Class Dismissed Page 15

  I’m not talking about learning math and reading and academics, obviously. But I’ve learned how to be a better leader, for sure. I learned that being a great leader means trusting others. People can surprise you when you let them do stuff, like Kyle writing a play and Samantha finding Mr. Wolcott to help us and quiet Eric finding his voice.

  Those are lessons that are far more important to learn than math.

  Well, maybe not far more important. Math is vital to a solid education. But I’m already a whiz at math.

  As I stand in the theater wing scanning the audience, I pat my pocket, which has one of the letters our class wrote. We’ll share it after the play is performed.

  I mailed the other letter, right after school ended, as planned. It should arrive at its address tomorrow.

  Behind me, the actors get ready. Giovanna and Samantha push the final props into place. Mr. Wolcott takes the entire cast through some vocal warm-ups.

  “I thought a thought, but the thought I thought was not the thought I thought I thought,” the group chants together. These exercises are supposed to loosen lips and help actors speak better onstage.

  “The free thugs set three thugs free! Say it!” commands Mr. Wolcott. “Enunciate! Tonight is the time for you to shine. Remember, be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them!”

  “That’s what I always say,” says Cooper. We all look at him, perplexed. He shrugs. “I mean, you know, that’s what I would say if I had any idea what it meant.”

  I inhale deeply, soaking in the excitement of being backstage, the buzz from the crowd, and the smell of vomit wafting through.

  Barf. Upchuck. Ralph.

  Wait—the smell of what?

  That’s when I hear the unmistakable and entirely disagreeable sound of someone getting sick. I think it must be nerves. It’s an extremely unpleasant reaction to the excitement of performing, but not an entirely uncommon one. Many actors and athletes get sick before big performances or games, or so I’ve read.

  It’s Lizzie who is sick, but she doesn’t look sick with nerves. She just looks sick. She’s been groaning all day, but I assumed it would pass. She kept insisting she was fine, even while she ran to and from the bathroom. But she is not fine, not at all.

  Lizzie is clutching her stomach and leaning over. Mr. Wolcott presses his hand against her forehead, and when he looks up, he appears as ill as Lizzie. “She’s as sick as a dog! The show must go on, but our Martha Washington cannot.”

  But she has the second-biggest part in the entire musical. We need her. First Adam and Jade can’t perform, and now Lizzie? We’re dropping like swatted flies. Meanwhile, the crowd beyond the curtain waits for us. We’re supposed to perform in four and a half minutes! We’re doomed.

  I look at Mr. Wolcott. He was a famous theater director. This sort of thing probably happens all the time. He must have some ready-made solution, some tried-and-true formula all great theater directors rely on to save the day when actors get sick.

  A plan. A scheme. A stratagem.

  “What do we do?” asks Kyle.

  Mr. Wolcott scratches his head. He doesn’t look like he has a plan. But then he opens his mouth. He will recite a quote that none of us will understand but will turn gray clouds into blue skies. “Do we have an understudy? Someone else who has learned the part?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Kyle.

  Mr. Wolcott coughs. “Then I have no idea. Sorry.”

  I scream. I can’t help it. I stand there and let loose a high, earsplitting yowl.

  My doom is complete.

  When I finish my wail of anguish, everyone looks at me. My legs quiver. I feel like everyone is waiting for me to solve our problem. I should do something. I’m the class leader.

  I take a deep breath. I open my mouth. I remember what I’ve learned about teamwork and asking for help. Trevor stands next to me, and I think he’s about to roll his eyes, regardless of what I say. He’ll probably say I’m bossy. I look at him. “What do you think we should do, Trevor?” I ask.

  He steps back. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to say that.

  “Me?” he asks. I nod and hope that maybe he does have a solution. Trevor shrugs. “How should I know? You’re the one in charge.”

  I look around to the rest of my classmates. I realize that if we fail, I could still go to Harvard. Of course I could. I’ve got a whole lot of years left to impress them, and I’m only a kid right now. But still, I wanted our class to shine tonight. We all worked so hard.

