Mrs. Crawford’s class will take care of the decorations and clean up afterward.
Ms. Bryce’s class will perform an original play.
When I read that last line, my lips tremble. We’re to perform a class play in front of everyone? An original play? Our class has the hardest job!!
My hands shake so much I can barely thumb through her papers. Ms. Bryce must have a script she wrote somewhere. Our teacher—sorry, our former teacher—files everything carefully. So where is it?
I look under A for American and R for Revolution in her alphabetized files. I look in the front and the back. I look behind the files, in case it fell. I would look on her computer, but most of her files are password protected, and I’ve already tried every password I could imagine.
I can’t find anything, anywhere. Not one mention of a play. Not a scene, not an act, not a single word. Nothing.
We’re doomed.
There goes Harvard. No way they’ll accept me with this failure on my record. Mom and Dad are going to be crushed. I’ll be the first Cranberry in one hundred years not to be admitted.
I’ll be lucky to make it to middle school.
In the back of the room, Brian throws an eraser at Seth. Maybe I should join them. If my future is doomed, I might as well start a life as a juvenile delinquent.
“We’re ready to pick pencils for detention,” says Paige, approaching my desk. I groan and look up. Other kids are gathered around, too. “What’s wrong? You look kind of sick. Do you want me to help you?”
Her eyebrows rise, eager to help, but I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I can create a work sheet or two, you know.”
“No, no, no,” I insist, my voice raspy and cracking. My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. I grab the pencils from my desk and hold out my hands for the class.
My classmates gather around me to choose. One hand reaches in after another. In a moment, all the pencils are gone and everyone looks to see who will go to the principal’s office.
It’s Adam. He has grabbed the short pencil again. He moans.
But we’re all in much, much bigger trouble than that.
I pulled the short pencil for detention. Again. When Ms. Bryce left, I thought I was done with detention. I figured that, finally, I wouldn’t get in any more trouble for no good reason at all.
But I’m sent to the principal’s office just as often as I was before. No, I’m sent to his office more often than before.
I’ve always been the best-behaved kid in class, too. I’m just blamed for stuff. Like the time I left the faucet going in the lab sink and it overflowed and ruined the floor and Ms. Bryce’s shoes.
It’s not like I left the paper towel in the sink on purpose. How I was supposed to know it would clog the drain like that? I was trying to clean the sink and do a good deed. I just forgot the towel was there.
“Anyone want to switch with me?” I ask. “I went to the office yesterday. And the day before that.” And the day before that.
I hold up my short pencil and scan the room. No one steps forward or raises their hand. Not that I can blame them. It isn’t any fun getting into trouble.
Maggie doesn’t look at me. She just pulls her hair and stares at the walls. I don’t know why she’s so upset. It’s not like she’s the one marching to the principal’s office again.
My eyes meet Lizzie’s. I think that she is about to open her mouth and raise her hand. I shake my head.
No. I am not switching with Lizzie. I wouldn’t want her to get into trouble, even if it’s fake trouble.
Lizzie shrugs and smiles at me. I’d happily get into all sorts of trouble for that smile.
I’ll grab another lollipop for her while I’m in the office. She told me she likes grape the best. I’ll grab two grape lollipops. Maybe three. It’s my favorite flavor, too. At least it’s my favorite flavor now.
Ms. Bryce kept a detention slip pad on her desk. Before I head out the door, I tear a slip from the pad. But I need to think of a reason why I’m in trouble. I can’t just report to the principal’s office for no reason at all.
The first time, I forgot to bring a slip. So when I got to the office and Mrs. Frank asked me for it, I froze.
“Hand it over,” she said.
I didn’t respond.
“I need your slip.” She held out her hand.
I stammered. “Uh, I don’t have one.”
She tapped her pencil on her notepad. “Why not?” she asked.
I bit my tongue. “It’s because …” I fidgeted. “It’s because I ate the detention pad,” I blurted out. “And that’s why I’m in trouble.”
