The Last Holiday Concert by Andrew Clements Page A

on the long bench in the office. He was dealing with some feelings of his own. Part of him wanted to grin and cheer about what he’d pulled off in chorus today. The scene had played outperfectly. Mr. Meinert had been expecting one thing, and he had done the opposite. He had sprung a perfect trap. And Mr. Meinert knew that he’d done it on purpose. That look on Mr. Meinert’s face when he’d popped the surprises about the concert? Priceless! The guy had tried to hide it. Didn’t work. The anger was right there for anybody to see.
    But along with the anger, Hart had seen something else—just a glimpse before it was hidden. Hart had seen some sadness in Mr. Meinert’s eyes. Some hurt. And part of Hart didn’t feel so good about that.
    Still , Hart said to himself, Mr. Meinert had it coming. All I did was what he was trying to do to me. I just did it better, that’s all. And if he’s mad about it… well, too bad .
    Hart tried to let that be the end of it, tried to do some math homework. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
    Ten minutes later Mr. Meinert had his coat on. He grabbed his briefcase, picked up a small stack of mail from his desk, locked the music room door, and headed for the office.
    Mr. Meinert had one hand on the office door before he saw Hart, sitting there on the bench below the clock. Mr. Meinert stopped, turned quickly, and hurried down the hall toward the parking lot. He shoved the envelopes into his coat pocket. The mail could wait. He’d had enough of Hart Evans for one day.
    He was almost at the double doors when he heard, “Hey! Mr. Meinert!”
    It was Hart.
    Mr. Meinert turned around. Acting surprised, he said, “Oh, it’s you. I’m sort of in a hurry. Can this wait till Monday?”
    Hart trotted down the hall until he stood right in front of the music teacher. He did his best to smile, a little out of breath. He panted harder than he needed to and fanned his face, stalling for time. Hart wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Mr. Meinert. But he felt like he ought to say something—anything. So he just started talking.
    â€œUm … I just wanted to say … well, what I did in chorus today? I know it wasn’t what we talked about yesterday. And I think it kindof made you mad. And I’m sorry about that. ’Cause I guess I knew it would … make you mad, I mean.” Hart gulped, and made himself keep talking, his mind barely half a step ahead of his words. “But … but if I made you mad today … that means you weren’t just sort of willing to do the concert, right? I mean, you got mad because … because you still really want to run the concert, right?”
    Mr. Meinert did not want to be having this conversation. He didn’t want to answer Hart’s question. He was tempted to turn his back and go out the door.
    But he didn’t walk away from the question. Instead Mr. Meinert did what he’d learned to do all his life: He told the truth.
    He nodded slightly. “Yes, that’s true, Hart. I would have been happy to take charge of the chorus again.”
    Hart said, “Really?” Then, thinking fast, he said, “That’s … that’s great! I am so glad to hear you say that! Because I think we could put on some kind of a concert—just the kids, I mean—but I don’t really know much about music. None of us does, not like you. So … soif we get in trouble, like with the music, will you help us? I mean, can I count on you?”
    Mr. Meinert remembered what he’d seen during chorus earlier today, remembered Hart’s talk with Ross. And he thought, Hart Evans is recruiting me! He’s inviting me to be on his team, just like he did with Ross! The music teacher stood there with his mouth open, amazed at the nerve of this kid.
    Still, it felt like an honest invitation, so he gave Hart an honest answer. “Yes,” Mr. Meinert