NO ONE IN the class knew the Belgian national anthem. I mean, why would we? None of us were Belgian or had ever set foot in Belgium or knew any Belgians. We only found out later that what we were hearing was the Belgian national anthem. I’m not even sure that many Belgians know it, and the way Mr. Mann was belting out the words, I’m not sure the dude who wrote it would know it. We also found out later that it’s in three different languages, which must make it one of the most confusing national anthems on the planet. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“O dierbaar België, O heilig land der Vaad’ren, Onze ziel en ons hart zijn u gewijd!” Mr. Mann sang. He put one foot up on my desk and used a pen as a microphone. He put his other arm straight up in the air with his fist clenched. “Awooooooooooooooooooooooo!” he sang, nodding his head to an imaginary beat. He was really getting into it now, although I was pretty sure “awooooooooo” wasn’t part of the Belgian national anthem. I looked at Kasey, but Kasey was watching Mr. Mann.

Mr. Mann took his foot off the desk and strutted across the front of the classroom, his head bobbing forward and his arms tucked behind his back like a chicken. When he reached the side of the classroom, he lifted his microphone-pen and leaned in toward a terrified Suzi Schultz.

“À toi notre sang, ô Patrie!” Mr. Mann screeched in Suzi’s face. “Oh yeaaah!”

Again, I was pretty certain “oh yeaaah” wasn’t in the official lyrics, but I wasn’t about to argue with Mr. Mann in this mood. The mild, boring substitute teacher had vanished completely and in his place was a swaggering, cocky, wailing rocker ripping out the rockiest ever version of the Belgian national anthem.

“Nous le jurons tous, tu vivras!” Mr. Mann yodeled. He yanked off his tie and whirled it around his head. “So blühe froh in voller Schöne, awooooo! Zu der die Freiheit Dich erzog, wooh-ah, whoa-ah! Und fortan singen Deine Söhne: Le Roi, la Loi, la Liberté! Oh, yeah!”

Mr. Mann wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up a (totally invisible) guitar. Screwing up his face, he jumped onto my desk and began playing a (totally imaginary) solo.

“Dum duh de dum, weehoo, nee-naw, zoing!” he shouted, imitating the guitar noises. “Weeehow! Weehow! Weehow! Dum dum de dum dum de dooooo!”

Mr. Mann was tapping his foot on the desk to give a backbeat to his “guitar”. I had to admit, it was kind of catchy.

The class was roughly divided between those who thought this was the coolest thing they’d ever seen and those who were figuring out the quickest escape route. Back on stage—at this point I considered the front of the classroom a stage—Mr. Mann had leapt off my desk and was building up to a big finish. He smashed up his imaginary guitar, strutted to the imaginary microphone stand and belted out the last lines. Then he stepped back and put both his arms high above his head, his middle fingers tucked in as he gave us a rocker’s salute.

“G’day, America!” he yelled in a broad Australian accent. “You’ve been awesome!”