The Last Holiday Concert (9 page)

The Chorus According to Hart didn't work like that. Was Hart in control? It didn't look like that way. Hart was steering the ship, sort of, but the rest of the kids, they were the ones who kept wind in the sails. And no matter how loud or fast the gale got blowing, Hart never seemed to be afraid.

Watching the kids had made Mr. Meinert reconsider his attitude about concerts, too. He had always believed that a school concert should be a polished little gem, a half hour of
order and perfection, with no loose ends, nothing left to chance. And who was responsible for each and every detail? Simple: Mr. David Meinert, Chorus Director. The concerts had been
his
concerts. He had always felt the presence of his choral professor, or the principal, or the Director of Fine Arts from the high school. Out there in the audience, someone had always been watching
him
, judging
him
.

And in his own mind the big question had always been the same: How can I control this mob of twitchy kids and make them—
force
them—to put on this concert for me?

Hart Evans seemed to have a very different idea, if he actually had an idea at all. This thing that was coming on December 22—it wasn't going to be a concert. It was going to be more like an event.

Mr. Meinert hadn't forgotten his promise to Hart:
You can count on me
. Even though Hart hadn't asked for anything yet, Mr. Meinert knew he was already helping. He steadied the ship just by being the grown-up in the room. And Mr. Meinert had spoken with Mr. Richards about the student-run concert, and
had found the principal to be surprisingly tolerant of the whole idea, even supportive. So the music teacher knew he was playing an important part in the process.

True, Hart had loads of natural talent. But after observing for seven class periods, Mr. Meinert felt pretty sure that sooner or later, Hart's call for help would come.

D
uring those first seven class periods as the newly elected chorus director, Hart Evans had never felt so good about himself, about life in general, even about school. Everything was so much fun. Life was all yes, nothing but yes.

For one thing, Hart had reached a new level of popularity. Now he was known and admired by
all
the kids at Palmer Intermediate, not just the kids from his old elementary school. He was getting to be famous. He was doing something interesting. He was running the show in the chorus room, and for those first seven classes everyone had been having a blast. And why not? It was a huge, creative free-for-all. Do whatever you want to. Dream big. Ask Hart anything, and you know what he says? He says, “Great!” or, “Go for it!” or, “Sounds amazing!”

The news had spread. All over school the guys thought Hart was cool and the girls thought he was cute.

He was enjoying himself, but in the back of his mind Hart knew it couldn't go on like this. Everything was too fuzzy, too loose, always slightly out of focus. There were lots of ideas floating around and everyone was having fun, but the concert itself wasn't coming together. And the class periods kept ticking by.

Hart saw that part of his problem was human nature itself. Without a teacher to keep all the kids mixed together, the chorus had sorted itself into some basic personality types. And Hart had identified three groups: the doers, the floaters, and the goofers.

Some kids didn't fit neatly into those three main groups, so Hart also identified the floaty doers, the half-goofy floaters, and worst of all, the floaty goofers.

And then there was Tim Miller. Tim was a floaty goofy doer.

The serious goofers were mostly guys, and they had taken over the back corner of the room next to the windows. For them chorus had turned into goofer heaven. Three or four goofers played cards every day, someone always had a Hacky Sack in the air, and
another one or two goofers just plugged into their CD players or iPods or Game Boys and zoned out for an hour. Goofers weren't productive, but they weren't disruptive, either.

The floaty goofers were a problem, but fortunately there were only two of them—Sara Boothe and Kyle Gannon. Sara and Kyle worked as a team, roaming around the room. Who changed those song names on the chalkboard into “Froggy the Snotman,” “Jungle Smell Rock,” and “The Little Dummer Boy?” Kyle and Sara. Who glued Colleen's backpack to the wall and put silver glitter in Ross's hair? Guess. At least once each period Mr. Meinert had to give Kyle and Sara the evil eye, and that helped. But floaty goofers need constant discipline, and The Chorus According to Hart wasn't set up that way.

