Class Dismissed

by Allan Woodrow

  “Hurrah! Hurrah!” cheers Cooper.

  A few people in the audience also yell, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” They seem to really be enjoying the play.

  Eli is supposed to cheer, too, but he just stares at his kite and grumbles to himself.

  “Let’s sing another song,” says Cooper.

  “It seems like a good time for one,” I agree.

  Ryan dashes onto the stage and begins another interpretive dance in the background with a lot of spinning.

  We all sing to the tune “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

  So Georgie can wear wood teeth again—

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  He’ll lead our troops of fighting men.

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  Our boys will cheer and march about,

  They’ll brush teeth to keep cavities out,

  And we’ll all have bright smiles when—

  Georgie wears wooden teeth.

  We’ll raise the flag and beat our drums.

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  We’ll take great care of our gums.

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  We’ll battle back the king’s menace,

  And twice a year visit dentists.

  And we’ll all have bright smiles when—

  Georgie wears wooden teeth.

  The enemy we’ll smash and crush!

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  Our fists we’ll raise, our teeth we’ll brush!

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  We’ll show those Brits who’s the boss.

  We’ll win freedom and then we’ll floss,

  And we’ll all have bright smiles when—

  Georgie wears wooden teeth.

  We march offstage. The crowd cheers us loudly, and a few people whistle. My mom yells, “That’s my son! George Washington! Isn’t he wonderful?” which is a little embarrassing, but I can’t help but grin, anyway.

  Ryan dances off behind us. She looks really dizzy from spinning, and as we near the side of the stage, she smashes into Samantha.

  “Ta-da!” she shouts.

  Eli is behind her, swooping with his arms flapping.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Flying off with my mighty electrical superpowered kite powers.”

  “You know we killed that scene!” Samantha yells at him.

  Gavin dashes past him and onto the stage. “I’ll sign my name large!” he shouts.

  “Not yet!” I whisper loudly. “And you’re still not saying it right!”

  The crowd applauds as the curtains close. If they realize how badly we’re messing up, their cheers don’t show it.

  The curtains part, revealing Trevor, who plays Paul Revere, hammering horseshoes on a bench. I adjust my teeth, but they are half in my mouth and half hanging on my lip.

  Three more teeth crack off.

  “George! Welcome!” says Trevor, waving. “Your teeth are falling out.”

  “I cannot tell a lie, Paul Revere. I know they are. But we don’t have time right now to talk teeth. We need you to warn the people the British are coming. We will light one lantern if they come by land, and two if by sea.”

  “What if I see three lanterns?” he asks.

  “Then they come by airplane.”

  “Why can’t Ben Franklin warn everyone with his superpowered Kite of Electrical Might?”

  “Because we deleted all of that from the script.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.” Trevor steps forward with a long and purposeful stride. He puts his hands on his hips and looks out to the crowd. “Then I will do it. I will ride to Lexington and warn the people, crying, ‘The British are here! The British are here!’ ”

  “Actually, you need to shout, ‘The British are coming! The British are coming!’ ”

  “I think my way makes more sense, but if you insist. We will fight for freedom! For America!”

  “And for wooden teeth!” I declare as more wood splinters out of my mouth. “Especially for wooden teeth.”

  Trevor runs off yelling, “The British are here! The British are here!”

  “No, they’re coming! They’re coming! And you have to wait for the lanterns!”

  Cooper sits at a desk in his study, writing with a quill on a large piece of parchment paper. I stand next to him along with Eli (as Ben Franklin, of course) and Gavin. Gavin plays John Hancock.

  “If you had a superpowered quill, you’d be done writing that by now,” says Eli.

  “Op e we a spr prr suff awee,” I say, slobbering.

  “What?” asks Eli.

  I can barely talk with those oversized wooden teeth in my mouth. I remove them and my jaw already feels better. “I said, ‘Stop it with the superpower stuff already.’ We must demand our independence. Thomas Jefferson, we need you to write a declaration.”

  Cooper nods. “We’ll call it, Leave Us Alone, You Ignorant Burping Moose.”

  “That’s catchy,” I say. “But we were thinking of calling it the Declaration of Independence.”

  “I like my title better,” says Cooper. He frowns, lifts his quill, and writes a few words on the parchment paper. We gather around him to watch. “I’ll start with, ‘We the people.’ ”

  “Let’s save that for the Constitution,” I say.

  “Good idea,” agrees Cooper.

  “I’ll write my name supersized!” Gavin shouts.

  “It’s not time for your line yet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And you’re still saying it wrong.”

  “Sorry,” says Gavin.

  “The Declaration of Independence is an important document,” Cooper interrupts. “I think we should sing a song about it.”

  “That’s a great idea. It seems about time for another song,” I agree.

  Ryan runs out behind us and starts spinning.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. “We only agreed to two dances.”

  “I like to spin,” she says with a shrug. “And dancing always entertains.”

  “I’ll write my name ginormous!” Gavin shouts, stepping forward.

  “Not yet,” I say. “And that’s not right, either.”

