Dreidels on the Brain (28 page)

I thought about Amy's brother, and all the soldiers in Vietnam who wouldn't be coming home, for either Christmas or Hanukkah, or maybe ever. Suddenly my eyes welled up, and the choir was a blue-and-gold blur.

“Joel?” said Mr. Newton, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm sure they'll be here.” He thought I was crying about my family. And maybe I was. He pulled out a packet of tissues and gave me a few, then went off.

Finally the choir came to their last song: “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” But when they got to the words “Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say . . .” there was a swell of laughter from the audience, and a deep voice sang, “Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?”

Everyone applauded. I looked onstage and there, in front of the choir, was Santa! He had the clothes, the white beard, the huge belly—everything. I'd never seen such a Santa—he looked like he'd come straight from the North Pole! Then he turned to the side, looked right at me—and winked! It was Mr. Culpepper!

Suddenly it hit me—
that
was his secret! The one I stopped him from telling by cutting and restoring his necktie. He wasn't going to tell the class about
me
—he was going to tell us that
he
was Santa!

The song ended and everyone cheered.

“They're still not here?” asked Mr. Newton.

I shook my head. I didn't know if I felt sad or relieved. Either way, I was lighting the menorah on my own.

“Well, that's a shame,” he said, patting my back. “Something must have come up. But we'll go on without them—and I'll be by your side.”

With that he walked onto the stage. “Let's hear it for Mr. Culpepper, our special guest Santa! And for the whole Bixby Girls' Choir!” Everyone cheered as Mr. Culpepper took a bow. “I'm told by Mrs. Balthazar that they'll be back for a special encore at the end of the assembly.

“But first,” he said, getting serious, “as you all know, we call this our ‘Winter Holiday Assembly.' While many of us celebrate Christmas, it is not the only holiday observed at this time of year.

“There are people of the Jewish faith who celebrate a holiday called Hanukkah, which is also known as the Festival of Lights, and we are fortunate to have a Jewish student here at Bixby School. Many of you know Joel, in seventh grade, who will light the Hanukkah candles and tell us the story of the holiday.” He paused for a moment. “We had hoped his family would be joining us but, unfortunately, they were unable to make it. So I'll be his assistant. Joel?”

I carried the little table with the menorah and the candles to the front of the stage, my hands shaking. I pulled a match out of the book and tried to light it, but it didn't catch, so I tried again, and again. I had just managed to light it when Mr. Newton said, “Ah, wonderful!” and pointed to the back
of the auditorium. “There they are now!” The door had opened, and there stood Kenny, Howard, and my mom. I blew out the match. Where was my dad?

“We're so glad you're here!” said Mr. Newton. “And just in the nick of time!” He cleared his throat, and I realized with horror that he was going to introduce them—and say my last name. I closed my eyes.

“Boys and girls, please give a warm Bixby School welcome to Joel's older brothers and his mother—and look, Joel! There's your father! Excellent! The whole family is here. So now let's have a big round of applause for—THE ENTIRE BUTTSKY FAMILY!”

I had braced myself for the reaction that always comes when people hear my last name. But there was no laughter. I opened my eyes to see Kenny, Howard, and my mom inside the door, looking back. And there, behind them, standing in the doorway, was my dad, leaning on his aluminum walker with the glowing tennis balls, its bars now spiraled with red fluorescent tape. Everyone was staring at him in complete silence.

From the back of the auditorium to the front isn't very far—maybe one hundred feet—but it may as well have been a mile. My father hunched over his walker, pushed it forward a foot, maybe two—then pulled himself up to it. Then he rested, caught his breath, and did it again. With every
step he took, the silence grew louder. Only once was it interrupted, by some sort of scuffle in the crowd, which I couldn't see. But no one paid any attention to whatever it was, they just kept staring at my dad.

When he finally reached the stage, I walked down the steps to help him up, one step at a time, holding him so he wouldn't fall backward. We gathered behind the menorah. My dad leaned on his walker, trying to catch his breath.