The pure floaters and the floaty doers and the half-goofy floaters were fine as long as the doers kept them busy. Colleen was actually a superdoer, and she was also the biggest employer in the room. She had a crew of at least fifteen floaty types cutting out stars and streamers, and she kept them busy and
focused all day, every day. Ross had two floaters and one floaty doer helping him get all the songs organized into groups, copied off the chalkboard, and neatly typed into Mr. Meinert's computer. There were also other doers like Allison Kim and Jim Barker, who had assembled small groups of floaters to help them with their projects. And then there were solo doers like the
Nutcracker
dancers and Carl Preston the magician who were busily organizing their own little events. Plus Lisa Morton, who was still working on a way to make herself fly around the stage like an angel.

After a hard look at the calendar at the beginning of the second week of December, Hart knew it was time to get serious. He had to start making decisions. It was time to take charge, time to get things organized. And it was certainly time to begin singing. Half the rehearsal days were gone, and the chorus hadn't sung a single note yet, at least not together, not as “the chorus.”

So on Tuesday, December 7, Hart took his concert notes home. That night after dinner he looked at the long list of possible activities. He
looked over Ross's list of recommended songs. And then Hart began being the director.

After an hour of thinking and rethinking, he turned on the computer in the family room and began to write, assembling the concert. Then he turned on the printer and made seventy-five copies.

And at the beginning of chorus period on December 8—with eleven rehearsal days to go—Hart called the chorus to order and passed out the programs.

“Hey!” yelled Tim Miller. “How come my name's not on the program?”

Carl shouted, “And what about my card trick?”

From the back of the room a girl called out, “Who said we wanted to sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy'? That's such a stupid song!”

“Yeah,” said Kyle, “The Little Dummer Boy'!”

Colleen raised her hand, and Hart pointed at her, expecting a little support from his trusty lieutenant. But the pleasure cruise was over.

Colleen held up the program and said,
“Really, Hart, this looks like a regular old concert. We all walk onto the stage, we sing six songs, then we turn around and leave? I don't see anything special about this—and that was the whole idea, to make it special. I don't think—”

Hart shook his head. “Wait… wait. Let me explain. See, we don't just walk onstage. ‘Cause this program, right now it's only a list of the songs, and there's stuff left out. Like, at the start, when we sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy'? We have three drummers, me and Kenny and Tom, and we beat out the rhythm while everyone marches onto the stage singing the song. That's different. And maybe some kids could be carrying the big banner, ‘Welcome to Winterhope.' And then ‘Jingle Bells,' that'll be a sing-along, like karaoke, with the words on a screen so everyone in the audience can sing. Everybody loves that song. So that's different too. And during the dreidel song, Jenna and Max are going to be banging all over in those big rubbery costumes, even out in the audience. That'll be really funny. And when we sing ‘The First Noel,' Shannon and Olivia can
do some ballet stuff down in front, ‘cause that'd look good, don't you think? So it's
not
just like a regular concert. There's tons of different stuff!”

Working it out in his mind the night before, the program had made perfect sense to Captain Hart. The crew didn't see it that way. Everyone burst out at once.

“These are the
worst
songs!”

“Yeah, and all that other stuff? It's so
lame
.”

“I think the program stinks!”

“Yeah, me too! It's so … like, like,
boring
!”

“Yeah, it's
boring
!”

Carl Preston stood up and said, “How come I can't do my card trick? It's really good!”

Olivia Lambert said, “And I am not going to do
any
ballet dancing unless I can dance to my own music and be a Marzipan Shepherdess!”

Shannon Roda nodded and said, “Me either!”

Hart felt crushed. But also angry. He yelled, “Quiet! Everybody, quiet!” The room calmed down. “We're
not
having card tricks and ballet numbers and gymnastic routines. This is
not
a talent show, okay? It's a holiday concert, and we're the chorus. That's the whole idea. We
can do different stuff, but we still have to sing—because … because we're the chorus.”

