The Last Holiday Concert by Andrew Clements

a really great job.” Colleen smiled and nodded, and Hart said, “And could you maybe get some kids together and come up with ideas about decorations? And costumes, too? Because we can do whatever we want. It doesn’t have to look like a regular old concert. And then we can all talk about the ideas on Monday. And does anybody have one of those karaoke computer programs?”
    Ann and Lee raised their hands. Hart nodded and said, “Great… over the weekend youshould both look at them and see if there are any Christmas type songs. ‘Cause that could really be fun. And listen, everybody, listen. We should probably sing some regular concert songs too, because, you know, like, we’re the chorus. So everyone should make a list of some songs that might be good, and then we can write them all on the board on Monday and decide which ones to sing. And if anyone wants to sing a solo, that’d be great … but no one has to. Now, how many kids here know how to play an instrument?”
    Completely ignored, Mr. Meinert walked over and sat down at his desk. He tried to act like he wasn’t interested. But he was. He also tried to act like his feelings weren’t hurt. But they were. And he was still having plenty of trouble with his face.
    But more than that, his mind was spinning. He could not believe what he’d just seen. Four minutes! It had taken Hart Evans only four minutes to get the whole group excited about working together. And not only that—everyone had practically cheered about doing more than they had to.
    Watching out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Meinert saw Hart hurry over to Ross, heard Hart use a good loud voice as he said, “Hey, do you think you could be in charge of organizing all the music on Monday? Can I count on you?” Ross smiled and nodded, excited, honored that Hart would give him such an important job.
    Brilliant! The word jumped into Mr. Meinert’s mind. The kid’s already got Colleen and Ross working for him. Brilliant! And he’s even got Tim Miller focused—still wacky, but focused. Amazing!
    As if to prove the point, Tim ran over to Mr. Meinert’s desk, panting and bobbing from side to side. “Mr. Meinert? Mr. Meinert? You know that thing Elvis does when he sings, you know, like with his upper lip? Is it sort of like … like this?” And Tim pushed his face into a sneer.
    Mr. Meinert smiled and nodded. “Almost. Rent an Elvis movie this weekend, maybe Blue Hawaii . You’ll get it.”
    â€œCool!” said Tim, and he spun off into orbit again, playing an air guitar.
    Over the next thirty-five minutes the music room did not plunge into chaos. Instead, smallgroups formed up, some sitting on the floor, some around the tables down front, and some at desks pulled into the corners. There was a lot of loud talking, a lot of moving around, and some arguing and shouting—laughing, too. There was plenty of noise, but most of it had a purpose.
    And whenever Mr. Meinert glanced up, there was Hart in the thick of it all, walking from cluster to cluster with his clipboard, making notes, making jokes, making friends, pulling the whole chorus together. And smiling.
    Because Hart Evans was not having any trouble with his face. No trouble at all.

Eleven
FEELINGS
    A t three fifteen on Friday Mr. Meinert sat alone in the music room. He slumped in his chair, staring at the wall. A couple of nights ago his wife had told him what he ought to do. And now he agreed with her. He wanted to quit—just quit.
    Oh, yeah , he thought, I’m a great teacher! What was I thinking? All that grandstanding. “The whole concert is up to you now, kids.” And when Hart steps up to the challenge and it starts looking like they might actually pull something together, what do I do? I get all mad—and then I sit around with my feelings hurt like a big baby. I am such a loser! I… I give up!
    At this same moment Hart sat alone