Dreidels on the Brain (20 page)

I kept out of it, listening instead to the girls practicing Christmas carols, which is what the songs are no matter what you call them, just like a coma is a coma. They sounded really good. I could just make out Amy O'Shea's voice and found myself singing along with them, under my breath.

The truth is, I kind of
like
Christmas carols, and I'm not the only Jew who does. After “I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas,” they sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,”
the Christian version of “The Horrible Song.” And who wrote it? A Jew named Johnny Marks. Then they sang “Let it Snow,” by Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne, both Jewish. The whole time we were out there trying to fry eggs—which never worked, by the way—the choir sang only one Christmas song that
wasn't
written by a Jew, and that was “O Tannenbaum,” which is German for “O Christmas Tree.” But even
that's
Jewish, because Tannenbaum isn't just a Christmas tree, it's also a name, and as Jewish as you can get. My mom has a bunch of cousins in Cleveland, half of whom are actually
named
Tannenbaum, so go figure.

When the bell rang for recess, it was too hot to even complain about how hot it was, so we all stood around the drinking fountain pouring water over our heads. Talk turned to the fact that this should have been the last day before vacation, but wasn't, and how horrible it was that they were making everyone come on Monday.

I had figured that most kids would just find ways not to come, even if attendance was mandatory. But it seemed that everyone was planning to be there, because of the “surprise” they'd been promised. The rumor mill had been grinding along.

“I heard that anyone who shows up will get their grade raised one letter in any class they want,” said Billy Zamboni.

“No,” said Arnold Pomeroy, “it's better than that. I saw a
stack of report cards on Mrs. McGillicuddy's desk. At the end of the assembly they'll hand them out to everyone who comes, with pencils and erasers, so we can change the grades before our parents see them. It'll be far out!”

Yeah
,
I thought
.
And they're giving away free apples too.

I spotted Amy across the way, and even though she was talking to a gaggle of girls, I was worried that she might see me, so I snuck off to this secret place I know, a little alcove behind the back door of the wood shop. The door is blocked from the inside by the drill press, so no one ever opens it.

Even though it's in the shade, it was still about a hundred degrees. I sat on a cement step and leaned back against the door, my shirt soaked in sweat. Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out my impromptu box. I took a coin from the bag and produced it from different places—my ears, my mouth, thin air—then threw it into an imaginary bucket. That's the one part of the trick I'm missing—Berg's Studio of Magic sells a silver-plated Miser's Dream bucket, with a hiding place for extra coins. But it's thirty-five dollars, which is out of the question, so I'll be using a coffee can.

I was working on rolling one coin across the back of my fingers, which is really hard, when I heard a voice say, “So, is that it? Am I fired?”

I looked up. It was Amy O'Shea. Great. The one person in the world I least wanted to see—and she looked upset.

“What?” I asked.

“If so, I'd rather you just tell me,” she went on, “so I can start looking for another job. I have to feed Daisy.”

What was she talking about? And how did she even know where to find me?

“So, that's it. You're firing me, right? As your assistant?”

“No,” I finally managed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because . . . of Wednesday. You were so mad at me. After the magic lesson.”

I stared at her, truly baffled. She was wearing a Santa hat with a giant peace button on it. It was a crazy thing to wear on such a hot day, but she looked cool as could be. Don't girls sweat?

“So I'm not losing my job?” she finally said.

“Amy . . . I wouldn't . . . No, of course you're not fired. You're the best assistant ever.”

“Then . . . why have you been avoiding me?”

“Wait . . . Avoiding you? No. Why would I do that?” I may be a good magician, I thought, but I'm a crummy liar.

“You know, you're not a very good liar,” she said.

How does she
do
that?

“Tell me about it,” I finally said. “And I'm a rotten dancer too.”

“I don't know about that,” she said, cheering up. “Dancing is something you learn to do.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Well, I never did.”

“What you need is a good teacher—and the right music.”

“Like what?”

“Not Herb Alpert, that's for sure,” she said. “Kind of square, you know? I have a better song—and dance—for the ABC blocks. I can show it to you and we can do it in the act instead of that . . . um . . . other thing you—”

“Okay, okay, show me,” I said, not wanting to relive the Tevye incident.

“All right, then, stand up.” I did. “First, move your head forward and back like this.” I did that too. “Now bend your elbows and flap your arms, like wings.” It felt silly, but she was doing the same, so it was okay. “Now kick your legs out and cluck. And look, you're dancing the Funky Chicken!”

Sure enough, I was dancing—with Amy! And we were laughing. “Your feet start kickin', that's when you know,” she sang, “you're doin' the Funky Chicken!”

