Class Dismissed

by Allan Woodrow

  There’s a voice inside my head telling me that I can do this, too. It says that I can be an ace student. I can be serious and reliable.

  And for once, I’m not telling the voice to shut up.

  I’m going to write the greatest play ever. I’ll be a whole new Kyle, a Kyle who’s good for something.

  I barely notice the smell of curry in the hallway as I turn the doorknob to enter our apartment. It’s quiet in the hall, but when the door swings open, I’m immediately hit by the sounds of my siblings wailing and the TV blaring and an unpleasant stink that reminds me of dirty diapers.

  In the kitchen, Mom feeds AJ, although she probably has more food on the floor than in his mouth. The green dots on Mom’s face must be smashed peas. At least I hope that’s what they are.

  Leah sits on the floor, banging a wooden spoon against the base of the table.

  “Can you keep an eye on AJ?” Mom asks, wiping peas off his face. She lifts him from the high chair and puts him on the floor.

  “Sure,” I say.

  But I need to get started on writing my play, too.

  I have responsibilities.

  No more goofing off for me.

  I grab a handful of lined paper and a pencil from our junk drawer, scoop up AJ in my other arm, and head to the family room. Marley and Nate watch cartoons. I put AJ on the carpet, and he immediately starts whacking the sofa with a rattle that was lying next to him.

  “Keep it down,” says Marley, but AJ keeps banging. I nudge him with my leg so that he’s hitting the fabric of the sofa and not its leg. This way the whacking is not nearly as distracting.

  But at least the banging will keep him busy for a while.

  I sit on the big recliner. There’s a small writing table next to it. I lay my paper on the table and hold up my pencil, ready to begin writing.

  I jot my name on the top of the page, big, like John Hancock big. (John Hancock is famous for signing his name in a gigantic size on the Declaration of Independence. I’ll have to put that in my play. I wonder what rhymes with gigantic?)

  I peek at the television only a few times. Mostly, I stare at the paper—the white piece of paper staring back at me. It’s practically daring me to write on it.

  My name remains big. The rest of the page remains empty.

  I think about everything I know of the American Revolution. George Washington cut down a cherry tree and had wooden teeth. I wonder if he was scared of woodpeckers? Also, there was a tea party. Paul Revere rode a horse to warn people. I think they picked him because no one else owned a horse. Betsy Ross sewed the flag. I wonder how she knew to add fifty stars, one for each state? That must have been a lucky guess because I don’t think they had fifty states yet. I’m pretty sure Alaska and Hawaii came later. Ben Franklin was also involved somehow. He discovered electricity, too. I wonder if he had magic electrical superpowers.

  I put down my pencil in frustration. What was I thinking? What do I know about writing a play? What do I really know about the American Revolution?

  America revolted. Doing work is revolting.

  And I’m stuck.

  It’ll take all weekend to write this!

  But I made a promise.

  I will no longer be an undependable oaf. I’m a new Kyle. If I can’t do this, how can I expect to take care of my brothers and sisters while Mom is working a new job?

  I will write the play! Me! Make no mistake—

  And I’ll start it after this commercial break.

  On the TV, Squiggle Cat gets poked in the eye. I laugh. “Yow, yow, yow!” he hollers.

  Sometime later, I’m not sure how much later, Mom sticks her head in the room. She’s still covered in peas and I have to keep from laughing. One is mashed onto the tip of her nose, like a wart. She looks like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “Where’s AJ?” she asks.

  “He’s right next to me.”

  “Where?” Mom asks.

  I look down at the floor. AJ was right next to me.

  Uh-oh.

  I bolt out of the chair. AJ was here a minute ago. Or maybe it was many minutes ago. He couldn’t have gone far, right? My brother can’t even walk yet. He has to be in the apartment somewhere. Somewhere safe.

  “How long has the front door been open like that?” Mom asks.

  The front door to our apartment is wide open. Did I close it when I came home today? I can’t remember.

  My mind fills with panic. I run out into the hallway, but I don’t see AJ at all. He’s vanished.

