“I’m going to visit Harvard,” I say.
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you kept this horrible secret,” says Principal Klein. “I think the class coming in over break is a marvelous idea. If, of course, the parents agree.”
He looks out into the audience. Parents mutter between themselves.
“How about summer school instead?” yells a tall man with a beard.
“What if they stayed an hour later every day for the rest of the year?” suggests a short lady with a long nose.
“I think they should repeat fifth grade!” shouts a big man who looks like an older version of Brian. A chorus of boos immediately meets him. He looks mad, as if he wants to chuck an eraser at someone, and sits down with his arms crossed.
A few more objections ring out, but not as many as I would have thought. A man in the back shouts, “I think coming in over winter break is terrific!”
A few other parents shout out, “Yes!” and “I agree!” Many parents quickly yell similar assents. Other parents nod their heads. Very few of them seem to object.
“Then we will keep class open during winter vacation, except of course on the holidays themselves,” says Principal Klein. “I understand some of you might have conflicts. If your child cannot attend, then we can discuss alternate arrangements.”
My shoulders slump. Missing our entire winter vacation would be a harsh punishment, but maybe one we deserve.
Warranted, earned, merited, and justified.
I guess visiting Harvard is out the window. But, truly, going to Harvard doesn’t sound so great anymore. Harvard can wait.
I’m only in fifth grade. I should try enjoying it more.
Mr. Wolcott wanders onto our stage. I forgot about him, hiding backstage behind the curtain. But there he is, stepping briskly in front of us and looking out into the crowd.
I wonder if he’s going to start spouting Shakespeare. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts blabbering lines from something.
“Mr. Chips?” asks Principal Klein. “What are you doing here?” But Mr. Wolcott doesn’t seem to hear him, or if he does, maybe he’s forgotten his stage name. Instead, he continues gazing at the audience, staring as if in a daze.
He’s going to perform. I know it. He opens his mouth. He’s going to quote something profound yet deeply confusing.
His eyes twinkle. I’ve never seen eyes twinkle so brightly before. It must be the stage lights.
Wait a second. He’s not staring blindly into the audience like I thought. He’s peering at one person in particular. He’s gawking at Ms. Bryce.
“Franny?” he asks. He stands at the lip of the stage, frozen, as if covered by a thick blanket of ice. “Franny Bree?”
“I go by Frances Bryce now,” says our former teacher. “I haven’t used my old stage name, Franny Bree, in years.” Then her mouth falls open, as if she’s seen a ghost. “Willard? Is that you? Truly?”
“Do you remember our play? Romeo and Juliet?” Mr. Wolcott’s voice creaks with emotion. Tears roll down his cheeks. As he speaks, he waves his hands in the air. “O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven.”
Ms. Bryce nods. With her arms waving and her voice cracking, she recites, “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name.”
It’s pure drivel, but Mr. Wolcott hops offstage as if he were suddenly a kid again and rushes to Ms. Bryce. They meet, their arms outstretched, and they seem to melt into each other’s arms like a molten chocolate cake.
Mr. Wolcott and Ms. Bryce look oblivious to everyone but each other, ignoring the gasps and points and cries from around the room.
After a moment, they break off their hug, but they continue holding hands as they skip back up the aisle and toward the theater entrance doors.
I would never have imagined seeing Ms. Bryce skip. I always think of her as stomping angrily. But now she seems lighter than air.
Maybe teachers aren’t always who they seem to be in class. Just like my classmates aren’t who I thought they were, either.
Apparently, I’m still learning things.
As they arrive at the doors, Ms. Bryce, or maybe I should call her Ms. Bree, turns to us. “I’ll see you kids on Monday. And you better be prepared for lots of homework.”
A few of us groan. But plenty of homework seems quite fine with me, especially since I won’t have to assign it to the class. Honestly, doing homework is a lot easier than creating homework.
Mr. Wolcott, who I’ll always think of as Mr. Chips, and Ms. Bryce, who I’ll probably now always think of as Franny Bree, stroll out of the room hand in hand, staring into each other’s eyes. Principal Klein dismisses us with a reminder that we are expected in class on Monday unless our parents make other arrangements.
