Oh no. No. No.
“I spoke with Mrs. Hamilton about it this morning as we tried to figure out another way, but neither of us could,” Mr. McHenry goes on solemnly, while my heart sinks. “If it were a couple of more weeks closer to the concert, Mrs. Hamilton said she could have come to school for a few hours, but only once or twice. And certainly not right now with a newborn who is just out of the NICU. I’m very sad to say that we’re going to have to cancel the holiday concert …”
The rest of his words get drowned out by the noise of everyone reacting at once.
Everyone except me. Because for the life of me, I can’t make a sound.
They can’t cancel the concert.
They can’t.
It’s too important.
It’s a tradition.
Mr. McHenry is trying hard, answering all the questions he can as I stare at the clock, watching the minute hand slowly round to the top of the hour when the lunch period will be over, and chorus will be done.
Eric speaks up. “Mr. McHenry? I know you and Mrs. Hamilton have discussed all the possible plans, but I wonder if I might suggest a different one?”
Oh gosh. Please let him have some brilliant plan. I swivel to face him. Please, Eric. Please.
“Go ahead.” Mr. McHenry’s voice is even, but it’s evident that his patience is waning.
“I know that Mrs. Hamilton was really excited for the concert, as we all were,” Eric continues, and I nod at him even though he can’t see me. “And I know that she would want us to try anything possible to make the concert happen because it’s an important tradition at the school.”
I’m holding my breath, daring to feel hopeful.
“Mrs. Hamilton has already given us a list of carols for the show,” Eric goes on, “so the only thing left to do is rehearse, and then pick the soloists. Is there another teacher who could supervise this time period and we’d—”
“There isn’t another teacher,” Mr. McHenry says curtly. “And the school rules state that any organized club or group at school needs a teacher present to use a room in the school. Believe me, I’ve asked every teacher who might have a spare period, but with it being the end of the term and report cards—”
“But wait!” I can’t believe I’m suddenly speaking. And standing up. And that I’ve interrupted the vice principal. He isn’t looking so cool-hipster right now. But this is our last chance. I have no choice but to be brave.
“Yes, Charlie?” Mr. McHenry says, looking at me over the top of his glasses.
I twist my hands together, my thoughts racing. “You said we couldn’t rehearse on our own in the school and that there’s nobody to supervise us.”
“Yes.”
Mr. McHenry does not appear to be happy. I don’t glance around the room. All I can do is hope I have the support of the class.
“What if we didn’t need to rehearse at school?” I suggest. “We’re only sixteen people. We could rehearse at our houses. We have almost a month before the concert. If Mrs. Hamilton can come to school once or twice to help out in the week before the concert, that’s all we’d need. And in the meantime, we’ll organize it ourselves.”
I take a deep breath. Mr. McHenry hasn’t responded yet. But he also hasn’t interrupted me to say no, either.
“We can practice by ourselves until we really, really know the songs, and then she can come in later and pick the soloists,” I go on, figuring this is my last shot. “And even if Mrs. Hamilton can’t come, we could find another judge to choose? We could even make it fun, like one of those sing-off competitions or something!”
I bite my lip. Maybe I’ve gone too far. There’s chattering again, but this time it’s excited murmuring. I think the other students are agreeing with me! My heart soars. I glance at Renee, and she shoots me a thumbs-up.
But Mr. McHenry is staring at me, probably trying to figure out how he can shoot down the idea.
I need him not to do that. I have dreamt of singing onstage for as long as I can remember. I have dreamt of this concert. I need this concert.
Mr. McHenry opens and closes his mouth, as if he has more to say but thinks better of it. And when the bell rings, nobody moves. It’s actually completely silent. Mr. McHenry looks to the ceiling for a moment, but it doesn’t seem like he’s rolling his eyes. It’s like he’s actually thinking about it.
Please. Please. Please. Please.