  At the far end of the hallway a small door is open. It’s the garbage chute door.

  Oh no.

  I sprint down the hall. “AJ?” I yell out. “Are you there?” When I get to the chute, I poke my head as far as I can inside the metal tube. “AJ? Can you hear me?”

  My voice echoes through the metallic passageway. It travels down, down, down to the basement.

  No voice bounces back.

  The garbage chute opens up into a large, rusty metal container filled with everyone’s trash. AJ could be in the container right now. He could have slid down the shaft and landed in the container.

  He could have hit his head. He could be trying to eat a plastic bag.

  I don’t want to think what I’m thinking.

  I was going to be a new Kyle! A better Kyle! Instead, I’m as good for nothing as I always have been.

  I don’t wait for Mom. I fling open the stairway door and dash down the stairs, two at a time, down the three flights all the way to the basement.

  I’ve only been in the garbage room once before, when I accidentally threw away Mom’s watch last year. It took some time, but I found that watch and it was only a little dented.

  The thought makes me feel worse. What if AJ is a little dented?

  As I step off the final stair, the hum of a radiator fills the air. It’s dark, cold, and damp. I’m too worried to be scared, although it’s extremely scary down here, with moisture on the gray concrete slabs and some sort of creaking coming from the vents. I wouldn’t be surprised if rats live down here. It feels like the sort of place rats live. The lights are dim and cobwebs are everywhere. The stale trash stench is overpowering.

  “AJ?” I cry out.

  Please answer me, please answer me!

  I wait for a response.

  I don’t get one, except for the slight echo of my voice.

  The container is open but taller than me. I need to stand on my tiptoes and hoist myself up on the side of the container to peek in.

  I’m scared at what I might find.

  But I find nothing.

  The container is empty except for the old garbage smell and multicolored dark stains caked into the metal sides: reds, greens, and browns. “AJ?”

  Maybe the trash has already been emptied and thrown into a truck. Maybe I just missed it. Right now AJ could be sitting in the rear of a garbage truck, being hauled off to a dump somewhere.

  We need to call the trash company. The police. The fire department! I sprint back up the stairs. It’s a lot harder running up stairs than it is running down them, but I don’t have time to take it easy.

  By the time I reach our floor, I’m breathing heavily. I plow across the hallway to our apartment. I can’t catch my breath.

  I inhale giant whiffs of curry as I pass apartment 3F. I wheeze.

  When I push open our apartment door, Mom is in the kitchen with AJ, rocking him in her arms. He looks fine. He coos.

  “He was in the bathroom,” Mom says. “Eating soap.”

  I have never been more thankful for anything in my life.

  Mom glares at me, her eyes angry, but I think she’s too relieved to yell at me just now. I’m sure I’ll be yelled at later.

  I mutter an apology and, with my shoulders slumping, lumber to the family room. I stand in the doorway. Marley and Nate are still watching cartoons.

  Squiggle Cat gets poked in the eye, but I don’t laugh.

  I was supposed to do something else right no
w, something for school, but I can barely think straight. I’m just glad AJ is fine. Anything else can wait until after I watch this show, or maybe it can wait until the show after that.

  I hear my mom’s voice behind me. She’s talking to AJ, not me, using her calm, soothing voice. But her words stick in my stomach and bury themselves in there. “And that’s why I can’t leave you guys alone and take that promotion, honey,” she says, to herself more than him.

  I don’t think Mom intended for me to hear that, but I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  On Monday, Kyle strolls into class with a big, blockhead grin. He looks exactly the opposite of how I feel. Last night I dreamed I was Chicken Little. But in my dream the sky was falling and no one listened to me. Which is most definitely not how the story goes.

  Over the weekend, Mom and I talked about our Harvard trip. She told me we could still change our plans and head somewhere more fun. I told her I still wanted to go, but I know, in my heart, that it doesn’t really matter. Harvard won’t admit me when they discover I’m a liar and a failure at directing plays and at leading blockheads.

