But for the first time since Bingledorf tasked me with putting the show together, I felt like I actually might be able to pull it off and not be forced to wear the scarlet t P of failure that I was certain Bingledorf the school's principal president would bestow upon me. There was still a ton to do, but at the very least, I had people willing to get on stage, which meant we could actually call it a show.

I It was almost the end of the school day and I had one last teacher to pester. 'd saved Miles Riggler for last, simply because I felt like I'd been bugging him for the past two days and he didn't certain as to what to do with me. So I hadn't bothered him during the school day, but I wanted to make sure I caught him before he left for the evening. I hurried down the hallway , hoping I wasn't too late.

“Daisy,” he Miles Riggler said, smiling at me when I knocked on his door. “Come on in.”

His mood seemed far more chipper than when I'd encountered him the previous two days.

“How are things going?” I asked.

He nodded, looking around the room. “We're making d ue o . Slow and steady, but we're managing.” He turned back to me. “How about for you?”

“Not bad,” I said. “ I assume you've heard about the talent show by now?” I was actually stopping by to see if you'd decided what you're going to do for the talent show.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Talent show?”

“The fundraiser? ” I said, trying to jog is memory. “ For new computers?”

H e shook his head slowly. is expression cleared . “ N Oh, right.” He paused. “N o, I'm afraid I haven't.”

Maybe he just hadn't been frequenting the faculty lunchroom because he'd been so busy planning his classes.

“ Mrs. Bingledorf put me in charge of putting together a school-wide talent show that will help raise money to buy new computers,” I said, then quickly added. “While she deals with the insurance company.”

He folded his arms across his bony chest. “Oh. Okay. That sounds like it might be fun.”

“ What would really be fun is if I'd could get you to sign up to participate,” I said. “Fourteen of your colleagues have already agreed to get up on stage .” ,” I said, trying to persuade him.

“ Oh gosh,” he said, making a face. “ I'm just...I not sure I'm 'm not much of an onstage person.”

“ I'm aware,” I said, remembering our conversation from the previous day. “I don't think many of your colleagues are, either. But they've agreed to do it.”

He positioned himself behind his desk, almost as if he thought it would shield him from my verbal assault. “Well, if you already have fourteen acts, you should be good to go. That's probably more than enough.”

“ It's all in fun,” I said. “And I really feel like having you signed up is pretty important.”

“ Me? Why?” I stepped toward the desk and he shrank bank. “We need a lot more.”

“ Parents?” He drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Or kids? We have a lot of talented kids here. I'm sure they'd love to get up on stage .”

“ Look, I understand the whole 'not a stage person' thing. But Y y ou're the person the kids identify with the computer lab,” I explained. “ And the parents. And the other teachers. How do you think it's going to look if the one person who should want the computers back doesn't volunteer to get up on stage?”

The show is to buy computers. It would be great if we could say you're on the bill, you know?” He opened his mouth to respond but I didn't let him. “I'll tell you how it's going to look, Mr. Riggler. Bad.” I pressed my lips together and gave him what I hoped was a disapproving look. “I don't think Mrs. Bingledorf will be too happy if you skip the show.”

“ I wouldn't skip it,” he protested.

“ I think she expects to see you on stage,” I told him. I held out the notebook, showing him the list of names on the sign-up sheet. “Along with all of these other faculty members.”

H e folded his arms across his chest. “ is arms tightened around his chest almost like he was cold. “Oh. Hmm. I guess that makes sense. I'm just not sure I have any talent to offer up.” Fine,” he muttered. “But I really don't know what I can do up there.”

“It doesn't have to be serious anything big or serio us ,” I said quickly, sensing victory . “It can be short, and it can be funny. I think plenty of your colleagues are doing something that is more humorous than funny.” ”

He ran a hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck. “ Hmm. Yeah. Okay. Can I have some time to think about what I want to do?”

“ Sure Of course ,” I said , tapping the notebook with my pen. . “I f I can put you down as a yes.” 'll put you down as a yes. Mrs. Bingledorf will be happy to hear you're on board.” I actually didn't know if she'd even care if Miles Riggler was on the list of performers or not but I wasn't about to tell him that.

He walked back toward his desk pulled a small pocket calendar from his top desk drawer and opened it . “What's the date?” he asked, grabbing a pencil .

I told him.

And h H e froze.  “A week from Saturday?”

“ Yeah,” I said. “We're trying to get it organized as quickly as possible.”

H e stood rock-still in place for a moment, his is wide eyes locked on me. “That Saturday night?”

“ Yeah. “ Is that...not okay?”

He didn't say anything, then got his legs to carry him to his desk. He flipped through the black planner on his desk, his finger running over the page.

Then he looked back at me, his face pale. “A week from Saturday?”

I was starting to wonder if Mr. Riggler also had a hearing problem. “Um, yes.”

He turned back to his planner and winced, like I'd pinched him or something. He rubbed hard at his chin, frowning, mumbling something under his breath that I couldn't understand.

He turned back to me. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

I gave him my line about Bingledorf and the volunteer requirement. “Do you have another commitment?” I asked .

H e went another shade of pale, but shook his head is face paled . “I'm sorry . ,” he said, not answering the questioning. “ I just can't can't do it .”

“ Oh,” I said. “Okay.” I thought about bringing up the volunteer hours requirement. I thought about telling him about Stephen-with-a-P Morse to see if I could appeal to his teacherly side. But before I could launch my assault, he suddenly looked up, his expression panicked.

“It's going to be here?” he asked. “At school?”

“ The talent show?” I stared at him. “Yes. Where else would it be?”

“ Yeah.”

He winced as though someone had punched him in the gut.

“ Mr Riggler, are you alright?”

If he heard me, he didn't indicate this. Instead, he just stared at the calendar in front of him and muttered, again and mumbled something that sounded a lot like “What am I gonna do?”

“ I'm sorry?” I let out an exasperated sigh. “What are you going to do about what ?”

He started, like he'd forgotten I was in the room. “Uh...uh, nothing . ,” he stammered, his face morphing to a startling shade of pink. “ I meant for tomorrow. What am I gonna do tomorrow ? . Y For c l ass. eah.” “ ass.”

“ Oh,” I said, “Okay.” I was completely baffled by his reaction and his words . “Okay.” “I guess just let me know if things change.” There was nothing else to say.

He sat down in his chair, like I'd just told him that his dog had died. He got a hand halfway through his hair before it grabbed tightly onto his skull.