new kids feel welcome. He wanted to teach his neighborsâ children and watch them grow up. He wanted to stick around so he could see which kids turned into real musicians, because he knew some of them would. His wife didnât understand why he went to the concerts at the junior high school.He went because two years ago those children in the eighth grade chorus had been in the sixth grade chorus. They were still his kids. And as soon as there was a staff opening, he hoped to move up to the high school chorus program and begin working with more serious singers and more challenging music.
But for now, the sixth grade chorus was his home, and it was a good home. Until a month ago, that is.
Fired. The school district didnât call it that. They called it a RIF, a âreduction in force.â He hadnât been fired. Heâd been RIFed. It wasnât personal. They werenât getting rid of him . They ran out of money, so they got rid of his job. Fired or RIFed, it still amounted to the same thingâthey were even the same letters, just rearranged.
And Mr. Richards had been right this afternoon in his office. Mr. Meinert had been upset ever since heâd gotten the news. And, yes, his reaction to Hart shooting that rubber band today had been way over the top.
But he couldnât quit. Not that the kids would mind. Theyâd probably clap and cheer.This yearâs chorus was a tough group. Over half of the kids never wanted to work, always resisted every new song. And classroom discipline had never been his best skill anyway.
Still, quitting wasnât an option. It just wouldnât be right.
Lucy was encouraged by her husbandâs silence. âReally, David, think about it. You put in all those extra hours to find new music. You plan the field trip to the Metropolitan Opera rehearsal every year. You organize the parent volunteers to make programs and decorations for every concert. You tutor kids; you have that new sight-reading group; you spend extra time with the kids who have solos; plus you lend a hand with the sixth grade band, and the orchestra, too. You even write new arrangementsâall on your own time. I know you love your work, but you put in at least ten hours of overtime every week. Your salary is pitiful, thereâs no extra pay for the extra hours, and to show how grateful they are for all this hard work, the school board fires you right in the middle of the school year. It just stinks. And Iâm not kidding. You should really think about quitting.Or at least cutting back. Theyâre just walking all over you. You shouldnât do one bit more than they pay you for.â
Mr. Meinert reached across the table and took his wifeâs hand. âBut itâs my job. And as long as thatâs true, then I have to give it my best. I know that sounds stupid to you, but I canât help it. Itâs just the way I am.â
Lucy smiled and shook her head. âI know. And if you were more like me, I probably never would have married you.â
It was the best moment of Mr. Meinertâs whole day.
Six
SNAP
I t was quieter than usual as Mr. Meinert walked into the chorus room on Thursday afternoon. The kids seemed a little tense, a little uncertain.
Mr. Meinert liked it. It was a nice change. As a young man starting his second year of teaching, he was the one who usually felt tense and uncertain. He thought, Maybe I should explode more often .
As he took attendance he avoided looking at Hart Evans. Even if he had, their eyes would not have met. Hart was also being careful not to look at Mr. Meinert. He had decided it was a good day to keep a low profile.
The teacher tossed his grade book back onto his desk and said, âLetâs start off today with our new Hanukkah song.â
A low groan rumbled through the room. Mr. Meinert ignored it. âWeâre going to have to work on some Hebrew words. Everyone pleasestand up in front of your
The Cowboy's Surprise Bride