Class Dismissed

by Allan Woodrow

  Right now, I just want to think about all the things that are going right. Because maybe, possibly, we’re actually going to pull this off.

  When my ma wakes me up for school, I can barely move. I feel like I haven’t slept in a week.

  “Rise and shine, love,” she says.

  I moan and open my eyes. I squint. The only light is from the hallway outside, but it feels brighter than a flashlight shining in my pupils.

  When I sit up, I shiver. Every part of me feels like it’s submerged in ice. I want to bury myself back inside my blankets.

  I roll my legs out of bed and my belly twitches. My mouth fills with spit, and it tastes like old eggs and tuna.

  My stomach hurts, too.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” I warn.

  And then I do, right on the floor.

  I put weight on my legs, avoiding the puddle of green and yellow by my feet, and stagger to the bathroom. I need to get dressed. Tonight is our big school play. We have to rehearse. I need to learn my new lines.

  Kyle and Eric made a ton of changes yesterday. They’ve made the play a lot better, but it’s hard to remember what lines have been taken away, and what lines are new.

  I can’t be late to school today. I’m George Washington. I’m the star.

  For once, I’m actually glad I pulled the short straw. I think our play will be a big success. And with Lizzie playing Martha Washington, I couldn’t be luckier.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Ma asks.

  “School,” I say, but it feels like someone else is talking. My voice sounds distant, as if it’s coming from another room.

  “Back to bed, young man,” my ma orders.

  I take a step forward, but the room spins. I nod, return to my bed, and gratefully crawl back under the covers. The school needs me, but my bed needs me more.

  “You might have the stomach flu,” my ma warns.

  “Or maybe it’s food poisoning,” I say with a forced smile. “From the homework, detention slip pad, and sneakers I ate in school.”

  “What?” asks Ma.

  “Never mind,” I mumble, trying to ignore the lingering tuna taste in my mouth.

  I’m almost positive I have food poisoning, and I’m also almost positive it was Lizzie’s cupcakes that made me sick.

  I wonder if anyone else feels the same way I do.

  I wipe peanut butter from my hand onto a tissue from the teacher’s desk. Kyle researched hamsters and learned they like peanut butter, so I helped him hide some peanut butter crackers behind the trash can. Hopefully, they’ll lure Soda out from wherever she’s been hiding. Today is our last day of school before winter break. I hate to think of Soda out of her cage for two more weeks.

  The cleaning crew will feed her while we’re gone, just like they do over the weekends. I remember Ms. Bryce telling us that. But they won’t feed her if she’s not in her cage.

  I just hope nothing horrible happened to the poor girl. She probably feels alone. I know the feeling. But feeling alone doesn’t have anything to do with being alone. You can feel alone anywhere, even in a classroom with twenty other kids.

  I suppose I’ve always felt a little like Soda, but I don’t feel that way now.

  Kyle clapped my back this morning, and he didn’t do it to hurt me, but just to say hello. Lacey smiled at me. She’s never even noticed me before. For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel so frightening here.

  Kyle and I made a lot of revisions to the script. Everyone agrees the play is much improved. Maggie personally thanked me for helping.

  It was kind of nice to feel part of the group.

  The play still isn’t completely accurate, though. A couple of scenes aren’t in the correct order of events. A few things didn’t happen exactly like we say they did, either. We all know that. But it’s more accurate than it was, and some of the most ridiculous parts have been removed. I walk to Kyle, holding a few more small script notes in my hands. I’m proud of my changes. I can’t wait to share them.

  I smile, just a little. I don’t think I’ve ever been excited to share anything in class before.

  I look around the room. Adam hasn’t shown up yet, and neither has Jade. Jade just has a small role in the play tonight. She’s one of the townspeople. But Adam is the lead. George Washington! He better show up soon. He needs the rehearsal time.

  Mr. Wolcott has made a difference as big as our script changes. Maybe even a bigger difference. He claims he is a famous director, and I believe him. He says a lot of things, and I’m not always sure what’s the truth and what he’s making up.

