Being a teacher is exhausting and tiring, an effort of near Herculean proportions. Hercules was this mythological strong man who performed twelve heroic labors, but I bet none were as tough as grading homework. I stayed up past midnight last night, and I’ll probably have to work all weekend. I thought being a teacher would be a breeze and a half. I was wrong, and that’s not something that happens often, if ever.

My classmates make so many mistakes and their handwriting is messy. In math, we are supposed to show our work, but it’s nearly impossible to figure out what half the class is doing and how they get their answers.

Emmy got question number five right on math work sheet seven, but purely by accident, using multiplication and subtraction, when you were supposed to divide. Do I give her credit for the question or not? And what about Eli, who used the right formula but then wrote a three instead of a five for the final answer because his handwriting is so messy he probably couldn’t read it correctly? Does he get partial credit? Full credit?

But grading the work is only part of my responsibilities. I need to create lesson plans and homework every day, too. We can’t go a day without learning.

I, Maggie Cranberry, will not waste a day of learning.

I admit it—Ms. Bryce’s job was not as easy as I thought. No wonder she was always in a bad mood. Harvard University better appreciate the work I’m doing, that’s all I can say.

But I’ll muddle through, somehow. I simply have to. Everyone’s depending on me, whether they know it or not. Mom and Dad will be so proud. I’ll probably skip high school and go right to Harvard, where they’ll name a building after me. I can see it now—cheerleaders jumping outside as I walk to the brand-new Maggie Cranberry Hall, news cameras flashing and a thousand people cheering my name: Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! Kyle is there, and he’s cheering, too. I couldn’t miss his bright red hair even if I wanted to. He walks up to me, and he looks into my eyes, and I look back at his—

I jerk my eyes open. Did I fall asleep for a moment? No wonder adults drink coffee to stay awake in the morning after working late at night, even though the stuff smells like motor oil.

Kyle is standing at my desk. I shake the lingering images of my dream from my mind. “Yes?” I ask after clearing my throat.

Kyle holds one of my assignment sheets. It’s the one on invertebrates I handed out. Those are animals without spines, like insects, worms, clams, and snails.

“You gave me a C,” he says, pointing at the page. He jabs at it. He looks angry.

“I have to grade the papers,” I explain. “If I don’t, our parents will think something is wrong.”

“But I got all the questions right.”

I slide on my glasses, which I had removed to rub my eyes right before I fell asleep, if I fell asleep. I’m not entirely admitting that I fell asleep, only that the possibility exists. Kyle glares at me with his bright green orbs. I look away from him, embarrassed by my dream, and scan his sheet. “Right. You did. But your parents might be curious about why you are suddenly getting good grades,” I explain. “We have to maintain appearances.”

“I spent a lot of time on this homework,” Kyle protests.

“This isn’t about you. One false move and Harvard won’t name a building after me!” Kyle squints and narrows his eyes. Did I just say that? I’m more tired than I thought. I clear my throat. “I mean, our teacher-free holiday will be over. That’s what’s important, of course. We all have to make sacrifices.”

Kyle snatches his paper from my grasp and clomps back to his seat. When he gets there, he throws an eraser at one of his goony friends.

I think of my dream and shudder. If I’m dreaming of Kyle Anderson, I’m really losing my mind.

I yawn and push open the skin around my eyes, trying to wake myself up. Then I scan the pile of paper I removed from Ms. Bryce’s files this morning. According to her plans, we’re supposed to learn about the American Revolution; fractions, division, and geometry; photosynthesis and living organisms; and a lot more. Some of these things I haven’t learned yet. How am I supposed to teach things I haven’t learned?

I’ll need to stay up all weekend and study. Class 507 is depending on me.

Besides, winter break will be here soon. I’ll sleep then, after my family visits Harvard.

I’m looking through the paper stack when I notice a blue piece of paper, stuck to another blue page so I didn’t see it before. The wording at the top looks vaguely familiar. It reads: A Reminder about Fifth Grade Presents Night.

Fifth Grade Presents Night. My muddled, sleep-deprived brain tosses those words back and forth. Where have I heard them before?

Oh no! I remember now. I brought home a flyer from school the other week for my parents. I didn’t think much about it. That was the same day we got my big book on the history of Harvard.

A wad of worry-filled saliva fills my throat, and a horrible twisting feeling settles in my stomach. How could I forget about this?

This is enormous, mountainous, mega-gigantic elephantine times infinity huge.

In other words, this is big.

The more I read, the tighter my stomach twists.

Fifth Grade Presents … The American Revolution!

The after-school activity night is next Friday.

The paper—a personal note from Principal Klein—reminds each and every teacher his or her class is responsible for a specific activity during the event.

Mrs. Greeley’s class is in charge of selling concessions (American-themed!).

Mr. Foley’s class will sing an authentic American Revolution song, with drums.

Mrs. Crawford’s class will take care of the decorations and clean up afterward.

Ms. Bryce’s class will perform an original play.

When I read that last line, my lips tremble. We’re to perform a class play in front of everyone? An original play? Our class has the hardest job!!

My hands shake so much I can barely thumb through her papers. Ms. Bryce must have a script she wrote somewhere. Our teacher—sorry, our former teacher—files everything carefully. So where is it?

I look under A for American and R for Revolution in her alphabetized files. I look in the front and the back. I look behind the files, in case it fell. I would look on her computer, but most of her files are password protected, and I’ve already tried every password I could imagine.

I can’t find anything, anywhere. Not one mention of a play. Not a scene, not an act, not a single word. Nothing.

We’re doomed.

There goes Harvard. No way they’ll accept me with this failure on my record. Mom and Dad are going to be crushed. I’ll be the first Cranberry in one hundred years not to be admitted.

I’ll be lucky to make it to middle school.

In the back of the room, Brian throws an eraser at Seth. Maybe I should join them. If my future is doomed, I might as well start a life as a juvenile delinquent.

“We’re ready to pick pencils for detention,” says Paige, approaching my desk. I groan and look up. Other kids are gathered around, too. “What’s wrong? You look kind of sick. Do you want me to help you?”

Her eyebrows rise, eager to help, but I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can create a work sheet or two, you know.”

“No, no, no,” I insist, my voice raspy and cracking. My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. I grab the pencils from my desk and hold out my hands for the class.

My classmates gather around me to choose. One hand reaches in after another. In a moment, all the pencils are gone and everyone looks to see who will go to the principal’s office.

It’s Adam. He has grabbed the short pencil again. He moans.

But we’re all in much, much bigger trouble than that.