I struck the match, this time without a problem, and held it to the shammes. As we sang the blessings I lit two candles, then passed it to Kenny, who lit three more, and to Howard, for the final three. We sang “Maoz Tzur,” which we all knew by now. Then I walked up to the microphone.

“I'm supposed to tell you why we light these candles. The story of Hanukkah.”

My voice sounded very small. I looked at my family.

“It was long ago, in Jerusalem, when the Jewish people weren't free to be Jews. They were ruled over by the Seleucids, who wouldn't let them do Jewish things, like study the Torah and observe the holidays. They couldn't just be themselves. The leader of the Seleucids was a general named Antiochus. He actually called himself Antiochus Epiphany, which means ‘the Brilliant One.' He thought all the light shone on him, and that he knew everything about how people should live, and what everyone should believe. And he
told the Jews that they had to worship the Greek gods.

“But you can't do that. Because no one owns the light. And you can't stop people from being who they are, and believing what they believe. Especially Jews. Even if they're different.” I looked at my family. “Even if
we're
different.

“But everyone was afraid of the Seleucids, because they had a huge army and rode on elephants. And no one was willing to do anything—except this one family, the Maccabees, who decided to fight for their freedom. They weren't fighting for land or for money—they were just fighting for the right to be who they were. It was the first time in history that ever happened. There weren't many of them, but they fought—and they won.

“And do you know why? Well, in the story, they say it was a miracle. They say we won because God was on
our
side.”

I could see Mrs. Gabbler in the wings, looking at me, worried. After the grief my family had given the school about mixing church and state, here I was, in front of the whole school, talking about God.

“So, was it a miracle?” I thought about it. “I really don't know. The Maccabees wrote a whole book about it—two of them, in fact. But, as Mr. Culpepper says, history is the story told by the winners. And throughout most of history, Jews sure haven't been the winners, so I guess when we
do
win, we get to call it what we want.

“But I'm still not sure. The Seleucids probably figured they had all kinds of gods on their side, like Zeus up there throwing lightning bolts, and Poseidon making earthquakes. It's like that Bob Dylan song, ‘With God on Our Side.' He's Jewish too, by the way—his real name is Robert Zimmerman, and his family escaped to America from the same part of Lithuania as my mother's parents.

“So I don't know if winning the war was the miracle. But here's what I do know. After the Maccabees won, they needed to make the temple sacred again. That's what
Hanukkah
means—‘rededication.' But to do that they needed to light the menorah with special oil, which the Seleucids had destroyed. All they could find was one little jar, enough to burn for a few hours. But they lit it . . .”

I paused, picturing that moment. Everyone was waiting to hear what I would say next. Not a sound came from the audience or the choir behind me. I moved closer to the microphone, like Mister Mystery had taught me, and said, in a low voice: “That tiny flame burned, and kept on burning, all through the night. And the next. And the next. For eight nights and days, growing brighter.

“And that
was
a miracle. Not just the oil—but that we have something inside that keeps us going, no matter how dark it gets. Something to hold on to—something that glows in the dark.”

I looked at my dad, who was nodding with a big smile. “Because we're doing the best we can,” I said. “All of us. We may
wish
things were different, but . . .”
But what?
I thought of all that had happened over the past eight days—and all that had
not
happened, and would never happen, no matter how hard I wished.

“. . . but miracles aren't the same as wishes. It's like that old poem my grandmother taught me, which goes ‘If wishes were fishes . . .'”
What came next?
I had no idea where I was going with this. I could feel myself turning red. “Hold on. Oh yeah, ‘If wishes were fishes, and ifs and ands were pots and pans . . .'”
Then what?
My heart was racing. I tried, once more, for a running start. “‘If wishes were fishes and ifs and ands were pots and pans, and if . . . if . . .'”

If what?

I stared in panic. Everyone was staring back at me. It all came crashing down.

Then I heard my dad.

“If!” he said. I looked at him. So did everyone else. He pushed his walker forward, and said, again, slowly and deliberately, “IF!”