  We all applauded when he walked in this morning. His face turned red and he mumbled, “Oh, much ado about nothing,” before ordering the actors to their places.

  And Samantha and Giovanna’s sets are looking better. Some other kids help them finish the last couple of backdrops. Even Seth is assisting—he’s painting a sign for Ryan. But Brian refuses to do anything except throw erasers at people.

  Brian’s out of the room on lookout duty right now, so he’s not bothering anyone. Good.

  The phone rings and Maggie reaches for the receiver. The actors stop acting and Mr. Wolcott stops directing. The class grows quiet. Things have been going so well. Maybe it’s nothing.

  But the classroom phone ringing is never a good sign.

  Maggie, phone in her ear, keeps nodding and says, “Uh-huh,” and “Oh my.” She frowns, and her lips quiver. Her eyes bulge. When she finally hangs up the phone, she’s pulling her hair. “We have bad news,” she says, her voice cracking. “That was Mrs. Frank. Adam is home sick with the stomach flu or food poisoning or something. So is Jade. They’re not coming to school. We’re doomed.”

  Maggie pales, with a slight hint of green.

  Lizzie’s face is kind of green, too. She’s standing behind Maggie, clutching her stomach and bending over.

  “We can’t perform the play without our star!” wails Maggie.

  “I don’t feel good,” mumbles Lizzie.

  “Adam is sick!” complains Maggie.

  “I think I’m going to be sick, too,” complains Lizzie, who then rushes toward the door and bolts straight out of the room.

  “She’ll be fine,” says Maggie as the door closes behind Lizzie. “She better be,” she adds with a gulp. “Or even our doom is doomed.”

  Doomed. Maggie is right. We’re performing tonight! Without a George Washington, we have no play. And Lizzie is Martha Washington. Our secret has to leak, for sure. And we were so close to succeeding, too. Our play was good! Kyle looks at me, and his frown matches mine.

  “Everything has gone wrong ever since Ms. Bryce left,” complains Lacey.

  “We wouldn’t be having any of these problems if we had a real teacher,” says Emmy. Then, to Mr. Wolcott, she adds, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” says Mr. Wolcott. “The fool doth think himself to be wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

  We all nod our heads as if we have some idea what he’s talking about, although we don’t.

  After a brief pause, Jasmine says glumly, “I sort of wish we had a teacher.”

  “Me too,” says Madelyn, also glumly.

  “I miss Ms. Bryce’s smiley faces,” says Giovanna. “She used to draw the best smiley faces on my homework.”

  “Remember when she brought in candy bars for everyone on Halloween?” asks Cooper. “That was nice.”

  “She complimented my hair once,” Samantha says, with a sad, faraway look.

  “About a month ago, my mom and I saw her at the mall,” says Danny. “And she said the nicest things about me even though I stepped on her foot and ruined one of her shoes.”

  “And we have more homework now than we did then,” complains Eli. The entire class groans, and then looks at Maggie.

  “All that homework isn’t my fault,” says Maggie. As we stare at her, Maggie glares back, and then looks away with a sigh. “Well, maybe it’s my fault just a little
.” She coughs. “It seemed like a good idea.” Her shoulders slump. She has looked exhausted all week, but suddenly she stands up taller. It’s as if a huge weight has just rolled off her back. “I think we should tell the truth and get a real teacher.”

  “But what if they give us Drill Sergeant DeWitt again?” Emmy asks.

  “I guess we’ll have to take the chance,” says Paige. “Besides, my sister had her as a sub for her fourth-grade class, and she heard that Sergeant DeWitt is being shipped overseas to join her platoon.”

  “Really?” asks Cooper. The corners of his eyes crinkle from his relieved smile. He’s holding a candy bar, and he takes a large bite out of it.

  I nod my head, too. We’ve done pretty well without a teacher, but the thought of having one feels reassuring. Maybe it is time to tell the truth.

  In fact, revealing our simply unbelievable secret doesn’t feel so scary anymore. It feels comforting.