  Cooper, Eli, and I take turns singing lines of the song. We sing to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  We declare independence from that dirty rotten king.

  We’ll poke him in the eyeball and put his arm into a sling.

  We will smack him in the head with fourteen pounds of jelly beans.

  Our freedom marches on!

  The king’s armpits are stinky and his nose is filled with warts.

  His hair is extra greasy. His breath smells like rotten farts.

  His toes are warped and ugly, and he doesn’t have a heart.

  Our freedom marches on!

  Glory, glory hallelujah!

  Kick the king out as our ruler.

  Democracy is way cooler.

  Our freedom marches on!

  We’ll send our plea for liberty across the Atlantic.

  Each one of us will sign our names—

  Everyone looks at Gavin. “What?” he asks.

  “It’s time for your line,” I hiss.

  Gavin shouts, “I’ll sign my name gigantic!”

  “Nicely done,” I say.

  Cooper continues singing.

  Give us freedom or we’ll sink you like the Titanic!

  Our freedom marches on!

  We gather around, shaking hands and exchanging back slaps. The crowd is going nuts, cheering and whistling. Someone yells, “Bravo!” It might be my mom.

  Things are going pretty well. Maybe I should share more of what I write.

  Of course, things aren’t exactly going perfectly, either. Ryan, dizzy from spinning so much, smashes into Eli and they both crash to the ground.

  “If only I had my superpowered kite,” moans Eli, holding his head.

  “Ta-da,” mumbles Ryan.

  The crowd cheers even louder, as if it’s all part of the script.

  Samantha and I are onstage, alone. The audience
is hushed. Mr. Wolcott managed to get my wooden teeth back into my mouth, although barely. I wish he hadn’t. It feels like I have a jaw full of chipped marbles. A giant American flag waves in back of us, although the offstage fan is cranked up to high and the wind blows off Samantha’s bonnet. Danny makes loud duck calls from behind the curtain.

  “You’re supposed to be making explosion war sounds,” I whisper loudly to him.

  “These are my explosion sounds,” Danny whispers back. “I’m doing my best.”

  “The script says we kiss now,” Samantha says softly to me. “We won’t, right?” I nod. “Good.” She clears her throat. To the audience, she says loudly, “Now all we need is a country to wave our flag in, and fifty states, and a national anthem and stuff. And then, maybe, someday, fifth graders will put on plays about us.” She looks at me, but I’m gazing off and holding my jaw. “George Washington, did you hear anything I said?”

  “I cannot tell a lie. No. My teeth hurt too much to listen.” That line is in the script, but I don’t have to do much acting to make it believable, unfortunately.

  “Someday kids will have dentists,” Samantha says.

  “I hope so. That’s what we’re fighting for.”

  Cooper walks onto the stage, followed by Gavin, Eli, Madelyn, Emmy, and Trevor. “You are wrong, George Washington,” says Cooper. “We’re fighting because we believe that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights.”

  The rest of the cast streams onto the stage, forming a single line in back of Samantha and me and facing the audience.

  Madelyn steps forward and thrusts out a fist, punching me in the arm. “Sorry.”

  “You really need to watch your manly thrusts,” I say, wincing.

  “I’ll sign my name gigantic!” shouts Gavin. Everyone ignores him.

  Behind me, the entire cast continues to recite from the Declaration of Independence, together: “that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

  “And we also fight for dentistry. Just a little,” I say, removing my teeth and massaging my pained jaw.

  Eli steps forward. “This is where I soar across the room with my superpowered Kite of Electrical Might, while fireworks light up the stage, followed by explosive fireballs and a red, white, and blue ring of fire!” he announces.

  “Um, no, we killed all that, remember?” I say as Danny and Jasmine run across the stage with sparklers.

  The crowd stands up, cheering, as the curtains close.

  Eric and I, the two leads, bow. We’re onstage, just a few steps in front of the rest of the class. The applause rains down on us like a thunderstorm, although it’s a very happy and excited thunderstorm.

  I soak it in. I can’t stop smiling. Maybe I should become a professional actress. I bet Daddy could get me some roles.

  Or maybe I can get them myself. I don’t think I need Daddy to do everything for me.

  I did this. I earned the applause.

  I think that’s why it feels even better than I think applause is supposed to feel.

  And the audience isn’t clapping just for me, but for all my classmates. We all bow.

  When you bow after a ballet recital solo, you’re all alone onstage with no one to share your smile with. But here, now, I’m sharing my smile with all my classmates. That makes it feel even better.

  I peek behind me. Emmy throws me a great big smile. Madelyn gives me a thumbs-up.

  My friends think I did great.

  It’s funny to think of them that way. My friends.

  They were terrific tonight, too. We all were. As Kyle would say, “Yow, yow, yow!”

  Mom and Daddy clap, too. I see them way in the back. I thought they were too busy to come tonight, but Daddy’s business meeting must have been canceled, and Mom’s tennis match must have been postponed. Or maybe, just maybe, they canceled their appointments and came here to see me.