He nodded his head and started to hum.

“If?!” I said back to him.

“IF!” he shouted.

I felt my hands tingling, getting light, lifting up, floating
in front of my face. When they reached high above my head, I snapped my fingers, stomped my foot, and together, my dad and I shouted, “IF . . . I . . . WERE . . . A . . . RICH . . . MAN!”

There was no turning back. I stomped my foot again, so hard the candles shook, and sang, “If I were a rich man . . . yidel-deedle-didel-yidel-didel-deedle-didel-dum!”

For just an instant, I realized what a ridiculous thing I was doing. But the flame had been lit—and I couldn't have blown it out if I'd wanted to. And I didn't want to. I wanted to sing—and dance.

“All day long I'd biddy-biddy-bum, if I were a wealthy man!” Mrs. Balthazar must have known the song, because she began playing it on the piano, while I sang and danced all over the stage.

My dad had pushed his walker forward and was leaning on it, stamping with his good leg as I sang. Mrs. Gabbler was staring at us, her librarian glasses about to fall off, and Mr. Newton just stood there with his jaw open. Now my mother was clapping along, smiling. It wasn't pretend smiling, but real smiling. And beside her stood Kenny, snapping his fingers and raising his arms above his head. Even Howard looked happy.

Then, from behind the choir, came Mr. Culpepper—dressed as Santa, dancing like Tevye, yabble-deeble-dabbling
along with us, but louder, with his baritone voice. That set the whole place off, with everyone in the audience raising their hands, clapping and singing.

The next thing I knew, the whole auditorium was dancing the Tevye. Mr. Newton pulled out his handkerchief and started dancing with Mrs. Gabbler. I couldn't believe it—she had some moves!

Just when I thought it couldn't get any crazier, there was a commotion from the choir, and I heard Amy's voice call out: “Everyone—now!
Encore!
” At her words, the soprano half of the choir called out “Up with Freedom!” and the altos answered “Down with the Dress Code!” That got
everyone's
attention as the choir went back and forth: “Up with Freedom!” “Down with the Dress Code!”

Soon the audience joined in the chant. I heard a fluttering above me, and looked up to see two huge cloth banners unfurling from the rafters on either side of the stage. The one near me read
OUR
CLOTHING,
OUR
SELVES!
and the other said
ABOLISH BIXBY'S DRESS CODE!

Then, all at once, the choir took off their robes!

And, underneath, every one of them was wearing pants!!!

We all stared at them, dumbstruck. And then, the whole choir started dancing the Funky Chicken!

I cheered, and so did everyone else—except Mrs.
Gabbler, who looked like she was going to bust a gorgle. For a moment, she just stood there shaking. Then she got a funny look on her face and threw up her hands. And
she
started dancing the Funky Chicken!

Suddenly it was absolute pandemonium, and in the middle of it all I saw Mr. Culpepper, who was doing a combination of the two dances—the Funky Tevye—reach into his Santa costume and pull out a handkerchief, which he waved around, singing even louder. He danced into the middle of the choir, where another hand reached up and grabbed the handkerchief—and out came Amy O'Shea. She wasn't just wearing pants, but jeans that were
covered
with patches. Mr. Culpepper led her over to me, holding the handkerchief, and handed me one corner, with a little bow. The next thing I knew, I was face-to-face with Amy O'Shea.

For a moment we just stood there, staring at each other. Then she smiled, snapped the fingers on her free hand, and stomped her foot. I did the same, and soon we were circling slowly around each other, holding the handkerchief. With my free hand, I was pointing and waving. I may have looked like a complete dork, but I no longer cared.

“You are so weird!” said Amy.

“What?” I said.

“It's your superpower, like King Midas. Except
everything he touched turned to gold, and everything you touch turns to
weird
.”

I stopped dancing. It felt like I'd been slapped in the face.

“But that's why I like you!”

“Really?”

“Wow,” she said. “You really
are
clueless, aren't you?”