  “Can’t we just skip her parts?” asks Jasmine.

  “I don’t see how,” says Kyle. “She’s in a lot of scenes.”

  “And I won’t know when to say my lines,” complains Cooper.

  “Me either,” says Gavin, although he only has his one line and he still can’t remember it, anyway.

  We’ve all formed a circle, a circle of doom I suppose, when Samantha steps into the middle. She clears her throat. Her daddy can’t buy us out of this one, although I wish he could.

  “I’ll do it,” she says. “I know the part. I’ve read the script about a million times, and I have the entire thing memorized. Even the new parts.”

  She does? She will? My mouth is open in shock, and when I scan the rest of us in our circle, all of their mouths are open in shock, too. Samantha is the last person I would have expected to volunteer. I guess I’m still learning lessons about trusting people.

  I used to think all of my classmates were blockheads. But that’s not true at all. If anything, I’m the blockhead for thinking that.

  “Then let’s get you dressed,” declares Mr. Wolcott. “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York.”

  “Sure, I guess,” I say, confused.

  “Can we skip the romantic parts?” Samantha asks Eric.

  Eric looks relieved. “Yes! Please!”

  I remove the wig from Lizzie’s head and lower it onto Samantha’s while Mr. Wolcott ties the Martha Washington frock around her waist.

  “Good luck,” I tell her.

  “Never good luck,” Mr. Wolcott declares. “In the theater we say, ‘Break a leg.’ ”

  “I don’t want her to break her leg!” I insist.

  “It’s meant to be ironic,” says Eric.

  “Fine. Break a leg,” I say with a shrug as the curtains part and the actors hurry to their places.

  Right before the curtains part, I adjust my white wig and run to my place onstage, next to the fake tree stump. I’m supposed to be a teenager in this scene, so instead of wearing my blue army coat I’m wearing a blue hoodie. I pretend to sob, and there’s an ax on the ground next to me.

  The crowd claps and I hear my mom yell, “That’s my Eric!” I think I’m blushing, but I doubt anyone can see from the audience.

  Samantha, playing the future Martha Washington, is dressed in a simple frock and bonnet. She crosses the stage. “Teenage Georgie Washington—why are you so upset?”

  I hold my jaw. I’m wearing Mr. Wolcott’s pair of fake wooden teeth in my mouth, and they are at least two sizes too big for me. I have to open my mouth really wide to talk. “Hello, future Martha Washington. I cannot tell a lie. I cut down this cherry tree. And now my father has grounded me.”

  “You’re spitting on me,” she says.

  “Sorry. It’s the teeth.”

  She takes a step backward, so she’s out of spray range. “If you’re the father of our country, is your father the grandfather of our country?”

  “I cannot tell a lie. Yes.” When I talk, a little more spit flies out and hits the bottom of her frock. “Sorry.”

  She frowns and takes another step back. “But why did you cut down the tree, teenage Georgie Washington?”

  I hold my jaw. My gums ache. “I wanted to build a new set of wooden teeth because woodpeckers ate my old pair.”

  “Woodpeckers are interesting unless you have a wooden leg or wooden teeth or you�
��re a wooden puppet like Pinocchio. Then woodpeckers can be scary.”

  I nod. According to the script, we’re supposed to hug each other and kiss. Lizzie insisted on adding that part. I squirm a little.

  “We’re skipping over the romantic parts, right?” Samantha asks, keeping her distance.

  “I cannot tell a lie. Yes,” I answer, relieved.

  “I have a dream,” says Samantha. “That someday I’ll be first lady, you’ll be president, and we’ll have our own country, which we’ll call the United States of America.” As she talks, she walks across the stage and back.

  “Nice walk,” I whisper. “Very regal.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stand up and place my hand on my heart. “Future Martha Washington, although I’m only the teenage George Washington, you have convinced me. I vow that when I grow up, I will fight for our independence and for better wooden teeth. Especially wooden teeth.”

  “Oh, teenage Georgie Washington! I hope so,” says Samantha. “A land built on wooden teeth would be a wonderful place.” She pauses. “We’re supposed to kiss again, but we can ignore that, right?”