Mrs. Frank frowned. “And why did you eat the detention pad?”
“Um … Because I wanted to take a bite out of crime?”
She sighed and told me to take a seat.
So this time, I make sure I’m prepared. It’s not easy to make up things that will get you in trouble, but not in too much trouble. I can’t claim to do anything that will trigger a phone call to my parents.
I jot down an excuse and head toward the door.
“I’m reporting to the principal’s office,” I say, stopping at the door frame. “It’s not too late to switch with me.” But no one even looks at me except Lizzie, who smiles. I sigh and leave.
I’m just glad today is Friday so I can’t possibly be sent to detention tomorrow. At least I think I can’t.
If anyone asks me, I’m not pulling any pencils on Saturday.
When I arrive at the office, Mrs. Frank looks up from her computer screen. “What is it now, Adam?” she asks, tapping her pencil on her notepad.
I hand her my slip.
She reads it, shakes her head, and then looks up at me. “It says you ate Lizzie’s homework.”
I nod.
“Why would you do that?”
“I heard the assignment was a piece of cake.”
She moans. “You have a nasty habit of eating things.” She points to the row of green plastic chairs against the wall and across from her desk. “Principal Klein will be with you in a few minutes. Have a seat. And try not to eat anything.”
Maggie sits at the teacher’s desk, pulling at her hair. I try to hand her my homework. I’m not sure why I did all the homework when a teacher isn’t assigning it.
That’s not true; I know exactly why I did it. I did the homework because everyone else was doing the homework, and I didn’t want to stick out.
As I hold my pages in front of her, Maggie barely blinks an eye. She waves to a stack of papers on the desk and I rest my sheets on it. Maggie glances at the pile and sighs.
I sit down, ready to write another story. I’m in the same seat Ms. Bryce assigned to me on the first day of class: fourth row, second from the right. Most other kids have changed their seats. There’s no one to tell us we can’t switch seats.
Most desks are not even in rows anymore. Some face each other in pairs, and other desks are in clusters of various sizes, like the six girls to my left who have formed a small circle. The Big Goofs own the far corner, their desks spread out so they can hurl erasers at one another.
I haven’t moved my desk an inch. I have nowhere to move it to.
I write a story about a classroom with desks that move. I call it “The Enchanted Classroom.” Every morning the kids in Class 507 find their desks in different places and have to slide the desks back into their correct spots.
A boy decides to find out what’s happening. So one night, instead of going home, he hides in the classroom closet. He doesn’t tell anyone. Eventually, he falls asleep, but scraping sounds across the floor wake him up late in the night.
Every night, the desks come to life. They talk and move around.
One desk says, “I’m tired of Jimmy Jones sticking gum under my desk. I should stick gum on him!”
Another desk whines, “That’s nothing. Felicia White draws on me every day. How do you think she’d feel if I drew on her?”
The
hiding boy sneezes, and the desks discover him in the closet. They snap their tops up and down. The boy cowers as the desks move closer. THOMP! THOMP! Their tops bang faster and faster. THOMP! THOMP! THOMP!
“He knows we’re alive. We can’t let him escape,” says the teacher’s desk, which is their leader.
The next day, the boy is missing, but oddly, the teacher’s desk looks bigger than it did the day before, and in the middle of class it burps.
I stop writing when I notice Maggie standing up. She’s in front of the class, banging a stapler on a desk. She looks tired and worn down, with bags under her eyes.
“Maggie—are you okay?” Lacey asks.
“We’re doomed,” sobs Maggie.
Maggie clears her throat. She has everyone’s attention. Even Brian stops to look at her, his arm about to chuck an eraser, but frozen midchuck.
Maggie holds up a piece of paper and waves it in the air. “Do you know what this is?” she asks.
“A piece of paper?” suggests Seth. He and Brian laugh.
Maggie ignores them. “It’s a note,” she wails, her voice quivering. “A note written by our own Principal Klein. It’s dated two weeks ago.”
