Class Dismissed

by Allan Woodrow

  “Certainly Ms. Bryce has taught you all about the history of our wonderful town?” asks Principal Klein.

  She’s never mentioned a word about the history of Liberty Falls, not even by accident. But no one says anything.

  “You all know how the town got its name, right?” asks our principal. He looks right at me, as if he expects me to blurt out the answer.

  I put my finger under my collar. How did it get so hot in here suddenly? I look down and say to my notebook, “Because there used to be some sort of waterfall? And because liberty never falls, so it’s sort of ironic, maybe?”

  “So you have learned!” Principal Klein throws out a broad smile. “Anyway, don’t forget to bring your signed permission slips before you get on the bus. Tell Ms. Bryce that Mrs. Frank will come by to collect them tomorrow morning.”

  A moment later, he’s gone. The door is closed and no one in class dares to even breathe. But then Madelyn breaks the so stunned our mouths actually hang open like fly traps silence by asking the question on my lips. It’s the question on all of our lips. “How are we going to go on a field trip without a teacher?”

  We all groan in unison.

  “It’s over! I knew we’d be caught!” wails Maggie. “First the play, and now this!” She buries her face in her hands.

  “Maybe we can just call the office and tell them Ms. Bryce is sick,” suggests Madelyn. “And then they’ll assign us a substitute for the day.”

  Maggie looks up, hopeful.

  “No way,” says Emmy. “Do you remember the last sub we had? Remember Drill Sergeant DeWitt? She made us do push-ups and run laps. She had a whistle around her neck, and whenever you answered a question wrong, she blew that whistle until your ears fell off. And then she made the entire class do fifty sit-ups.”

  We all remember Mrs. DeWitt. How could we forget? I still have nightmares about her.

  Cooper shivers more than the rest of us. After seeing him sneak a candy bar bite, Mrs. DeWitt made Cooper run three laps around the school. And it was raining.

  Cooper puts the chocolate bar he’s holding into his backpack, as if Mrs. DeWitt is peering inside some magical faraway crystal ball, watching him snack.

  No one wants Mrs. DeWitt back for even one day. And what if she stayed for two or three days? What if she became our permanent teacher?

  There are continued moans across the class.

  “My mom could take us,” Jasmine suggests. “She loves museums.”

  “But won’t she wonder where our real teacher is?” asks Eli.

  “It’s too risky,” says Madelyn, and we all nod in agreement. “They would discover our secret, for sure.”

  Our incredible secret is unraveling like a giant ball of rolling yarn swatted by a determined kitty.

  “If anyone finds out, then you’re all sock haters, which means you smell like a sock or whatever!” yells Brian. “I don’t want to repeat fifth grade.”

  “The Class That Repeated Fifth Grade.” Maybe that’ll be the next story I write. It’ll be about a class that has to repeat the same grade over and over and over again until they are all one hundred and four years old.

  In my story, the teacher doesn’t age, though. So at the end, she’s the student and the students are all her teachers.

  “Maybe we can keep our secret and still go on the field trip,” says Samantha. “I know an adult who will help us out and won’t ask any questions. He’ll pretend to be our teacher and everything.”

  I turn my head and stare at Samantha. I wait for her to laugh and tell us that she’s kidding—that even her daddy can’t save us from this mess. But she sits there calmly.

  “Are you sure?” asks Maggie.

  “Pretty sure,” says Samantha. She nods her head energetically. “Very sure. Our secret will be safe with him.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” says Maggie.

  No one else seems to have any other ideas, so we all agree that Samantha will supply a pretend teacher. Maggie immediately starts digging through Ms. Bryce’s desk. I figure she must be looking for the permission slips.

  I have to admit that Samantha surprises me. I thought I already knew everyone in class. But I guess you really need to get to know someone well before you really know someone well. And maybe you can’t get to know someone just by watching that person from your desk.

  I have a job to do, and the entire class is depending on me.

  Me. Samantha O’Day.