  Mom is going to go crazy when she finds out. But I’ll get through it. Besides, I have friends in class now. You can get through anything if you have friends.

  The entire class seems relieved at the thought of sharing our secret. It’s like a collective deep breath flows through the class, as if someone has punctured a big balloon that’s been getting ready to pop, getting ready to pop, getting ready to pop, and then BOOM! The pressure is gone and the air feels calmer.

  I guess too much freedom stops being fun after a while. Everyone needs some rules, every now and then.

  I wonder if that’s how the American settlers felt after the Revolutionary War. The British had all these rules, and the colonists hated them for it. So they fought for their freedom. But when they won the war, did they run around without any rules at all? No, they made new rules. And appointed their own leader.

  “Anyone who talks is a sock hater and smells like a sock, or whatever!” shouts Brian, breaking the silence, his mouth sneering. I thought he was still on lookout duty, but I guess I was wrong.

  Everyone in class glares at him, and Brian seems to deflate. He shrugs. “Fine. No one is a sock hater or smeller, okay?” He looks at his backpack and sighs. “I can’t believe I’ve been carrying that stupid sock in my backpack for two years, too.” He winds his arm back and then whips his eraser at Seth. Seth ducks, but the rubbery projectile bounces off his back. “One point!” he yells. The rest of the class ignores him.

  “Let’s call Principal Klein,” says Maggie, picking up the phone on the teacher’s desk, “and ask for a teacher.”

  “Do you think they’ll let us perform the play?” asks Cooper. “I really wanted to be onstage.”

  “Probably not,” says Maggie.

  Murmurs spread through the class. No one likes the idea of wasting all our hard work.

  “I really like my Paul Revere costume,” adds Trevor, running his fingers along his brown vest.

  “I’ve memorized all my lines, and it was hard,” says Cooper.

  “My part was hard to memorize, too,” says Gavin, although he only has his one line.

  “And it would be a shame not to use our sets,” says Giovanna, glancing at the large paper backdrops taped against the far wall. One depicts a farm scene, one backdrop shows a city street back in 1776, and one is of the interior of Carpenters’ Hall, which is where the First Continental Congress met. There is also the giant American flag.

  Most need a few finishing touches to complete, but they look impressive.

  “One more day keeping our secret can’t hurt, right?” asks Paige.

  “The show must go on!” declares Mr. Wolcott.

  Maggie puts down the phone receiver without making a call. “Then it’s settled. We’ll keep our secret until after the play,” she says. “And then we’ll tell the truth.”

  So that’s that. The play will be performed and our script will be shared. Then, after the show, we’ll spill our incredible secret.

  Kyle and I exchange huge grins.

  “But we still have a problem,” Maggie adds. “We don’t have anyone to play George Washington, remember? It’s the biggest part, too. No one will be able to memorize it in time.”

  Right. Adam’s sick. In my excitement I had completely forgotten.

  “I can play the role,” says Mr. Wolcott. “Did I mention my life onstage with the famed Franny Bree? We were truly marvelous together.”

  “That’s nice of you to offer,” says Maggie. “But I really think a kid needs to play the part.”

  I slink in my seat. If I dropped a staple, the class would hear it. That’s how quiet we are. No one volunteers. No one can memorize the part in time, anyway.

  I peek at Kyle. He’s holding an eraser, and from the angry glare on his face and the way he wiggles the pink rubber in his hands, I think he wants to chuck it at someone. He frowns with a look of such disappointment that I feel sorry for the Big Goof. Although really, now that I know him better, Kyle’s not much of a goof at all.

  If only someone had Adam’s part memorized.

  But someone does.

  I clear my throat. I unslink. I grab my desk so hard my knuckles turn white. “Wait a second,” I say. I gulp. I want to disappear, but instead I say, “I helped write the part, right? So I know it. I can do it.”

  I want to capture those words and stick them back in my mouth. But it’s too late now. You can’t swallow words after they blurt out.