“I’m supposed to talk with Mrs. Hamilton this evening on another topic,” he finally says. “Why don’t I ask her for her thoughts? If the class is in fact committed to rehearsing, and we can find someone to figure out the soloist issue, maybe …”
His words are once again swallowed up by cheering and whoops in the room, but at least this time, I’m able to join in.
Mr. McHenry leaves the classroom, and the rest of us stand up to gather our things, everyone talking excitedly.
“You were awesome,” Eric says as he passes by me.
I beam, feeling my face turn a good number of shades of red brighter than it is supposed to be. “It was your idea.”
“No,” he laughs. “My idea was to find another teacher.”
“Well, it was great teamwork, then,” I say, and his grin is wide.
I’m not sure what is causing more butterflies in my belly: the chance we might be able to save the concert or the conversation with Eric.
We hear nothing for the rest of the day, which is to be expected, I guess. Though I had half hoped that Mr. McHenry would email Mrs. Hamilton immediately. But I get that he probably has other things to do. And that Mrs. Hamilton definitely does.
The next morning, I debate waiting outside Mr. McHenry’s office and then “pretending” to run into him, but Renee tells me this is stalkerish behavior and that it won’t help.
“But I could just walk back and forth in front of his office, so when he comes out, it’ll be as if I just happened to be passing by?” I offer. Renee raises her eyebrows, and I shake my head. She doesn’t really need to tell me how bad it sounds. But it’s really difficult to make it through a full day at school with no word about the concert. It doesn’t take long before all my optimistic vibes from yesterday are gone.
That evening, I consider telling my parents about the idea, to see if maybe they could call the school. Maybe they would even offer to host our practices. But something is clearly up, because Sadie’s eyes are red and she’s refusing to eat. Jed, my fifteen-year-old brother, doesn’t seem to notice. He’s just shoveling food in like he’s in a timed eating race. I pick at my burger and mashed potatoes, but the tension at the table makes it hard to breathe, never mind talk about what’s going on in school.
“Sadie,” my mom tries when my sister refuses to even touch her food. “It’s probably not even going to happen …”
Sadie’s small body rotates away from the table, and in her new position, I can see that her lip is trembling. I glance up at Dad, who, along with Mom, stares at Sadie’s curled form.
“Sades, it’s just a test—” Dad says, but Sadie’s eyes narrow.
“I took the test already. You said that was it. You said we’d have all the answers.”
Right. The reading specialist meeting. It happened yesterday, but I’d been so consumed with the concert that I’d forgotten.
“Honey, they do. But we just need more information.” Mom’s voice is quiet but firm.
“I don’t want to do it.”
“Sadie, it’s seriously no big deal,” Jed pipes up, his words barely understandable through his mouthful. Ugh. “Everyone needs extra help in something. Remember how I needed to get extra sessions in basketball because I kept messing up my layup?”
“Your extra help came after school, where nobody saw you doing it,” Sadie shoots back. “Everyone already makes fun of me because I can’t read. Every time I have to go take the test with the learning specialist, the kids in my class snicker.”
“They’re just jealous,” I say, and Sadie’s eyes actually look almost hopeful. “
They wish they could get out of class, too. Think of it like a special treat. Especially since Ms. Riley is so nice. If they laugh, just stick out your tongue.”
Sadie gives me a half smile.
“Well, that might be pushing it,” Dad interrupts. “Maybe you can just imagine sticking your tongue out.”
Sadie glances over at me and I wink. I think it’s totally fine if she sticks out her tongue.
* * *
As we’re clearing dishes, I finally get a moment alone with Dad.
I’m about to bring up the concert, but he starts talking first.
“Charlie, thank you for stepping in with your sister,” he says. “She really looks up to you. If we can just get through this testing period, I know that we’ll figure out what Sadie needs.”
I nod, rinsing off the plates one at a time. I don’t get the point of rinsing off plates before they go into the dishwasher. When I’m a grown-up, I’m putting them straight in.
“Actually, Dad, I wanted to ask you about something …”
I let the words trail off, trying to figure out his mood. He shuts off the water and turns toward me, drying his hands on the towel. “What’s up?”