  No one has really depended on me for something before. Daddy usually pays people so we can depend on them.

  It’s a scary feeling. But it’s sort of a nice feeling, too.

  People say that money can’t buy everything. You never hear rich people saying that.

  Still, maybe there’s something to it.

  Mr. Wolcott sits in his lawn chair in front of the Old-Timers’ Joint. (That’s not my best name for the place, I admit. I’m distracted by all these good-deed thoughts.) He’s wearing the same brown three-piece suit and wide, striped ascot he always wears.

  I hang back. I’m a little nervous to ask him for a favor. What if he says no to me? Then what happens?

  That’s the problem with having lots of people depend on you. You might have to let them down, even if you try your hardest.

  I’m surprised that I care so much about helping out. Usually I don’t think about the other kids in class at all. But now I find myself really, really, really wanting to help them.

  “Franny!” Mr. Wolcott shouts, pulling me out of my deep thoughts. “In black ink my love may still shine bright!”

  “Uh, right,” I say, coming closer. I have no idea what that means, as usual. “My name is Samantha, remember?”

  “Of course, of course. Have I told you of my one true love, Franny Bree? She was as lovely as a spring meadow, a delicate bloom on a hill of luscious green.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “Her bounty is as bouncy as the sea. Or you are the boundless sea. Or something like that.” I need to get to the point. “Mr. Wolcott, I need a favor.”

  “A favor?” he repeats, his index finger caressing his chin. His eyebrows lift. He stands up, places one hand on his heart, and stretches out the other arm, as if addressing a queen.

  His eyes had a sad look the other day, but I don’t see any of that now. They glimmer, full of life. I wish my eyes twinkled like that. Fashion magazines don’t tell you how to get your eyes to light up.

  “Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, till you require,” he says.

  I’m not sure, but I think he’s offering to help. Excellent. I might not be someone who gets invited to birthday parties, but I won’t be someone who lets everyone down. “We’ve got a problem at school. We’re going on a class trip, and we need an adult to go with us. You’ll have to pretend you’re our teacher.”

  “Pretend? Like acting in a play?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s been so long since I have acted in front of an audience.” He says this quietly, to himself. I worry that he won’t agree to help us. Then what? I feel antsy, and I keep myself from tapping my foot impatiently.

  I suppose that’s why good deeds feel good. Because they feel horrible when you don’t know if they’ll succeed.

  Mr. Wolcott clears his throat, and when he speaks, he speaks louder and gestures, his arms sweeping with enthusiasm. “Yes! I shall do it! For all the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” Then he smiles, a bright smile with white, gleaming, and nearly perfect teeth. His eyes twinkle so brightly I have to look away.

  I grin as widely as he does.

  I really don’t think anything feels better than having a good deed get done. Not even buying shoes.

  “But an actor needs his props!” exclaims Mr. Wolcott, whirling around in a circle, his arms swirling up, down, and around. “Costumes! Makeup! Should I wear a fake mustache or long, flowing wig? How abou
t a top hat and tails? A walking cane? Perhaps I could go as the Prince of Demark, old Hamlet himself.”

  “I was thinking you could just act like a teacher.”

  Mr. Wolcott pumps his fist. “A splendid idea. Why, this will be the greatest role of my life! Still, I’ll need a name. A character without a name is like a play without an act.”

  “Pick whatever name you want.”

  “How about Macbeth, Thane of Glamis!”

  “Um, maybe you want to work on that?” I suggest.

  He nods. “Perhaps.”

  “But thank you! Thank you for helping us!” He could call himself anything and I’d be super-excited. Well, he could call himself almost anything. I want to give him a giant, grateful hug, but instead I pat him on the shoulder. We work out all the other details, and I bid him farewell. I actually say, “I bid thee farewell.”

  Talking to Mr. Wolcott for a while will make you speak like that.

  As I wave good-bye and head toward my building, all I can think is: I did it! I found our pretend teacher. Me! Samantha! And Daddy had nothing to do with it.