  That would be something.

  Aunt Karen is here, too. Her grin is just as huge as my parents’, and she’s clapping just as hard as them, if not harder.

  The claps die down as Principal Klein walks up the stairs and onto the wings of the stage. He’s wearing a bow tie with his orange cardigan sweater, but he still seems sort of scary to me. Eric and I move back, joining the rest of our class to give our principal plenty of room. He strolls to the front.

  An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. Because I know what’s going to happen now.

  We all agreed. It’s too late to change our minds. And while I know it’s for the best, I’m still nervous about it. I want the applause to continue, and not turn to angry murmurs, like I think it might.

  Principal Klein smiles at us, and then addresses the audience.

  “That was simply wonderful, wasn’t it?” he asks the crowd. He claps, and they respond with more cheers and whistles. We bow—the entire class together—one more time.

  It feels nice to bow together.

  One final bow, before the end.

  Principal Klein turns to us. “Did your class write the play yourselves?”

  “Kyle and Eric wrote it,” says Ryan.

  “Very impressive,” says Principal Klein. “Kyle and Eric, why don’t you step forward?”

  They do, and the crowd erupts again. A short, plump woman—she must be Kyle’s mother because she has the same tomato-red hair—cheers loudest.

  I think if Kyle smiled any harder, his mouth would fall off.

  Another woman yells, “That’s my Eric!” Eric blushes and his face turns redder than Kyle’s hair.

  “Ms. Bryce?” asks Principal Klein. “Where are you? Take a bow with your class.”

  As the audience quiets, I exchange worried looks with Giovanna, who is now standing next to me. My stomach clenches tighter.

  “Ms. Bryce? Are you here?” asks Principal Klein. He turns to us and whispers, “Is she in the bathroom?”

  Maggie clears her throat and steps forward. She’s holding the letter we agreed to write—one of the two letters we wrote—and she hands it to Principal Klein.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “It’s from the entire class,” she says.

  “Should I read it aloud to the audience?” Principal Klein asks, opening the envelope.

  “Um, you might want to read it to yourself first,” Maggie suggests.

  As Principal Klein reads the letter I just handed him, clutching it in his thick, oversized hands, he keeps looking up, staring at us, and then reading again. This happens every half second or so. I have taken several steps back so I blend in with the rest of the class. Although I handed him the letter, we all signed it.

  The letter is not long, so I think Principal Klein must have read it a few times. We considered writing a lengthier note but decided short and sweet would be fine.

  I pretty much memorized it after Eric wrote it and we all approved it.

  Dear Principal Klein,

  Ms. Bryce resigned from class two weeks ago and all of us students in Class 507 would like a new teacher, please. We would especially like to have a nice teacher. But if that’s not possible, we’ll take whatever teacher we can get.

  We’re sorry we didn’t tell anyone sooner. But we think we learned a lot, even without an adult teaching us. The things we learned weren’t really teacher-teaching stuff, anyway.

  Sincerely,

  Class 507

  When he finally finishes reading, Principal Klein lowers the page. He looks at us again, staring at each and every one of us, down the line. Then, he looks out into the audience and clears his throat.
The audience is silent, waiting. “We seem to have a problem,” he says. He stands there for a few seconds longer, looking at the ceiling and talking to himself, as if trying to find the right words to say.

  My legs feel weak. I was confident we were doing the right thing, but now I’m not sure.

  All I see is doom.

  “It appears Ms. Bryce has chosen an early retirement,” our principal says. “Two weeks ago.” He turns to us. “And what have you been doing for the past two weeks?”

  We fidget. No one wants to speak up. You wouldn’t think eighteen kids and a few hundred people in the audience could be this quiet.

  But they can be very quiet.

  Finally, Eric says, “Well, we wrote this play. And we did homework, too. Like, a lot of homework. And I guess we also goofed off a little.”

  Principal Klein frowns. “We will get a new teacher, and you will have to make up the last two weeks of class if you want to graduate to middle school after this year.” He pauses. “I’m just not sure how you can make up the time.” He drums his fingers on his cheek. “I’ll need to think about it over winter break.”

  “I will teach them over winter break.” It’s Ms. Bryce—I would recognize her high, scratchy voice anywhere. She steps into the theater aisle near the back of the room. Apparently, she’s been watching the play this whole time and strides toward us. My mouth drops open in surprise.

  Amazed, shocked, and stupefied.

  I immediately close my mouth. People never look intelligent with their mouths gaping open, and appearances are important.

  Ms. Bryce looks younger and prettier than I remember. Maybe the last two weeks without teaching have relaxed her. Or maybe I just remembered her more withered and grouchy than she really was. But she’s not smiling. Her expression is stern and serious.

  “Where have you been?” asks the principal.

  “Just now I was in the bathroom,” she replies. “But I will come in over break and ensure these students make up their lost weeks. That should give you enough time to find a permanent substitute teacher when break is over.”

  “But we have plans to go to Hawaii,” says Samantha.

  “We’re going to visit my grandma,” whines Cooper.