leaving only the lights shining upon the stage.
So far, so good.
Mrs. Miller came out, to loud applause from the audience. She made a speech that went on too long about the great honor for Plainfield Elementary of being named a Beulah Brighton Belvedere School for the Arts. Mason still had no idea who Beulah Brighton Belvedere was or why she liked the arts so much.
The handbells chimed, and the violin prodigy played his violin, and the Irish dancers danced.
Mason could see the Platters standing in line in the wings, waiting for their moment to take the stage. Part of Mason thought it would be better to go first and get it over with. On the other hand, if you were last, there was always some chance of an earthquake or a tornado that would keep you from having to perform at all.
“And now,” Mrs. Miller said into her microphone, “last but certainly not least, our beloved Plainfield PLATTERS !”
The audience cheered as the Platters marched in formation up onto the stage.
Mason felt a teensy-weensy pang that he wasn’t with them. He knew his parents would be craning their necks for a first glimpse of him there on the risers and wondering why they couldn’t see him anywhere.
He concentrated on gathering his strength for his big moment as lightning guy. And hoping that the “America!” letters would all be right side up this time.
And they were! The first number was definitely fine, even better than fine. Maybe that old saying about the bad dress rehearsal wasn’t bogus, after all.
The raindrop song, too, was more impressive than Mason had expected.
Bang, crash
came the drums and cymbals.
Flash, flash went the lights.
Mason’s
lights.
He thought he could hear the audience give a small gasp of astonishment at the cleverness of this special effect. But, with all eyes on the stage, nobody—including his parents—would know that he was the one doing it.
The storm subsided.
“Drip. Drop. Drip.”
“Drip.”
“Drip.”
A moment of silence—would there be one last raindrop? No. Mrs. Morengo turned to face the audience, so they would know the song was over and it was time to applaud. And they did.
As Mason watched, Brody disappeared from the risers to put on his costume. Zia read her little speech from Mrs. Morengo’s index card:
“Our last song is dear to the hearts of all Plainfield Elementary students, parents, teachers, and staff. For twenty years, we have been singing about our love for our wonderful mascot, who inspires us to be our best every day in every way. Ladies and gentlemen, as our final number for this special evening, we give you ‘Puff the Plainfield Dragon’!”
A small green dragon walked slowly to the middle of the stage.
“Awwwwwww!” went the audience.
Mason could see Brody’s face poking through the face hole in his costume. Brody wasn’t smiling. Perhaps he had decided that Puff should have a more solemn expression, as befitted his sacred status as Plainfield Elementary’s tradition and treasure.
Mr. Griffith began to play.
Brody did not begin to sing.
Mr. Griffith smiled up encouragingly at Brody and kept the introduction going for a bit longer.
Puff the Plainfield Dragon stood silent, voiceless, motionless—paralyzed, Mason could see, by complete and utter terror.
14
Sing, Brody!
Mason willed with every fiber of his being.
Sing!
Brody continued to stand there, stock still, no sound whatsoever coming out of his mouth. He looked as if any second his face would crumple into tears and he would be crying in front of hundreds of people in the Plainfield Elementary gymnasium and tens of thousands more watching on TV.
Mrs. Morengo wasn’t facing the audience, so Mason could see the pleading expression on her face, and he could see her arms raised imploringly toward Brody.
Sing, Brody!
Somebody had to start singing—Brody, all the assembled Platters, or somebody else. If a few more seconds went by without any sounds coming out of anybody’s mouth, Brody would be
So far, so good.
Mrs. Miller came out, to loud applause from the audience. She made a speech that went on too long about the great honor for Plainfield Elementary of being named a Beulah Brighton Belvedere School for the Arts. Mason still had no idea who Beulah Brighton Belvedere was or why she liked the arts so much.
The handbells chimed, and the violin prodigy played his violin, and the Irish dancers danced.
Mason could see the Platters standing in line in the wings, waiting for their moment to take the stage. Part of Mason thought it would be better to go first and get it over with. On the other hand, if you were last, there was always some chance of an earthquake or a tornado that would keep you from having to perform at all.
“And now,” Mrs. Miller said into her microphone, “last but certainly not least, our beloved Plainfield PLATTERS !”
The audience cheered as the Platters marched in formation up onto the stage.
Mason felt a teensy-weensy pang that he wasn’t with them. He knew his parents would be craning their necks for a first glimpse of him there on the risers and wondering why they couldn’t see him anywhere.
He concentrated on gathering his strength for his big moment as lightning guy. And hoping that the “America!” letters would all be right side up this time.
And they were! The first number was definitely fine, even better than fine. Maybe that old saying about the bad dress rehearsal wasn’t bogus, after all.
The raindrop song, too, was more impressive than Mason had expected.
Bang, crash
came the drums and cymbals.
Flash, flash went the lights.
Mason’s
lights.
He thought he could hear the audience give a small gasp of astonishment at the cleverness of this special effect. But, with all eyes on the stage, nobody—including his parents—would know that he was the one doing it.
The storm subsided.
“Drip. Drop. Drip.”
“Drip.”
“Drip.”
A moment of silence—would there be one last raindrop? No. Mrs. Morengo turned to face the audience, so they would know the song was over and it was time to applaud. And they did.
As Mason watched, Brody disappeared from the risers to put on his costume. Zia read her little speech from Mrs. Morengo’s index card:
“Our last song is dear to the hearts of all Plainfield Elementary students, parents, teachers, and staff. For twenty years, we have been singing about our love for our wonderful mascot, who inspires us to be our best every day in every way. Ladies and gentlemen, as our final number for this special evening, we give you ‘Puff the Plainfield Dragon’!”
A small green dragon walked slowly to the middle of the stage.
“Awwwwwww!” went the audience.
Mason could see Brody’s face poking through the face hole in his costume. Brody wasn’t smiling. Perhaps he had decided that Puff should have a more solemn expression, as befitted his sacred status as Plainfield Elementary’s tradition and treasure.
Mr. Griffith began to play.
Brody did not begin to sing.
Mr. Griffith smiled up encouragingly at Brody and kept the introduction going for a bit longer.
Puff the Plainfield Dragon stood silent, voiceless, motionless—paralyzed, Mason could see, by complete and utter terror.
14
Sing, Brody!
Mason willed with every fiber of his being.
Sing!
Brody continued to stand there, stock still, no sound whatsoever coming out of his mouth. He looked as if any second his face would crumple into tears and he would be crying in front of hundreds of people in the Plainfield Elementary gymnasium and tens of thousands more watching on TV.
Mrs. Morengo wasn’t facing the audience, so Mason could see the pleading expression on her face, and he could see her arms raised imploringly toward Brody.
Sing, Brody!
Somebody had to start singing—Brody, all the assembled Platters, or somebody else. If a few more seconds went by without any sounds coming out of anybody’s mouth, Brody would be
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