“So?” asks Gavin.
“According to the note, we have to perform a class play next Friday night. One week from today,” she gulps. “One week. That’s ten thousand minutes or so. Well, a little bit more than that, since we’re performing Friday evening. So about ten thousand five hundred minutes if my math is correct, and I’m sure it is. Ten thousand five hundred minutes until our doom!” she cries. She rubs her eyes as tears roll down her face. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“We’ll perform a play,” says Seth. “That doesn’t sound hard. What play?”
“We don’t have a play!” complains Maggie. “That’s part of the problem. Maybe Ms. Bryce was going to write it, I think. I don’t know. But we have to perform this original play in front of all our parents in one week. We can’t perform a play that doesn’t exist.
“When Principal Klein finds out, he’ll probably make all of us repeat fifth grade,” she continues. She lowers the page and the tears roll down her cheeks like a rainstorm. She blows her nose on her sleeve. “All my plans! Ruined!”
Brian drops his eraser. His mouth is open and his eyes are wide. “Did you say we might have to repeat fifth grade?” he barks, a violent tone to his voice.
“My father wouldn’t stand for it,” says Samantha, folding her arms across her chest.
“I want to go to middle school next year,” complains Madelyn.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” laments Paige.
As other kids cry out with complaints and concerns, Maggie crumples to the ground as if she’s a house of cards that blew over.
“Let’s just skip it,” says Seth. “We’ll tell the principal we fell asleep or something.”
“We’ll tell Principal Klein the entire class fell asleep for an entire month?” Lacey asks.
“He’ll never believe that,” says Paige.
“Let’s hire a professional theater group to write and perform a play in our place,” Samantha suggests. “My dad will pay for it.”
“I think Principal Klein will notice if a professional theater troupe performs instead of us,” says Maggie.
“Fine. Whatever.” Samantha turns her head and sniffs, as if she’s just been insulted. “I’m just trying to help.”
Some kids moan, others sigh. Everyone looks at one another.
“Um, so, what if we write the play ourselves?” I ask. “We still have time, right?”
Maggie’s tears turn off. She looks up from the floor. “Maybe. I don’t know. Who would write it?”
People look at me, and I immediately wish that I had kept my mouth shut. I slink low in my chair, trying to disappear from the stares. I wish my mouth were superglue-gummed shut.
No one can write an entire play over a weekend, can they?
But then again, maybe someone could. I bet I could. Writing a play would be sort of fun, actually. Sure, it would be a lot of work, but I’d probably do a great job. I inch my hand up slowly. I feel like a flower that’s about to be picked, and it’s not a good feeling. As my hand lifts, my stomach knots.
“I’ll write it,” Kyle calls out.
Kyle? He’s just about the last person I’d expect to volunteer for this.
Still, I quickly lower my inched-up hand.
“You?” asks Maggie, her mouth gaping.
Kyle nods. “Of course. Why not me?”
I can think of a million reasons why not Kyle. But I keep them to myself.
I’m just relieved no one saw me about to raise my arm.
Walking home, I pass the Building Where the Old Blue Hairs Live (my new name for the old folks’ home next door). I don’t even realize I’m walking by it, because my head is down and I’m so busy wondering what’s going to happen in school with our class play and if it will expose our secret.
Not that it would make a difference to me. Daddy has way too much money for something like this to have any sort of lasting impact on my future. But Maggie seemed pretty devastated. I bet Giovanna would be upset, too. A lot of kids would be very disappointed if our secret spilled.
All of the girls in class would probably complain about it at Emmy’s upcoming birthday party, the one that I’m not invited to attend. Or maybe the party would be canceled if our secret got out. Not that I care about a stupid birthday party, either.
Well, maybe I care a little.
That’s strange. I mean, I don’t care about most of the other girls in class, not really. At least, not very much.