  Once words are out in the world, they are out there forever, whether you speak them, text them, or declare your freedom from the British government.

  Maggie smiles. Jasmine claps me on the back. Kyle shouts, “All right, Eric!” I walk to the front of the class, and everyone cheers.

  My legs shake. I regret volunteering, despite the ovation.

  “Well done,” says Mr. Wolcott as I join him and the rest of the actors. “How far that little candle throws his beams.”

  Part of me wants to run away screaming, but a bigger part of me wants to stay right where I am. I’m excited and petrified at the same time.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Maggie. She must notice the look of fright and doubt that is probably spread across my face.

  I bite my lip. “It’s just that I don’t like speaking up in front of people,” I admit. I feel embarrassed saying it.

  “What are you talking about?” she says, as if shocked by my answer. “You always speak up.”

  I shake my head. Maybe she has me confused with Brian or Kyle, although we look nothing alike. They’re twice as big as me. No, they are three times as big as me.

  “Of course you do,” Maggie insists. “How many times have you saved us when a teacher has asked where Ms. Bryce is? Who suggested we share lunches on our very first day after Ms. Bryce quit? Who suggested we assign a lookout? Whose writing has helped save our play?”

  I said all that? I did all that?

  “And it was your idea to ask Mr. Wolcott to direct the play, not mine,” adds Samantha, who I didn’t notice behind me.

  I blink. I look at Samantha, and then at Maggie. I’ve shared a lot with the class, even though I didn’t think I did.

  I think about how I’ve always felt like a quiet, dull plant. But maybe it’s better to be a blooming, colorful flower, even at the risk of getting plucked. Maybe that’s sort of the point of being a flower.

  “Ready to rehearse?” asks Mr. Wolcott.

  I nod. “Yeah. But one more thing first.” I look at Maggie and take a deep breath. “I think we need to write a letter. All of us. Together.”

  Maggie nods. “Actually, I think we need to write two letters.”

  The door opens. My heart skips a beat, fearing it’s Principal Klein. Our secret will be leaked hours before we planned.

  But it is just Lizzie. “I’m better now,” she says, her hand covering her mouth. And then she puffs out her cheeks. “No, I’m not!” She runs back out the door and into the hallway.

  I knew we were performing a play in front of people. Obviously. We didn’t write, rehearse, build props, and prepare amid a
million panic attacks to perform in front of a crowd of mice. But still. There is a huge, vast, cavernous difference between thinking of a crowd and actually seeing one waiting for you.

  I peek through the curtains. The auditorium is full. Standing room only.

  I’m not in the play, thankfully. There would be absolutely no way I could perform in front of this many people.

  Eric looks petrified. But he volunteered for it!

  “Quite a turnout,” says Lacey, smiling. I nod. My knees shake just looking at the throngs of parents and people waiting for our performance. Every fifth-grade parent in the school must be here, plus brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and who knows who else.

  They are here to see our play, which starts in six minutes.

  Gulp.

  “This is so exciting,” says Lacey, standing beside me. “Oh, and Paige and I created a couple of new work sheets. I know we don’t have to, with winter break starting and everything else, but we wanted to try. It was fun, but hard. I don’t know how you did it all by yourself.”

  I nod, grateful for her comment. “It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” I admit.

  “I’m glad I’m a kid and not a teacher,” says Lacey.

  I nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

  I continue to stare through the curtain. So many people are here just to see my play. To watch my directing!

  But to be honest, even though the programs (Jasmine designed them and they are lovely) list me as the director, that’s not totally correct. Mr. Wolcott deserves the credit. His direction saved the day. But he refused to be listed in the program. He said, “Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.”

  As usual, I had no idea what he meant.

  In the end, my contributions mostly consisted of getting out of the way and allowing Mr. Wolcott to take charge.

  I have to admit that I’ve learned a lot from this entire experience. Funny, isn’t it? I planned to do the teaching, and here I am doing the learning. I think I might have learned more from not having a teacher than I did having one.