have to look like a regular old concert. And then we can all talk about the ideas on Monday. And does anybody have one of those karaoke computer programs?”

Ann and Lee raised their hands. Hart nodded and said, “Great… over the weekend you
should both look at them and see if there are any Christmas type songs. ‘Cause that could really be fun. And listen, everybody, listen. We should probably sing some regular concert songs too, because, you know, like, we're the chorus. So everyone should make a list of some songs that might be good, and then we can write them all on the board on Monday and decide which ones to sing. And if anyone wants to sing a solo, that'd be great … but no one
has
to. Now, how many kids here know how to play an instrument?”

Completely ignored, Mr. Meinert walked over and sat down at his desk. He tried to act like he wasn't interested. But he was. He also tried to act like his feelings weren't hurt. But they were. And he was still having plenty of trouble with his face.

But more than that, his mind was spinning. He could not believe what he'd just seen. Four minutes! It had taken Hart Evans only four minutes to get the whole group excited about working together. And not only that—everyone had practically cheered about doing
more
than they had to.

Watching out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Meinert saw Hart hurry over to Ross, heard Hart use a good loud voice as he said, “Hey, do you think you could be in charge of organizing all the music on Monday? Can I count on you?” Ross smiled and nodded, excited, honored that Hart would give him such an important job.

Brilliant!
The word jumped into Mr. Meinert's mind.
The kid's already got Colleen and Ross working for him. Brilliant! And he's even got Tim Miller focused—still wacky, but focused. Amazing!

As if to prove the point, Tim ran over to Mr. Meinert's desk, panting and bobbing from side to side. “Mr. Meinert? Mr. Meinert? You know that thing Elvis does when he sings, you know, like with his upper lip? Is it sort of like … like this?” And Tim pushed his face into a sneer.

Mr. Meinert smiled and nodded. “Almost. Rent an Elvis movie this weekend, maybe
Blue Hawaii
. You'll get it.”

“Cool!” said Tim, and he spun off into orbit again, playing an air guitar.

Over the next thirty-five minutes the music room did not plunge into chaos. Instead, small
groups formed up, some sitting on the floor, some around the tables down front, and some at desks pulled into the corners. There was a lot of loud talking, a lot of moving around, and some arguing and shouting—laughing, too. There was plenty of noise, but most of it had a purpose.

And whenever Mr. Meinert glanced up, there was Hart in the thick of it all, walking from cluster to cluster with his clipboard, making notes, making jokes, making friends, pulling the whole chorus together. And smiling.

Because Hart Evans was not having any trouble with
his
face. No trouble at all.

A
t three fifteen on Friday Mr. Meinert sat alone in the music room. He slumped in his chair, staring at the wall. A couple of nights ago his wife had told him what he ought to do. And now he agreed with her. He wanted to quit—just quit.

Oh, yeah
, he thought,
I'm a great teacher! What was I thinking? All that grandstanding. “The whole concert is up to you now, kids.” And when Hart steps up to the challenge and it starts looking like they might actually pull something together, what do I do? I get all mad—and then I sit around with my feelings hurt like a big baby. I am
such
a loser! I… I give up!

At this same moment Hart sat alone on the long bench in the office. He was dealing with some feelings of his own. Part of him wanted to grin and cheer about what he'd pulled off in chorus today. The scene had played out
perfectly. Mr. Meinert had been expecting one thing, and he had done the opposite. He had sprung a perfect trap. And Mr. Meinert knew that he'd done it on purpose. That look on Mr. Meinert's face when he'd popped the surprises about the concert? Priceless! The guy had tried to hide it. Didn't work. The anger was right there for anybody to see.

But along with the anger, Hart had seen something else—just a glimpse before it was hidden. Hart had seen some sadness in Mr. Meinert's eyes. Some hurt. And part of Hart didn't feel so good about that.

Still
, Hart said to himself,
Mr. Meinert had it coming. All I did was what he was trying to do to me. I just did it better, that's all. And if he's mad about it… well, too bad
.

Hart tried to let that be the end of it, tried to do some math homework. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Ten minutes later Mr. Meinert had his coat on. He grabbed his briefcase, picked up a small stack of mail from his desk, locked the music room door, and headed for the office.

Mr. Meinert had one hand on the office door before he saw Hart, sitting there on the bench below the clock. Mr. Meinert stopped, turned quickly, and hurried down the hall toward the parking lot. He shoved the envelopes into his coat pocket. The mail could wait. He'd had enough of Hart Evans for one day.

He was almost at the double doors when he heard, “Hey! Mr. Meinert!”

It was Hart.

Mr. Meinert turned around. Acting surprised, he said, “Oh, it's you. I'm sort of in a hurry. Can this wait till Monday?”

Hart trotted down the hall until he stood right in front of the music teacher. He did his best to smile, a little out of breath. He panted harder than he needed to and fanned his face, stalling for time. Hart wasn't sure what he was going to say to Mr. Meinert. But he felt like he ought to say something—anything. So he just started talking.

“Um … I just wanted to say … well, what I did in chorus today? I know it wasn't what we talked about yesterday. And I think it kind
of made you mad. And I'm sorry about that. 'Cause I guess I knew it would … make you mad, I mean.” Hart gulped, and made himself keep talking, his mind barely half a step ahead of his words. “But … but if I made you mad today … that means you weren't just sort of
willing
to do the concert, right? I mean, you got mad because … because you still really
want
to run the concert, right?”

Mr. Meinert did not want to be having this conversation. He didn't want to answer Hart's question. He was tempted to turn his back and go out the door.