My dad looks like the dictionary definition of an absentminded professor, even though he isn’t a professor but an accountant. His hair is always a little bit too shaggy, his button-down shirts are always slightly frayed, and his corduroys show their wear as their ridges flatten in front. Sometimes I wish he’d get a better haircut or wear sharper clothes, but his look is also part of what just makes him Dad, all rumpled and kindhearted.
“I wanted to ask—”
“Oh, good, Max, you’re here,” Mom interrupts, sailing into the room with her phone pressed against her ear. “I have Rosalyn from the testing center on the phone. She thinks that Sadie doesn’t need to …”
My dad’s focus switches from me to my mom. I wipe down the counters, trying to figure out whether I should stay and wait to talk to him, or forget about it.
Dad? I mouth, coming to stand behind Mom so I can get his attention. But evidently, that was the wrong thing, because he scowls. Maybe it’s not at me but the discussion he’s having with Mom?
Mom hands the phone to Dad and turns to me. “Charlie, if this is about Christmas decorations, I need you to wait until December tenth, as we agreed. If you want to decorate something at school, that’s fine, but I’m just not ready for the house to be turned upside-down right now.”
“It’s not—” I begin.
“Honey, what we’re discussing is important. Please don’t make me add another week for you to wait. Go up and do your homework.”
I stare at the two of them, but they’re back to talking with Rosalyn from the testing center. I’m sure once they’re finished with her, they’ll get on the phone with Jed’s coach about whatever tournament is coming up, and then Sadie will need to be put to bed, and then Jed’s homework will need to be checked and …
It’s not even worth trying.
* * *
The next morning, before the first bell, Renee helps me decorate my locker.
It’s not at all the same as decorating the house, but right now, I’ll take it. I attach a paper snowflake to the front, and Renee rips off a piece of tape for the square of reindeer wrapping paper I saved from last year.
“Did you tell your parents about the concert?” Renee asks me, and I shake my head. My mom was so distracted when she came to say good night that I didn’t bother bringing up the concert for fear that she would once again chide me.
“Too much going on with Sadie,” I explain. “Plus, they’re ‘not ready’ to deal with anything Christmas-y yet.” I sigh.
“Sorry,” Renee says. “I’m sure it will work out, though.”
Renee has been my best friend forever, ever since she and her mom moved here from California when we were six. We share everything—heck, she knows more about me than anyone in the world. She certainly knows all about my crazy family. But there’s one big difference between us: Renee manages to be happy most of the time. She doesn’t care if she’s the last one chosen for teams in gym class, or doesn’t get invited to birthday parties. She moves on.
It kind of makes me crazy, as much as I love her.
“I was really born in the wrong family,” I mutter, accepting the wrapping paper from Renee and carefully pasting it to my locker.
“You could be born into mine and then you wouldn’t get Christmas at all,” Renee reminds me.
“You celebrate Hanukkah!” I remind her. “You get pretty candles and eight nights of presents.” I love going to Renee’s house for Hanukkah, when her mom makes crispy potato pancakes and lights the menorah. Renee is an only child, so her house is always much calmer than mine.
“True,” Renee says, cutting off more pieces of tape, this time so I can hang up a few garlands for a pop of color at the back of my locker. “Well, you know you have a standing invite to my house anytime.”
“Thanks,” I say just as the bell rings.
In homeroom, the morning announcements come in over the school loudspeaker. I half listen. “Early dismissal today for eighth graders … third-floor boys’ bathroom closed for repairs … blah blah blah …”
And then I hear it:
“Mr. McHenry asks that the chorus meet at lunchtime today in the chorus room.”
My heart leaps. Chorus is meeting today! That must mean Mr. McHenry spoke to Mrs. Hamilton. This has to be a good thing … right?
* * *
At lunchtime, Renee and I meet at our lockers to drop off our morning textbooks and hurriedly discuss what the chorus meeting could mean.
“Hey, wanna walk over to the meeting together?”