But maybe I care because sharing a really huge secret is sort of like being in a big, private, cozy club together, like Daddy’s country club, but with secrets.
Or maybe it’s something else, and maybe that something else doesn’t have anything to do with money or country clubs or even our boat.
I’m too busy thinking about all of that, so I’m not paying attention to the Big House with Ancient People Stuffed Inside (ha! I like that name better) when Mr. Wolcott’s loud voice shouts out to me. “Franny! Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” He waves to me, stretching out his arm as if he’s performing in front of a packed house and not sitting on a lawn chair.
“I’m not Franny. I’m Samantha,” I remind him, rolling my eyes.
“Yes, of course. But you could be twins. Oh, I loved her! She lit up the stage as if she were the only one under the spotlight, and the other players merely props.” He gestures with one hand, sweeping it across the air. “Oh, my bounty for her is as boundless as the sea. But as they say, men at some time are masters of their fates.”
No one says that, but I just nod and mumble, “Sure, whatever.”
I give him a wave to go, but I turn to look at him. Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Wolcott is sweet and all, but I always sort of brush by him with a half glance. Most days, I’m in a hurry to get home.
I fight the urge to criticize his necktie, which is way too wide to be in fashion, but keep my stare locked into his eyes. Normally, they twinkle, but today they look dull. His bright blue eyes seem misted by a haze.
“Anything wrong, Mr. Wolcott?” I ask.
He smiles, and his eyes dance back to life. “No. Nothing. It’s her birthday today, that is all.”
“Whose birthday? Franny Bree’s?” I guess, and Mr. Wolcott nods. “How come you guys never married?”
He shakes his head. He looks away, as if he can see her right in front of him. Maybe he can, sort of. “We were young. She met another. Perhaps it was not meant to be.”
I want to tell him that he’ll meet someone else, but I’m guessing at his age those days are gone. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. I wish Daddy could buy him a little less loneliness, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t really work.
But I can’t stay and chat. I have a very busy afternoon ahead. I need to hurry upstairs, eat a snack, and change clothes for ballet cl
ass. Then, I have violin lessons. And tonight I really, really, really need to go online and look for new shoes to match my red backpack.
“I’ll see you around, Mr. Wolcott,” I say. “I’ve got to run. Cheer up!”
Mr. Wolcott smiles at me, his eyes once again twinkling. “Parting is such sweet sorrow!” he calls out.
When I get up to our apartment, Aunt Karen has lemonade waiting for me on the table. There aren’t many things better than lemonade, especially when there’s a wedge of lemon on the edge of the glass and one of those little fancy umbrellas poked into it. I put my lips on the end of the bendy straw and take a sip.
I put the glass down and push it away from me.
“What’s wrong?” asks my aunt.
It’s way too watery. It needs more sugar, too. “Drinking this is such sour sorrow,” I mutter.
“What was that, Samantha?”
“Nothing,” I say. I take another sip of the lemonade and fake a happy grin. “Mmmm. Delicious!”
As I walk down my apartment building hallway, I still cannot believe I’m going to write the class play.
Me, Kyle Anderson: serious screwup turned sensational scribe.
Yow. Yow. Yow.
I’ll double that. Yow. Yow. Yow. Yow. Yow. Yow.
I’ve never written a play before. But I bet I can do it, even though it’ll be hard work.
Yow. Yow.
I’m up for the challenge.
Yow?
Everyone in class was mega-surprised I volunteered. I could see it in their faces, their pursed lips and popping eyeballs.
Maggie’s expression was the most priceless. She looked like she had swallowed a frog.
I expected her to croak on the spot.
Everyone thinks that all I do is horse around with Brian and Seth. And maybe they are right.
Were right.
No more.
I’ll show them that I’m more than a horrible horse-around goof-off. I’ll show my mom, too.
Besides, writing a play can’t be much harder than writing rhymes, right?
The play was amazing, everyone said.
That boy’s got some brains hidden in his red head.
Class Dismissed Page 8