My family waits for me at their seats. Mom brought all my brothers and sisters to watch. When I approach, little Leah hugs my legs. AJ squirms to get out of Mom’s grasp. She puts him down and kisses me on the cheek.
“You wrote that?” Mom asks.
“I had some help,” I admit.
“When did you have the time?”
I shrug. “I squeezed it in.”
“I thought it was absolutely wonderful. I had no idea you were such a talented writer.”
I bite my lip. “So you don’t think I’m good for nothing?”
Mom wraps me in a hug. “Oh, honey. Why in the world would you think that? Of course not.”
A warm blanket of tingling happiness covers my feet and starts crawling up my legs. My mom’s hug lingers. I want to play it cool, so I shrug her off me, but I can’t get the smile off my face, even though I try. “Does this mean you’ll take that promotion?” I ask.
“I’ve already turned it down, Kyle.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Wait. Is this why you wrote the play? To prove something to me?”
“I don’t know. I think I did it mostly to prove something to myself. But—is it too late to change your mind? I bet you’d be great at the job. And I can help out more at home. Like really help out. I’ll surprise you.”
Mom leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “It wouldn’t be a surprise at all. But I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”
“Your show was almost as good as Squiggle Cat,” says Marley, stepping between Mom and me and smiling.
“It was better!” says Nate.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. I can’t imagine higher praise from them.
Marley says, “Yow, yow, yow!”
“But we will still need to discuss what your class has been up to,” Mom tells me. There’s an angry look on her face, but her eyes don’t look upset; they look happy. I think I’ll be let off without too miserable of a punishment.
School over winter break is punishment enough.
Maggie stands near me. “You did a nice job writing the play, Kyle.”
“Thanks.” If someone as smart as Maggie compliments you, then you know you did a good job. “I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
She smiles, and I’m reminded how pretty her smile is, and I wonder if a big oaf like me and a big brain like Maggie could ever be friends.
Stranger things have happened, I guess.
Maggie turns to her parents. Her dad’s rapidly wagging finger waves in front of Maggie’s frown. His voice is loud and his eyes glare with anger. Maggie’s mom pats Maggie on the back, but Maggie looks like she’s about to cry.
I bet Maggie is looking forward to coming to school over break.
Funny, I sort of am, too.
“Ready to go home?” asks Mom. She bends down to grab AJ, but then looks up, her eyes wide. “Where’s AJ?”
For a brief moment, I panic. Not again! I breathe easier when I see a small foot disappearing under a seat next to me.
I bend down. AJ looks at me from his hiding spot.
I grab him by his arms and hoist him into mine. “I’ve got him, Mom. I know it’s hard to keep an
eye on everyone all the time. Even the most responsible people can’t always be responsible.”
Mom smiles gratefully, takes AJ from me, and hugs him close to her chest. That kid is going to get himself in some serious trouble someday, especially when he learns to walk.
We all head down the aisle to leave when I remember I need to grab my backpack from our classroom. “It’ll just be a minute,” I assure them.
I lead my family out of the theater, down the corridor, past the lockers, and to our classroom.
“Is any of this artwork yours?” Mom asks, pointing at the bird pictures dotting the hallway.
“No,” I admit. “But I’ll get something up there soon. Just you watch.”
I have a strong urge to draw a picture of a woodpecker.
As we enter the room, Mom says, “So this is where you were keeping your big secret?” I think she’s surprised the room is still in good shape and hasn’t been burned to the ground or something.
Considering we didn’t have a teacher, we took care of things pretty well, if you ask me.
“My backpack is on my desk.” My family waits by the door as I hurry to the back of the room.
As I grab my backpack, I hear a soft chirping noise. It almost sounds like someone laughing at me. I listen closely. It’s an animal.
“Ready?” Mom asks.
“Wait,” I say. “Please. Just wait.”
The chattering continues, and I follow the noise to the corner of the room. The sound bounces out from in back of the trash can. I slide it to the side.