After a few minutes we just stopped and stood there, and I realized I still had my fingers in my armpits. I was hoping she didn't notice how dorky I looked, when she leaned in close and whispered, “There's this secret . . .”

“Secret?”

“About what's happening on Monday . . .”

Oh no! I thought. How does she know? I took my fingers out of my armpits.

“. . . at the assembly.”

“But wait,” I said. “How did you—”

“Joel!”

We both looked up. It was Mrs. Gabbler.

“There you are,” she said, out of breath. “I've been looking all over for you.” She gave Amy a look, then me. “There's a phone call for you. In the office.”

It wasn't far from my hiding place to the office, but it felt like a long way. Even though I was running, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

When I got to the office, there was Mrs. McGillicuddy at her desk, pointing to the phone, which was off the hook. I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Joel?”

There was a long pause. I could hear my mom crying.

“He's awake!”

When I got to Mr. Culpepper's trailer, I was already late, but I stayed outside rubbing my eyes so no one would know I had been crying. My mom told me that she'd been sitting there staring at my dad for hours, when he suddenly woke up and asked for a glass of water, like nothing had happened. She was going to pick up a challah from Canter's Deli, then swing by the house to get Hanaka and Shabbat candles, pick up Kenny and
Howard at the high school, then zip by Bixby to pick me up.

“And we'll celebrate Shabbanukkah!” she said. That's my family's special name for the Friday night of Haanukkah, which is also Shabbat.

I still looked like I'd been crying, so I soaked my whole head in the drinking fountain, shook the water out of my hair, and went inside.

I needn't have bothered. Nobody noticed how late I was or cared how I looked. The room was complete chaos, with students running around screaming. Not only was it the last period on Friday, but Mr. Culpepper's trailer has its own separate air-conditioning, which he must have set to “refrigerate.” Everyone had sprung to life, like the hanging plant in Mrs. Skurvecky's class that gets all wilted when she forgets to water it, then perks up when she finally does. The boys were literally bouncing off the walls, which were made of this spongy foam. I actually saw Eddy Mazurki take a running start, throw himself against the wall, fall on the floor, and hobble around.

“Whoa!” he said. “That's far out!” Then he did it again.

“Wicked!” said Larry Arbuckle. “Me too!”

Mr. Culpepper isn't a magician, but he'd be a good one, because he always has something up his sleeve. For a while he just stood in front of the class, cool as a cucumber, watching the pandemonium. Then his lips began to move, but we
couldn't hear what he was saying. After about a minute, everyone took their seats. We had to get really quiet, and could just make out the words “. . . of course, it's supposed to be a secret.”

We all stared at him. He was wearing a red-and-green cardigan and a blue tie with a snowman on it. Finally Patty Henderson raised her hand, and when he motioned to her, she whispered what everyone was wondering. “What's the secret?”

Mr. Culpepper smiled and, still whispering, said, “Well, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I know what's going to happen at Monday's assembly.”

Now the room was dead quiet, no sound but the whoosh of the air conditioner. I couldn't believe he was doing this. I shook my head, in tiny motions, my eyes wide open. I knew he could see me, but he didn't stop.

“I'm really not supposed to tell,” he whispered. “But it's so tempting, especially because it involves someone here, in this very room.”

How could he spill the beans? I looked around the room, pretending I didn't know
exactly
who he was talking about. My eyes met Amy's, who looked as panicked as I felt.

What the heck?

“That's the thing about a secret,” Mr. Culpepper whispered. “It's no fun unless you tell someone.” Now he looked
right at me—and winked! “Of course, you would all have to promise not to tell a soul outside of this classroom.”

Everyone nodded their heads. I was trapped. I tried disappearing into my seat, which never works. Then Amy raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss O'Shea. Would you be able to keep this secret?”

“Well, yes,” she said slowly. “But first, um, I was just going to say that I really like your sweater.” The class laughed.

“Thank you, Amy. It was a gift from my aunt Matilda from Baltimore, which she sent just last week.” Then he lowered his voice and said, “So, once the choir finishes singing—”

“Yes, it's a beautiful sweater,” she said, interrupting him. “And your tie,” she went on. “It's a really nice tie. I especially like the snowman.”

That was a bit much. Everyone laughed again. What was she doing?

“Thank you again,” he said, looking at his tie. “I'm glad you—”

“But it looks like there's something
on
the tie,” she interrupted again. “Right there”—she pointed—“just above the snowman.”

“Where? What?” he said, looking down at his tie, flustered.

“It looks like a stain,” she said. “Could it be gravy? Or maybe mustard?”

Everyone stared at her, then at Mr. Culpepper's tie, then
back at her, baffled. No one in the room had any idea what she was doing. Except me. Now I knew
exactly
what she was doing. And she was doing it for
me
.