  “I’ll sign my name big!” yells Gavin, rushing onto the stage.

  “Get out of here,” I whisper to him, waving him away. “Your part isn’t until the second half. And you’re not even saying it right.”

  “Sorry,” says Gavin, rushing off the stage.

  A couple of people in the audience laugh. Maybe they think that was in the script. As we follow Gavin offstage, the audience breaks into applause.

  They really liked the first scene. Samantha and I high-five just offstage.

  “You’re a really good actor,” she says to me.

  “You too,” I answer truthfully. “Just as good as Lizzie. Maybe better.”

  I watch from backstage as the curtains rise on colonial Boston. The backdrop shows narrow cobblestone streets winding between small brick buildings. Samantha and Giovanna did a great job creating it. To make sure the audience knows this is Boston, Giovanna wrote “This is Boston” at the top of the backdrop.

  Cooper, who plays Thomas Jefferson, hurries across the stage. He wears a thick woolen coat on this crisp autumn evening. Coyotes howl through the cold, echoing streets.

  “There are supposed to be howling winds, not howling coyotes,” I whisper to Danny. He’s standing next to me.

  “That is my howling wind,” Danny insists, frowning. “I’m doing my best.”

  Ryan, playing a villager, spins onto the stage. She wears a black, three-sided colonial hat, a frilly white shirt, and waves a picket sign that says NO T TAX!

  “Down with the British! Boo!” Ryan yells. She stops spinning.

  Seth is next to me in the wings, too, watching. He painted Ryan’s sign. “It must have been really hard back then,” he whispers to me. “Every time you said the letter T, you were taxed.”

  “Actually, they taxed the drinking tea,” I say.

  Seth looks away, nodding. “That makes more sense.”

  Back onstage, Ryan and Cooper are talking about taxation and stuff.

  “Don’t worry. I have a plan,” says Cooper. “If it’s all right, I’ll sing it to you.”

  “Of course,” says Ryan. “And I will perform an original interpretive dance. With spinning.”

  As Cooper sings his solo, Ryan performs an interpretive dance, with a lot of spinning. The song is sung to the tune of “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

  It’s a taxed tea bag.

  It’s a high-priced tea bag.

  It’s a tax we simply can’t afford.

  We’ll all scream and shout.

  We’ll toss the tea out—

  Into the harbor, overboard.

  It’s an uprising

  Over Darjeeling.

  The king’s an ignorant burping moose.

  We’ll give history

  Quite a tea party!

  And we’ll only drink apple juice.

  The audience claps along to the song. Kyle stands on the opposite side of the wing. I don’t think he could smile any wider.

  Onstage, other villagers have joined Ryan and Cooper, singing together. They all wear distinctive colonial clothes such as waistcoats, breeches, and stockings. Near the back of the stage, Ryan continues to spin.

  It’s just not okay

  To tax our Earl Grey.

  Why, we have clearly been betrayed.

  With our taxes up,

  We’ll all skip a cup—

  And instead drink pink lemonade.

  Jasmine adds, “And fruit punch!”

  The other villagers stare at her. That wasn’t in the script. She shrugs. “Hey, I don’t like lemonade, okay?”

  The villagers raise their fists and march off the stage shouting, “Down with the British!” and “No taxation without representation!”

  Ryan, who must be dizzy from all of that spinning, trips, and then stumbles after them.

  “Ta-da!” she says right before leaving the stage.

  The audience cheers. I look over to Kyle. I was wrong about his smile not being able to get any wider. Because I think it’s a lot bigger now.

  The curtain opens to reveal a small meeting room. Emmy, who plays Betsy Ross, wears a red, white, and blue dress and holds an American flag. I face her, along with Cooper and Madelyn, who plays the part of John Adams. We all wear big white wigs.

  The wig itches, but it’s not nearly as annoying as these wooden teeth.

  “What do you think?” Emmy asks. “I sewed this flag all by myself. See? It has fifty stars, one for each state.”