Tim Miller jumped to his feet. “But I still get to be Elvis, right? Dressed up like Santa Claus?”

Hart nodded. “Yes. But you can't just bounce around onstage the whole time. You're gonna be out in front and do a lip sync when we sing the fifth number—that's ‘Blue Christmas,' okay?”

Tim looked shocked. “No—no, that's not it! I'm gonna be, like, all over the place all the time, you know, like a clown at the circus. I'm gonna be
so
funny—like really, really funny!” And grabbing his air guitar, Tim swiveled over to Melanie Enson, put his cheek down close to her face, and in his best Tennessee accent said, “How'd you like to give Elvis a big ol' kiss?”

That got some kids laughing, but most of the chorus was still upset with the program, and after a couple more loud complaints, Hart had had enough.

“Listen,” he said. “I'm the director, and for now, this is the concert. So deal with it. We've only got eleven days, only
eleven
days! And we
have to get it all pulled together. And we have to rehearse the songs. And everything else, too. So … let's just do it. We
have
to do it!”

Ed Farley, the king of the goofers, shouted out, “How come we have to do it?” and three or four other kids yelled, “Yeah, how come?”

Hart Evans pulled himself up to his full height and glared at Ed, cold fury crackling in his eyes. Then Hart shouted something he had never said before—something he could never have imagined himself saying, not in a million years. “How come?” he yelled.
“Because
I
said so!
That's how come! Now let's get to work! Boys, over on this side of the room. Girls, over there. Ross, pass out the sheets with the words to ‘The Little Drummer Boy.' NOW!”

And the kids obeyed him.

When everyone was in place, Hart turned and said, “Mr. Meinert, I need you to play the piano.”

For the next thirty-five minutes Hart stood at the front of the room pointing first at the boys, and then at the girls as the chorus rehearsed “The Little Drummer Boy.” Hart had Kenny playing along on a snare drum. It
didn't sound bad, but it wasn't great, either.

The period ended, and the kids began to gather up their things. There was no laughing, no chatter as the room emptied. No one looked at Hart, no one went near him.

Walking out of the room, Hart was right behind Shannon Roda. In the most cheerful voice he could manage, Hart said, “Hey, Shannon, that went okay, don't you think?”

She stopped in the doorway and turned to look at him. So did Olivia.

Shannon said, “Are you talking to
me?
Because,
don't
. You're just like Mr. Meinert. Only shorter. And meaner. You know what you are?” Shannon narrowed her green eyes and hissed. “You're a
teacher
!”

A
nother beautiful day. Cold, but bright and sunny. Perfect December day, don't you think?”

Hart nodded at his dad, and he tried to smile a little, tried to act like he cared about the weather. But he didn't. It was only seven fifteen on Thursday morning, and Hart was already thinking about chorus, about the concert, about what a huge mess it was. It was all he could think about, all day every day, all night every night.

Staring down at the blue-and-white plate, Hart took another bite of toast.

Hart's mom caught her husband's eye, and then nodded toward their son, raising her eyebrows. The look said, “Go on, keep talking. Can't you see he needs help?” Because it was clear to everyone in the family that Hart was going through some deep waters.

Even Sarah knew something was up. Two
days ago Hart had come into his room after school and caught her there, back at his workbench in the corner. She was sitting in his chair, actually holding Hart's small high-speed electric drill in her hand.

“Hey!
What're you doing in here?”

That part had been pretty normal, when Hart shouted at her.

Sarah gulped and held out her left hand. “I… I want to make a hole in this shell I found in Florida. I want to put it on a chain, like a necklace.”

It was the next part that had tipped her off. Because instead of yelling some more and grabbing her arm and pushing her out of his room, Hart had said, “Well, be careful. That's a diamond drill bit on that thing, and it'll go right through your finger.”

Then Hart had just flopped onto his bed, pulled a clipboard and a pencil out of his backpack, and started writing.