I startle at the sound of Eric’s voice behind us. He’s never come to talk to me at my locker. I turn to Renee and widen my eyes.
“That sounds great,” Renee says, correctly understanding that my ability to speak in full sentences might be hampered by Eric’s presence. Yet another reason we need to save the concert: Despite all the things Eric and I have in common, chorus is the only class or activity we share. No chorus? No hanging out with Eric. Not that I’ve hung out with him before, but …
“Charlie, you coming?” Renee says. She and Eric evidently made it a few steps while I was lost in thought.
I slam my locker, hoping I didn’t dislodge any of my decorations. “Absolutely.”
The three of us head into the chorus room. I don’t look at Renee, but I’m positive she’s grinning at me. I cough to disguise the nervous laughter that’s bubbling up.
Mr. McHenry is in the room waiting for us. I feel more nervous than ever.
“Thank you all for your patience,” Mr. McHenry starts when we’re all seated. “I’ve spoken with Mrs. Hamilton and she was happy to hear your plan, Charlie. The concert is back on!”
OMG.
There’s mass pandemonium. Or at least as mass as you can get with sixteen kids. They cheer and clap. There are some thumps on my back, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I stare dumbfounded at Mr. McHenry.
I saved the holiday concert. I saved the holiday concert.
“But she made a few changes,” Mr. McHenry says, his voice rising over the din. “The concert will proceed without any solos. You can practice the selected songs on your own, and Mrs. Hamilton will come in to officially rehearse with you all the week before the concert.”
The color drains from my face. No solos? Then it’s just another group concert. And yes, I love singing as a group, but … but my dream …
My dream to finally stand out from the crowd. To have the audience—my parents—really see me, in the spotlight.
“Then what part of Charlie’s plan did she like?” Eric’s words cut through the panic currently ruling my thoughts.
“Well, leaving you to rehearse on your own is a leap of faith,” Mr. McHenry explains. “Which is why she actually suggested that you be split into four groups of four, to make it a bit easier on you. Also, in lieu of indi
vidual solos, she would like to add a showcase performance. Each group of four will be responsible for picking five songs for a special quartet performance. They have to be songs not already on the main song list. Mrs. Hamilton has agreed that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, she’ll come to school in three weeks to judge the groups. The best quartet will do the showcase performance at the concert.”
Oh. My. A showcase performance? This could be better than a solo!
“I suggested to her that you be able to pick your own groups to work together,” Mr. McHenry says, “but she thought it would be important to have a good range of voices in each quartet. As such, she assigned the teams herself.”
He pulls out a sheet of paper from the folder he placed on Mrs. Hamilton’s desk.
I still can’t believe that my plan worked. Kind of. Maybe better than I had even thought possible? The noise of the room echoes inside my head, and I miss out on listening to the groupings until I hear my own name.
“… Charlie Dickens, and Matthew Yee.”
I sit up straight and glance around. Who else is in the group with us? But Mr. McHenry has moved on and is reading off a new group, and I can’t very well interrupt him to ask. Ugh. I don’t want to be in a group with Mr. Popularity, Matthew Yee.
It’s not that Matthew has a bad voice. He doesn’t. Although his is certainly not as good as Eric’s. The problem is that Matthew knows he has a good voice. And that he’s a great basketball player. And does well in school. And has tons of friends. Whenever he walks down the hall, he has a whole entourage. Not one of whom speaks to me when they pass.
Sometimes, Matthew says hello, though it’s usually a full-name hello: Hey, Charlie Dickens, he’ll say with a half smirk. Like he’s the first one to think it’s funny that my parents named me Charlie Dickens. Trust me, I want to yell, I’ve heard all the dumb jokes already.
But I never yell. I just glare. Which Renee claims looks more like a squint than anything else. So on top of everything, Matthew probably thinks I need glasses.
“Why aren’t you happier?” Renee asks as the bell rings. “You look like someone ran over your dog.”
Carols and Crushes Page 2