  Winter break starts next week, and we’re going to Hawaii. It’s been over a year since we were last there, which seems like forever. The warm tropical sun will feel great, but I doubt it will make me feel any warmer than I do now.

  I’m walking on a ray of sunshine, even though it’s a cold and cloudy day.

  Our doorman George smiles at me and I scurry past him into the lobby. “Welcome home, Miss Samantha.”

  “Fare thee well, George!” I say as I rush past, and then bite my tongue, trying to shake the Mr. Wolcott sayings from my mouth.

  I head straight to the elevators. I need to change clothes for dance class and I’m running late. Mrs. Flatly, our teacher, said that we might start our dance for the end-of-year recital today. She’ll likely pick parts right after winter break.

  Last year, Penelope Poppers was the lead dancer in our class recital. She’s the best dancer, sure, but I’ve been practicing really hard. Maybe I’ll get a solo this year. If not, I’m sure Daddy can help fix that.

  Doing things by yourself feels great, but sometimes you still need your parents to take care of things for you. It’s a lot easier, anyway.

  I hand my parent permission slip to Lacey, who collects them for the class trip. My mom’s name is scrawled on the bottom.

  When I asked Mom for a signature last night, her face turned red and she glared at the slip. “The night before? What sort of school are they running? I’m calling your teacher. This is unacceptable.”

  I made up a story about how Ms. Bryce’s phone is broken and that she also has laryngitis and we didn’t have permission slips earlier because the school printer blew up.

  It wasn’t my best story, but it did the job. Mom signed the slip.

  I didn’t think it would matter, anyway. I figured Samantha wouldn’t find a substitute teacher and then our secret wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

  But what do you know? I was wrong. Samantha brought an adult, just like she promised. He’s old and wispy thin. He says his name is Mr. Chips, but I don’t think that’s his real name. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, a pink bow tie, and a monocle in his left eye.

  I’ve never seen a monocle up close before. He looks like an English professor from some old movie. He removes his eyewear and holds it up, admiring it. His voice booms, as if he’s talking over a loud crowd, although no one else is talking. “All teachers need monocles, don’t you agree? Doesn’t it make me look academic?”

  “Um, not really?” says Samantha.

  Mr. Chips shrugs and puts the monocle in his inside jacket pocket.

  He’s full of energy. He waves his arms as if he’s performing onstage while saying odd things like, “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t!” I think he’s quoting Shakespeare. I recognize one or two lines from Hamlet, the play that I’m trying to read. But Shakespeare’s words don’t make any more sense to me when I hear them than when I read them.

  Mr. Chips starts talking about how he’s some great actor and about some old actress he used to love, but it’s confusing. All of us in class keep nodding our heads and throwing him pretend smiles.

  Samantha looks like she wants to hide under a desk. If we get through today, it will be a miracle.

  Finally, there’s a knock on the door. Mrs. Frank, the school secretary, enters the room and tells us that our bus is waiting for us to board it.

  She waves to Adam and asks, “Have you eaten any homework or detention slips today?”

  Adam shakes his head, blushes, and says, “Not yet.” I have no idea what they are talking about.

  Mrs. Frank collects the permission slips from Lacey, counting them out, and then, satisfied, leads us out the door. We follow her, single file, down the hallway and to the bus that’s parked outside.

  I’m last in line and Mr. Chips is at the front, but I can hear him clearly. He rambles on and on during the entire walk with a long monologue that begins, “To be, or not to be: that is the question.”

  I recognize the quote. It’s a famous speech from Hamlet.

  Finally, we exit the school doors. The bus is waiting right out front for us, with its motor running. As we gather around the doors to go inside, a deep voice calls from behind us. “Wait!”

  It’s Principal Klein.

  We were so close to getting on the bus, too! But seeing our principal standing next to me reminds me of how much trouble we can get into for keeping this humongous secret.

  This is going to be very bad.

  Principal Klein approaches Mr. Chips. Our principal is a big man, and next to the ultra-thin Mr. Chips, he looks like a balloon. “Who are you?” he asks our pretend teacher, his big hands rubbing against his chin.