  I’m a blockhead, too. I’m probably the biggest blockhead of all. My future was so bright, but now it’s shrouded in so much pitch-black darkness, I need a flashlight to see it.

  “Do you need any help?” Paige asks me. Lacey stands behind her.

  “I’m quite fine, thank you,” I say, but I say it louder and with a more irritated tone than I intend. They turn and walk away and I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if I should call them back. I feel bad, but then Kyle strolls up with a thick pile of stapled papers. My chance to smooth things over with my friends vanishes.

  “It’s done,” says Kyle.

  “What’s done?” I stare at him blankly.

  “The play,” he says. “I wrote it. Stapled, collated, and ready to roll.”

  I raise my eyebrows. The play is typed. It’s complete. And—fit for hundreds of parents to watch? I’m stunned, but dubious.

  Dubious means I’m doubtful, uncertain, and cannot believe a Neanderthal like Kyle came through for us.

  My spirits lift a little. Just a little, though.

  This is goofball Kyle we’re talking about.

  “It’s a musical,” he says. “Everyone loves a musical, right?”

  I nod slowly. Musicals are whimsical, bouncy nothings. The American Revolution was not whimsical, bouncy, and certainly not nothing. My slightly elevated spirits start to plunge back to their sub-basement level.

  I stare at the title page: Let Liberty Fall: A Musical about Teeth and Freedom.

  “A musical about teeth?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Sure. You know, I call it Let Liberty Fall because of our town name, Liberty Falls. That’s pretty clever, right? But then there’s George Washington. He had wooden teeth, right? That was a huge part of the American Revolution. Along with Ben Franklin’s superpowers and all the tea parties everyone had.”

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I mutter. My spirits plunge back into a pit of total black doom. “Did you spend a lot of time writing this?”

  “Of course. I mean, I guess it sort of depends on what you mean by ‘a lot.’ ” He laughs, but I don’t join in his merriment.

  I keep one copy of the script and hand the rest of the pile back to Kyle to share with the class. I read the first page, and any remaining hope I had shrivel up into a bitter and stomach-churning seed of despair. I shake my head.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  I continue reading, and the seed lurking in my stomach grows and grows until it’s the size of a large, overripe pumpkin. This play is filled with fabrications, mistakes, and utter nonsense. George Washington did not build the George Washington Bridge, and if he did, he certainly didn’t cross it to fight the British. Abraham Lincoln did not invent the top hat, and he wasn’t even alive during the Revolutionary War. Half the play is about Washington’s wooden teeth.

  The play isn’t totally worthless, though. There’s a scene between George and Martha Washington that’s sort of touching, as Martha tries to persuade George to lead the army. There’s a rousing song by the Freedom Fighters as they vow to fight for their independence. His lyrics aren’t half bad.

  Some of the wooden teeth stuff is funny, kind of, if you like that sort of thing.

  Not that the Revolutionary War was funny. Freedom is not a laughing matter.

  I had imagined a dramatic retelling of our Founding Fathers’ struggles against the overbearing British government. Taxation without representation! The demanding king, oblivious to our plight, flexes his muscles until we are forced to rebel!

  Instead, I get a silly play about wooden teeth.

  And then there’s the ending, where Benjamin Franklin flies a kite during a thunderstorm, lightning strikes and gives him superpowers, and he uses them to help defeat the British army.

  I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen.

  I glare at Kyle. His big grin starts to fade. “What?”

  “Did you do any research?” I ask.

  His piercing green eyes flicker. He wrinkles his nose, which gives him the cutest little who me? sort of look. I force myself to maintain my stern glare, anyway.

  As the classroom teacher, I need to be firm.

  Kyle looks down at the floor. “Well, I wanted to do more research. But I lost track of time, a little bit. I can make some changes.”

  “Do that. And lose the second part of the title, okay? The teeth part.”

  My stomach, which was already in knots, becomes knottier. I feel bad as Kyle stomps away. Was I too harsh? But we’re performing Friday. This Friday. If we perform the play as written, we’re doomed.