Huddled in the corner is Soda, surrounded by crumbs and a half-eaten peanut butter cracker. Soda shivers. “What are you doing here, boy?” I ask. “Um, I mean, girl.” Lifting her up, I give Soda a small kiss on the nose. She chatters back to me.
I pet her softly to calm her. I bet she’s pretty scared. Then I walk to her cage. I place her gently inside.
“One more minute,” I tell Mom. “Before we go, I have to fill her water and food tray, okay?” I throw Soda a wink. “I’ll see you Monday.”
The following day, Ms. Bryce walks to her mailbox and finds a letter inside. Mr. Wolcott reads it with her, as they are having tea and reciting their favorite lines from Othello, which is one of Shakespeare’s famous plays.
This is what the letter says:
Dear Ms. Bryce,
We wanted to thank you for being our teacher. We know we were sometimes difficult, sometimes by accident and other times on purpose, but we never realized how much work it is to be a teacher. We do now.
We’re sorry that you quit. We hope you stop by and visit sometime.
The entire fifth-grade class signed the letter.
That didn’t keep Ms. Bryce from assigning lots of homework that next week. Although maybe she assigned a little less homework than she had planned.
I do most of my writing at home, so I need to thank Lauren, Madelyn, and Emmy for giving me the time and space to do exactly that, even when they desperately need me to kill a spider or to help with homework. But really, mostly, I need to thank them for the inspiration and encouragement they give me. Without their support, nothing else would matter.
I also have to thank everyone at Scholastic, most especially Jody Corbett, whose spark and genius brought this book to life. Joanna Volpe is probably tired of seeing her name appear in various book acknowledgments, but I can’t possibly express my gratitude for her passion and support, along with her extraordinary team, of which Jaida Temperly and Danielle Barthel get their own shout-outs.
Lastly, and the phrase “last but not least” is particularly relevant, I need to thank my past teachers, all of whom shaped me as a person and a writer, for good or for bad but mostly for good, I think. I’d like to expressly thank Bill Paul and Anita Duncan, who taught me (together, as a team) in fifth grade (and also, interestingly, in second grade), because I trace my dream to be an author directly to their classroom, when I wrote books for extra credit along with Peter Wagner, next-door neighbor and exceptional fifth-grade monster illustrator. I still have those books, and they’re terribly written, although Peter’s pictures are very nice, but Mr. Paul and Mrs. Duncan encouraged me anyway, which was beyond generous.
Allan Woodrow grew up in Michigan, always wanting to be an author. His teachers told him to write about what he knew, but he quickly discovered he didn’t know very much. He didn’t know very much for quite a long time. Allan isn’t sure he really knows anything more now than he did in elementary school, but he got tired of waiting and decided to start writing anyway. He is the author of The Pet War and the Zachary Ruthless series, as well as other books for young readers, written under secret names. His writing also appears in the Scholastic anthology Lucky Dog: Twelve Tales of Rescued Dogs.
Allan currently lives near Chicago. For more about Allan and his books, visit his website at www.allanwoodrow.com.
Text copyright © 2015 by Allan Woodrow
Illustrations by Lissy Marlin
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Woodrow, Allan, author.
Class dismissed / Allan Woodrow.—First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Class 507 is terrible, and one day, after a particularly disastrous science experiment, Ms. Bryce quits and walks out in the middle of class, and the school office never finds out—at first all the fifth graders enjoy goofing off, but after a few days that starts getting boring, and the students begin to realize that school without a teacher is not easy, cooperating is difficult, and keeping a secret is harder than they thought.
ISBN 978-0-545-80071-6
1. Elementary schools—Juvenile fiction. 2. Teachers—Juvenile fiction. 3. Secrecy—Juvenile fiction. 4. Cooperativeness—Juvenile fiction. [1. Schools—Fiction. 2. Teachers—Fiction. 3. Secrets—Fiction. 4. Cooperativeness—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.W86047Cl 2015
813.6—dc23
[Fic]
2014048233
First edition, November 2015
Cover art by Paper Dog Studio
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-0-545-80073-0
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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