  Samantha is next to them. Before Mr. Chips can answer the principal’s question, Samantha says, “That’s Mr. Chips. Our, uh, chaperone.”

  Principal Klein scans our group. “Ummm. But where’s Ms. Bryce?”

  Without missing a beat, the entire class answers, “The bathroom.”

  Principal Klein hesitates for a moment. His brow furrows. I think he’s about to accuse our entire class of keeping a secret and that Mr. Chips is a fake.

  But then our phony teacher rests his hand on Principal Klein’s shoulder and says, “Dear sir, do not worry. I, Mr. Chips, teacher extraordinaire, am honored to shepherd these sheep. O! this learning, what a thing it is. What responsibility to captivate their minds! And … and …”

  “Yes?” asks Principal Klein.

  Mr. Chips looks at Samantha. “Um, um …” Then he whispers to her, “Line, please.”

  “Just tell him you’re in charge until Ms. Bryce gets back,” Samantha whispers back, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “And I’m in charge!” exclaims Mr. Chips to our principal. As he says this, he removes the monocle from his pocket, puts it to his eye, and peers at our principal. “See? Don’t I look academic?”

  Samantha’s face turns bright red. But Mr. Chips merely smiles. There’s a moment of hesitation from our principal, a moment where I am convinced we’re busted. But then our principal pats Mr. Chips on the back and says, “Great! Thanks for helping today. Have a wonderful trip.”

  He turns around and heads back into school.

  And that’s that.

  My feet are still quivering as the bus doors open and we march up the steps. But I look at Mr. Chips. He is a great actor. I may not have followed half of what he was saying, but he almost had me convinced he was a real teacher, too.

  I’m the last in line for the bus. I sit by myself in the empty front seat right behind the bus driver. I take a deep breath, anxious for the bus to start moving.

  “Are we all here?” asks the driver. He doesn’t know Mr. Chips isn’t our regular teacher.

  “Yes, we are,” says Samantha.

  “Then exit, stage left!” Mr. Chips declares.

  And we’re off!


  We’re walking to the next museum exhibit when Brian yells to me, “Last one to the drinking fountain is a rotten egg!”

  I’m no rotten egg, that’s for sure. I don’t even like regular eggs, unless you’re throwing them at someone.

  I think:

  Some eggs are hard and others are runny.

  But throw an egg at a head? That’s pretty funny.

  Brian gets a big lead to the fountain because he starts running before he even finishes saying “egg,” which is cheating. But I’m way faster than him or Seth.

  Seth gets off to a poor start, so he’s got “rotten egg” written all over him.

  I almost smack into an old lady who’s walking in the hallway—“Excuse me!” she snaps—but I sidestep her just before we collide. I skid slightly on the floor but overtake Brian at the wire, reaching the water fountain one arm length in front. “I smell rotten eggs,” I say, and then take a long winner’s sip from the spout.

  Seth arrives last. I keep my finger on the fountain button so the water keeps spraying, and slap my palm against it.

  Water splashes onto Seth and Brian, a big wave on their shirts, and a little puddle lands on the pants of an old guy standing next to us. “Watch it!” he huffs at me.

  “Sorry,” I say with a giggle.

  A few other adults glare at us in the hallway.

  Still, this is the best field trip ever. No teacher. No rules. We can run in the halls.

  The rest of our class is already looking at the Native American exhibit, and we join them. Inside the room, glass displays feature Native Americans wearing long feathery headdresses and tan shirts with bright red and green patterns around the shoulders. On the wall hangs a painting of an entire caravan of Native Americans hunting buffalo. An old canoe dangles from the ceiling.

  A sign next to me describes how people lived back in the early 1400s, way before English settlers came to the area. I lean over to read it.

  “Boring!” Brian burps out from behind me.

  I open my mouth and push out a burp of my own. It’s not as loud as Brian’s, but for an on-the-spot, unprepared burp, it’s not half bad.