  Kyle will have to make it better, that’s all. I wish I had more faith in him. If only he weren’t such a blockhead, even if he’s a cute blockhead. I don’t have time to rewrite this myself, either. I could save it, probably. Maybe. But I have papers to grade, tests to give, and homework to assign. And the script is only a small part of a play. There are props! Costumes! Direction!

  If someone else could help, things would be easier. But as the teacher of this class, I must supervise everything. I must lead. I must take control. Everyone’s depending on me, me, me, and me!

  I mean, right?

  I clear my throat, trying to remove the great lump that lingers inside it. I stand up and slam my stapler against the desk to get the class’s attention. I speak in my most measured yet authoritative tone. “Thank you for the play, Kyle. Your take on the American Revolution is … um, very interesting.”

  Kyle sits with a half frown.

  “We must move forward,” I continue. “We’ll have to cast the parts. Who will play George Washington, our first president, and hero of the American Revolution?”

  Brian raises his hand, and for a moment I’m torn between happiness that we have a volunteer and total panic that the volunteer is Brian. He would be awful in the role. But then I see that Brian is holding an eraser, which he tosses at Seth’s head. He wasn’t volunteering at all.

  No one else moves.

  “Someone has to be George Washington,” I plead. Still, no one raises a hand. “Fine. We’ll draw pencils.”

  I order everyone to gather around me as I remove our pencils from my desk. I extend my fist holding the pencils, the broken one mixed among them.

  My classmates slide them out, one by one.

  “Not me!” says Brian.

  “Not me!” says Trevor.

  “I’ve got it,” says Adam, showing everyone the short pencil in his fingers. “I’ll be George Washington, I guess.”

  His moan is met with smiles and breaths of relief from the other kids.

  That’s one part down, but we have many to go. “Who wants to be Martha Washington?” I ask.

  Lizzie raises her hand. “Me!”

  Good. That was easy.

  Lizzie looks at Adam, and he looks back at her. They smile at each other. They hold their gaze way too long.

  Gross.

&nbs
p; “I have some script ideas,” says Lizzie, gazing at Adam. “We need to add some romance to the play.”

  “Good idea,” says Adam.

  I roll my eyes as I distribute the other parts. Now the volunteers come easily. Cooper will play Thomas Jefferson. Emmy nabs the role of Betsy Ross. Other kids play John Hancock, Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, and various townspeople. I look around at the rest of the class and assign them roles, too. Samantha and Giovanna will create the sets. Kyle will work on revising the script. Seth and Brian will, apparently, continue to hurl erasers at each other.

  I give them parts as British redcoats. They can hurl erasers at the colonists or something.

  Two quick warning knocks come from outside the door. I jump. Fortunately, Jade is in the hallway, at her lookout post, right where she should be. We scurry to our seats, and I rush to my old desk. The chair is cold. It feels small. I’m unused to such cramped seating.

  But I can’t be seen at the teacher’s desk, even if it’s where I belong.

  Principal Klein strolls into the room. He scans us, one by one, but we sit up straight and smile. There is no goofing off here. Not on my watch! His eyes settle on Ms. Bryce’s empty chair. “Where’s your teacher?”

  I gulp, and I wonder if Principal Klein can hear my gulp, it’s so loud. My head starts to fill with new worry. But then Eric says, “She’s in the bathroom.”

  “Why is she always in the bathroom?” asks Principal Klein. He looks genuinely concerned.

  We all shrug.

  Principal Klein sighs. “Just let her know we need the permission slips for your field trip tomorrow.”

  “Field trip?” I squawk.

  Principal Klein stands in front of our classroom doorway. He has just announced we have a field trip tomorrow. With all the excitement over the last few days, I completely forgot about our trip.

  I think we all completely forgot about it.

  “Of course!” our principal says. “A field trip to the Liberty Falls History Museum. Aren’t you excited?”

  I wouldn’t use the word excited to describe our mood right now. I think I’d call us stunned, as in so stunned our mouths actually hang open like fly traps. We stare at our principal. Someone coughs.