  “But there are only thirteen colonies,” says Cooper. “How do you know we’ll have fifty states someday?”

  “Just a lucky guess.”

  Next to me, Cooper and Madelyn, or rather Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, admire the flag, murmuring their approval and patting Emmy on the back. “Well done, Betsy … Very stripy … Why five-pointed stars?”

  “We need more than a flag,” I announce, stepping forward. “We need laws, congress, and most of all, a new set of wooden teeth. And a bunch of other stuff, like a White House. Or my name isn’t George Washington!”

  “Let’s elect a congress to put all of those things together,” suggests Madelyn. She steps forward and throws out her arm, punching me in the shoulder. “Sorry. That was my manly arm thrust.”

  “I cannot tell a lie: That hurt,” I say, wincing. “Although not as much as these wooden teeth do.”

  The audience giggles, although there is nothing funny about my teeth, at least not to me.

  Madelyn steps forward, away from me, and thrusts out an arm again. She narrowly misses Emmy’s head. “We will form the First Continental Congress, where we will discuss liberty and other things. Then, after we fight the British, we can elect George Washington our first president. Me, John Adams, will be our second president. Thomas Jefferson will be our third president.”

  “But I want to be the second president,” complains Cooper.

  “Too bad. I called it already,” says Madelyn.

  “This will be great!” exclaims Emmy as Betsy Ross. “I’ll make Lizzie’s special tuna cupcake surprise dessert for the meeting.”

  “How about apple pie instead?” Madelyn suggests. She thrusts out her arm and just misses clocking Emmy on the chin.

  “Watch it,” hisses Emmy.

  Gavin rushes onstage. “I’ll sign my name huge!”

  “Not yet,” I whisper to him. “And that’s not even the right line.”

  “Sorry,” says Gavin, rushing off the stage.

  It is evening on the streets of Philadelphia, although the backdrop looks exactly like the streets of Boston except Giovanna crossed out the word Boston and wrote Philadelphia underneath it. I’m onstage along with Samantha, Cooper, and Eli. Eli wears bifocals and holds a kite because he plays Ben Franklin. We huddle together in a semicircle, facing the audience.

  My mouth aches. A few of my wooden teeth have twisted, and I can’t clos
e my mouth all the way. One tooth falls off and lands on the floor. “These teeth are killing me,” I groan.

  “Forget your teeth, George Washington,” says Cooper, stepping to the side to avoid my spit. “The Continental Congress needs someone to lead our army against the British.”

  “I will defeat them with my superpowered Kite of Electrical Might!” declares Eli as Ben Franklin, holding out his kite and flexing a bicep.

  “We killed that scene, remember?” I whisper to him.

  “But a superpowered Kite of Electrical Might was way cooler than anything else in this play,” Eli whines, crossing his arms and turning his back to us, moping.

  I worry that Eli is ruining the play, but a few people in the audience laugh as if everything has been planned.

  “You’re the only one who can lead us, George Washington,” says Samantha. She’s supposed to then say, “Kiss me now!” but thankfully she skips that line.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” I say. “My mouth hurts too much to help.”

  “We still have my super mighty kite,” suggests Eli.

  I frown at him, or at least I try to. It’s hard to frown with these teeth in my mouth.

  “But you have to lead the army, or Wilbur Smelly-Sock will lead it,” complains Cooper, playing Thomas Jefferson. “Then we’ll have to name our new capital Smelly-Sock, DC, and we’ll be the laughingstock of the world.”

  “We just have to name it Washington, DC, George!” Samantha exclaims. “And if you win the war, you can buy a new pair of wooden teeth.”

  “Or we can go with my idea and defeat the British army in, like, five seconds,” Eli says.

  “Enough with the stupid kite already,” says Samantha, shoving Eli.

  “I will lead the army, in the name of better teeth everywhere!” I step in between Samantha and Eli, who are taking turns pushing each other.

  Samantha raises her hand to me. “Great! High five!”

  The script says we’re supposed to kiss and declare our love for each other, but I gladly give her a high five instead.